Hi! Can you write a request for Charles Leclerc where his fiancee has the habit to get lost in the paddock (because she’s not around there much because of her job). And the social media and the fans always think it’s cute. And Charles always losing his mind because of it. The Ferrari Team has already a search them for her.
Missing: Future Mrs Leclerc
Charles Leclerc × Fiancée!reader
Synopsis: Charles’ fiancée keeps getting adorably lost in the paddock, sending Ferrari into search‑mode every race while fans eat it up — and Charles slowly loses his mind trying to keep track of the woman he loves.
You arrive at the paddock with Charles, hand in hand, sunglasses on, smiling for the cameras. Everything is normal. Everything is fine.
And then someone says your name.
A journalist, a fan, a Ferrari staff member — it doesn’t matter who. You turn your head, answer politely, and Charles lets go of your hand for two seconds.
Two.
Seconds.
And when he turns back?
You’re gone.
“Not again,” he mutters, already rubbing his forehead.
Carlos walks past, clapping him on the shoulder. “Lost your fiancée?”
“She was right here.”
“She’s an adult, mate.”
“She has the directional awareness of a baguette.”
Carlos snorts. “Good luck.”
---
Meanwhile, you are absolutely not lost.
You’re just… exploring.
You don’t come to the paddock often — your job keeps you traveling, and you only manage a handful of races each season. So when you do come, everything feels new again. The garages, the hospitality units, the fans waving from behind the barriers — it’s all exciting.
You’re halfway through admiring a display of vintage Ferrari helmets when a group of fans spots you.
“Oh my god, it’s her!”
“She’s so cute, she’s lost again.”
“Someone tell Charles!”
You laugh, waving shyly. “I’m not lost, I promise.”
They don’t believe you. They never do.
One girl holds up her phone. “Can we take a picture? Charles is going to freak out when he sees this.”
You grin. “Sure.”
You pose, chat for a moment, and then continue your little adventure — blissfully unaware that your disappearance has already hit social media.
---
Back in the Ferrari garage, Charles is pacing.
“She cannot have gone far,” Fred Vasseur says, trying to be reassuring but failing miserably.
“She gets distracted,” Charles insists. “She sees one interesting thing and— pouf — gone.”
Fred sighs. “We know.”
Because this is not the first time.
Or the second.
Or the fifth.
In fact, Ferrari has an unofficial protocol for this now.
A mechanic approaches. “Boss, the hashtag is trending again.”
Charles groans. “Which one?”
“#FindCharlesFiancee.”
He drags a hand down his face. “Merde.”
Another mechanic adds, “There’s also #LostButMakeItFerrari.”
Fred pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Activate the search.”
And just like that, the entire Ferrari team springs into action.
Mechanics check the hospitality area. Engineers sweep the walkways. Someone radios McLaren to ask if you’ve wandered into their motorhome again.
Carlos sends a selfie: Found a cat. Not your fiancée. Continuing search.
Charles is two seconds away from losing his mind.
---
You, meanwhile, are having a lovely time.
You’ve somehow ended up in the Red Bull garage — not on purpose, but because you followed a very cute dog and didn’t realize where it was going.
Max raises an eyebrow when he sees you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know,” you say sheepishly. “I got… sidetracked.”
He sighs, but he’s smiling. “Charles is going to combust.”
“I texted him!” you protest.
Max checks your phone.
You did not text him.
You texted Carlos.
Max shakes his head. “Come on. I’ll walk you back before he starts a full paddock evacuation.”
You follow him out, waving goodbye to the dog.
---
Charles spots you before you spot him.
He’s mid‑rant with a Ferrari engineer when he freezes, eyes widening like he’s seen a ghost.
You’re walking beside Max, chatting happily, completely unaware of the chaos you’ve caused.
Charles storms over.
“Amour.”
You blink. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi?” he repeats, incredulous. “Hi? Do you know how many people are looking for you?”
You look around.
A lot of people are looking for you.
Some wave when you make eye contact.
You wince. “Oops?”
“Oops,” he echoes, hands on his hips. “You disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear,” you argue. “I was just—”
“Lost,” Max supplies.
“Exploring,” you correct.
Charles groans. “You cannot just wander off.”
“I didn’t wander off,” you insist. “I followed a dog.”
Max nods. “It was a very cute dog.”
Charles glares at him. “You are not helping.”
Max shrugs. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
Charles sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Amour, please. Stay with me.”
You step closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out.”
He softens immediately — because he always does with you.
“I know,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “But every time you get lost, social media explodes, the team panics, and I age five years.”
You laugh, leaning into him. “I’ll try to be better.”
“You say that every time.”
“And I mean it every time.”
He kisses you again, longer this time. “Come on. Stay with me.”
You nod, taking his hand.
He holds it like you might float away if he loosens his grip.
---
Of course, ten minutes later, you get distracted again.
This time by a little girl holding a handmade sign that says CHARLES CAN I HAVE A HUG?
You stop, crouch down, and talk to her. She’s sweet, shy, and absolutely thrilled when you offer to take her to Charles yourself.
But when you turn around?
Charles is gone.
You blink. “Oh no.”
The little girl giggles. “Did you lose him?”
You sigh. “Unfortunately… yes.”
She pats your hand. “It’s okay. My mum loses my dad all the time.”
You laugh. “Thank you.”
You walk her toward the Ferrari garage, and the moment Charles sees you — with a child — his panic dissolves into something soft and warm.
He hugs the girl, signs her sign, takes a picture with her, and sends her off beaming.
Then he turns to you.
“You lost me this time.”
You grin. “See? It happens to everyone.”
He narrows his eyes. “Not helping.”
You kiss his cheek. “You love me.”
He sighs dramatically. “I do. Unfortunately for my blood pressure.”
---
Later, when the chaos has settled and Charles is finally in his race suit, he pulls you into the back of the garage.
“You know,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “one day, when we’re married, I’m going to put a tracker on you.”
You laugh. “Like a cat?”
“Exactly like a cat.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He kisses you, slow and warm. “I would.”
You smile against his lips. “You know the fans think it’s cute, right? Me getting lost?”
He groans. “They encourage you.”
“They do.”
“They make edits.”
“They do.”
“They think it’s adorable.”
“It is.”
He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. “I just want you safe.”
“I am safe,” you whisper. “Because I always find my way back to you.”
He melts — completely, utterly, hopelessly.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “But stay with me today. Please.”
