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CATCH FLIGHTS, NOT FEELINGS — charles leclerc x flight attendant!reader

SYN: You've known Charles Leclerc for five years. That's five years of learning his favorite champagne, his habits, his preference for just about everything, and also ignoring his unrelentless flirting. You've gotten so good at pretending it doesn't bother you, until one drunken hookup in Italy makes you panic and leave everything behind.

He's convinced you'll come back. You have to convince yourself you won't. CONTAINS: fem!reader, smau + written, second chance trope, charles is cocky in this, no smut because i wasn't sure if it was wanted in the req, landoscar appearances, reader speaks italian (because she works for ferrari), google translated italian lmao, pretend carlos is still in ferrari, SLIGHTLY rushed i fear... RADIO CHECK: based on this req! wasn't too sure if anon wanted it written or not, but i didn't know how else to fully get the plot across!! this is the fic that i accidently deleted when it was almost finished. i kid you not i spent the entire day redoing it. enjoy! FACE CLAIM: ningning (aespa) as per request

liked by charles_leclerc, olliebearman and others ynln the latest view comments

olliebearman pls move to haas i miss being on flights with you

ynln you've just gotta wait until you move to ferrari 🤷‍♀️

user1 charles leclerc in her likes???

user2 she's worked with ferrari for five years user3 lowkey looks like he's got a crush on her lol

user4 GORG liked by creator

You’re standing by the door, pretending the cold, 4am wind rushing past doesn’t bother you, when Charles Leclerc steps into the private jet. There’s a glass of champagne in your hand, Dom Pérignon, one of the only brands he actually likes. On the screens, a race replay is already playing, filling the jet with the soft background noise of commentary and engines.

“Morning, Charles,” you say, like it’s a reflex. “How are you?” “Tired,” he sighs, accepting the glass from your hand. You can feel him staring, but you don’t look back as you guide him further into the jet. “Aren’t you? How do you have the energy to wake up and do this?” “It’s my job,” you answer, stopping at the seat to the very left, beside the window. The same seat he’s always chosen for the past five years of knowing him. “Is there anything I can get you?” “I’m good.”

You look up at him then.

He’s in a hoodie, the hood pulled over his head, sweatpants loose but fitting. His eyes are half lidded, like he’d just dragged himself out of bed, and you can tell his brunette hair is slightly tousled.

He looks good. Better than good. But you never let yourself acknowledge it for too long.

“Coming to the race this week?” he asks, making small talk even though he knows you’ve got other jobs to do. “You’re always invited and yet you never come.” “I’ll be there,” you say, making him pause. “It’s Monza. I work for Ferrari.” “Just the race? Or quali too?”

“Do you want me at quali?” you ask, smiling as you busy yourself with opening up the overhead cabins. “Thought the race was the main attraction.” “Who knows? You might bring me good luck,” you glance over as he says the words, eyeing the way he leans back and smiles. “Then I’ll have to start making you come to every race.” You laugh, half real and half practiced. “Call me if you need anything,” you say, making your way back towards the front of the jet.

The rest of the Ferrari crew are piling in, and you stand through the tired and low muttered ‘buongiorno’s and ‘ciao’s, returning each and every one with a smile.

The flight progresses the way all early morning flights do.

The race is still playing, accompanied by low, tired italian conversation. You hate how you can differentiate Charles’s voice instantly by his tone, the slight rasp in his voice, the edges of sleep that haven’t worn off yet. You hate how you even notice in the first place. Relationships and crushes weren’t something you did, especially not with the lifestyle you had.

You hear the call of your name halfway through the flight.

Charles has his hood pulled down now, revealing the soft, messy brunette hair beneath. His stare burns into your skin as you walk towards him, and a small smile rests on his face as you stop next to him.

“Quick question,” he says, sitting upright. “What are you doing right now?” You blink, eyebrows furrowing, “I don’t—” “Nothing, right? Play poker with me.” “Charles.” “We’ve got a few hours left, and it isn’t like this is a commercial flight,” he leans closer, still smiling. “You’re supposed to cater to my needs, no?” “This isn’t a need, it’s a want.” “I need you,” he says, and the words make your heart stutter for a split second. “Is that better?”

You do a quick look over the rest of the cabin. Everyone else is either sleeping, or deep in their own conversation, completely unfocused on you and him. The only other flight attendant is on his phone, and as you go through your mental checklist of all the tasks you were supposed to be doing, you realise you’d crossed everything off already.

“How do you know I’m not doing anything?” you say, fixing the hem of your skirt. His gaze flickers to it, before switching back to your face again. “And no. It doesn’t make it better.” “You get restless when there’s nothing left to do,” he answers like it’s obvious. “You’ve rechecked the cabinets about twenty times. That’s something you only do when you’re bored.” “You sure sound like you know me.” “Of course,” he reaches towards the cards sitting on the table beside him. “I’ve known you for five years.” “Known is pushing it,” you answer, though your hands are already itching towards the cards he’s dealing. “You’ve been aware of my existence for five years, I’d say.”

He pauses, eyebrows raising. “You know me better than a lot of people do,” he says. “My habits, likes and dislikes, schedule.” “That’s part of my job.” “You’ve learnt me. It’s only fair that I learn you back.”

He pushes cards towards you, along with betting chips.

“Sit,” is all he says, casually, but in a way that leaves no room for rejection. He looks at you again, over his cards, a cocky smirk on his face. “I need you to.”

You only stay for one round. By the time you’ve revealed your final hand—a royal flush, you need to prep for landing. He lets you go without complaint, eyes glittering with what looks like satisfaction even though he’d lost.

“Where’d you learn how to play poker so well?” he asks once you’ve landed. Everyone else has already gotten off the plane, yet he’s standing by the door like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Experience.” “Experience?” “You’re not the first person I’ve played poker on a flight with.” He frowns, “you do flights with other people?” “On the off season, yeah,” you smile, professionally, gesturing to the door. “Enjoy Italy.” “But—” “Bye, Charles.”

He practically pouts, but moves towards the door anyway. You see him glance back, hesitate, but then smile, stepping out of the plane.

You exhale, slumping against the wall. Beside you, your co-worker lets out a laugh.

“He likes you.” “I hope not.” “He does. He has for a while now.” “I doubt it.” “I’m not teasing you,” he still has his attention on cleaning up the galley. “I’m telling you. Charles Leclerc has a crush on you—and everyone but you can see it.”

You look over at the door as if you can still see him. Then you tear your gaze away, busying yourself with something else.

“I don’t do relationships.”

Charles wasn’t the kind of guy who’d waste time on things.

In saying that, he’d wasted five years silently crushing on you. Every single time he’d try talk to some other girl, hookup with someone else after a night out, his mind would always go back to you. No one else could compare, and for five straight years he’d stayed silent about it.

“You’re staring.” “I’m what?”

Carlos shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “At that girl. The flight attendant.” “Why would I be staring?”

Charles looks at you again. You were on the other side of the room, a coffee in one hand, leaned against the wall. This was one of the rare times he saw you out of uniform, and fuck. You looked good. Breathtaking, even.

“Girlfriend?” Carlos asks, mindlessly scrolling on his phone. “Not really.” “Situationship then.” “Kind of.” Carlos looks up, eyebrows raising, “You’re just crushing on her, aren’t you?” “She doesn’t do relationships.” “Even when it comes to you?”

Charles watches as you smile at someone, your laughter carrying across the room to his ears. “I’ll be back,” he says, and Carlos scoffs, shaking his head. “Sure you will.” He doesn’t look back when he stands, making his way across the room towards you.

You see him just as he stops, and instantly, you’re standing straighter.

“Hi,” is all Charles says, and you blink at him. “You’re here.” “I told you I’d be here.” “I know—it’s just,” he stops, struggling with his words. “You’re here. It’s different.” “Different?” you take another sip of coffee, partially to hide the smile making it’s way onto your face. “Do you still think I’m going to give you good luck?” “I did well in quali,” he shrugs. “And you were there for that too. Might be a sign.” “Then if you win today I get the credit.” “I’m not arguing with that.”

“You’ll have to come to the celebrations if I win, then,” he says, smiling. “It’s only fair.” “I have to stay sober.” “Our flight isn’t until a few days,” he moves closer, and you don’t move away. “C’mon. Promise me you’ll come.” “If you win.” “When I win.”

You laugh again, and it’s not one of those professional, polite ones you do during flights. It’s carefree. Soft. Real. And it might just be the best sound he’s ever heard. “Where are you watching from?” he asks. “Not the stands, I hope.” “The garage. I was invited here, remember?” “Right.”

“Are you okay?” you frown. “You’re not as…cocky as usual.” “Cocky?” “Insufferably cocky. And you haven’t flirted with me yet.” “Do you want me to flirt with you?” “No,” you say immediately, and you turn the other way. “That’s unprofessional.” “You’re not working.” “I’m here with my company. Technically that’s working,” you raise your coffee cup again, glancing at him before you take another sip. “You’re incredibly unprofessional, actually. Did you know that?”

He crosses his arms, also leaning against the wall beside you. “I’m not unprofessional,” he smiles. Smirks, “You look good. Unbelievably good.” “See? Unprofessional,” you mutter, though blush is slowly crawling up your neck. “Don’t you have a race to prep for?” “Don’t need to prep when I’ve got you here.”

The smile on your face widens a little, and you laugh, pointedly turning to leave. “Good luck, Charles.”

He stays frozen on the spot, watching you go. Your laughter, your voice is still echoing through his head.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get it out.

liked by carlossainz55, scuderiaferrari and others charles_leclerc Grazie Monza ❤️ view comments scuderiaferrari Forza!!! liked by creator user5 HES DONE ITTTT user6 wdc wdc wdc

Charles won Monza. Of course he did. The one race you attend, the one he’d joked about, is the one he wins.

You’re sitting on the curb outside of the club, a drink in your hand while music blasts behind you. You were only here out of obligation, nothing else, although you couldn’t deny the fact your head was starting to spin from alcohol and your head had a dull pressure to it.

“You aren’t celebrating.”

You hear Charles voice before you see him.

“Am I supposed to be?” you take another sip of your drink, a small smile playing on your lips. “You won, Charles. You’re celebrating. Not me.” “You work for Ferrari.” “I’m a flight attendant.” “For Ferrari,” he shifts, close enough you can faintly smell his cologne. “My success is supposed to be yours.” “Sure,” you say, keeping your eyes in front of you. You sense him staring, and your fingers clench tighter around your drink.

“You’re drunk,” he says, and you pause. “Aren’t you?” “How would you know that?” “Because you’re smiling,” you finally look up at him then, at his own half-lidded, alcohol induced eyes. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, there’s a lazy smile on his face like he doesn’t even realise it’s there, and his hair is messy with champagne.

He looks good. Way better than good. And now you were finally letting yourself acknowledge it

His hands slide into his pockets, and the way he’s staring screams intimacy in all the wrong ways. “Charles,” you say, just because it’s the only thing circulating through your head. “I—” “You can leave if you really want to,” he says, and heat rises up your neck. “I’ll take you back to the hotel.” “I can go myself—” “You’re drunk.” “So are you.” “I’m a Formula 1 driver.”

You scoff, taking another sip. “I’m not letting you take me home.” “Then how are you getting back?” you sense him move again, probably closer to you. “Are you going to wait for some drunk, worthless guy to take you?” “I don’t do relationships.” “I never said anything about relationships,” you give in as he says it, looking up at him. He smiles—smirks, “Are you convincing me? Or are you convincing yourself?”

You hate him. God, you hate him right now. You hate how good he looks, how incredibly perfect he is despite everything.

“Fine.” “Fine?” “Take me home.”

“And you worked for Ferrari for…five years, correct?”

You’re sitting at a meeting table, across from a guy in an expensive suit and stoic look on his face. He’s looking down at documents, and you shift uncomfortably on the spot.

“Yes. I did.” “And your main focus was flights with one driver only? Charles Leclerc.”

You fight the urge to wince.

You’d been so good at blocking out the entire thought of him these past few weeks. More specifically, the memory of waking up with a headache and one of your clients in bed right beside you. The image of him lying there, shirtless, his arm stretched out across you like it belonged there, crossed your mind more than you wanted to admit.

“Yes,” you repeat, mindlessly tapping your fingers on the armrest of the chair. “I was assigned—” “And what was your reason for departure?” You blink, leaning forward, “I’m sorry?” “For leaving. After five years.”

Again, your heart drops and heat crawls up your neck.

“Personal…um,” you clear your throat, trying to sit up straighter. “Personal reasons. Their schedule didn’t work for me anymore.”

He stares at you, his eyes narrowed. Then he nods, pushing back his chair and standing. “Welcome to Mclaren. We’ll contact you about flight schedules as soon as we can.”

Thirty minutes later, you’re walking down the streets of London.

You hadn’t moved here yet. Half your things were still in Monaco, waiting for the moment you mustered up enough courage to go back there and risk seeing him. Charles Leclerc.

He’d texted you more times than you could count. Called you even more. That first night away from him, away from Italy, your finger had hovered over the block button for a solid twenty minutes.

You hadn’t clicked it. You really wish you had.

You’d quit your job at Ferrari soon after that. It should’ve taken more convincing, with five years of history, but all you’d felt was relief. Relief you wouldn’t see him again, relief that you wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of sleeping with their golden boy.

Your phone lights up with an email titled Flight schedule, and you don’t bother opening it yet. Mclaren had never been a team you’d envisioned moving to, but it’d happened anyway. The pay was good—not as good as Ferrari, but good enough for now, and most importantly, it was away from Charles.

You’d have to go back to Monaco at one point to properly move to London, but every time you considered it, your chest got heavy and your mind convinced you to put it off. London was busier. You never ran into the same person twice, no one stopped for gossip and anyone else’s lives. It was perfect.

You turn the corner, onto the street of your hotel. You’d been living there for almost a month now while you gaslighted yourself into thinking you were ‘apartment hunting’. A week turned into two, and now it’d almost been four.

As soon as you step into the elevator, your phone starts ringing.

Charles Leclerc

You don’t pick up.

liked by charles_leclerc, lando, and others ynln london's cool view comments lando look its everyone's fav flight attendant!!!!!

ynln never bring your dj kit onboard again i beg

user7 WASN'T SHE JUST WORKING FOR FERRARI?? user8 papaya suits you! liked by creator user9 WHAT ABOUT HER AND CHARLES

user10 what about them? user11 it was so obvious he liked her ugh i was rooting for them

“Y’know, I was thinking, and you should definitely come to the race this week.”

You’re trying to fix one of the TV screens when Lando talks.

“Don’t force her,” Oscar adds in, focused on his phone. “It’s not like she has to.” “She’s never been with Mclaren!” Lando argues. He leans forward, closer to you. ”Please? It’d be fun.”

You smile, ignoring the wave of deja vu you get.

It’d been four months. Four months of working under Mclaren and successfully avoiding the one person you’d run from. Flights worked differently now. Instead of solely having one driver on a flight, you had both, both of which you’d built a solid friendship with over the months.

You’d learnt both of them. That was your job after all. You knew which seat they preferred to sit in—Lando always wanted the window seat whereas Oscar wanted whichever provided the most peace. You knew what drinks they liked, what races to play on the screens or TV shows.

It’d been four months, and yet you still remembered what Charles wanted too.

You wondered who replaced you. You wondered if they knew he only ate meals twenty minutes after take-off, or that when he went quiet and stared at nothing it meant he was stressed. All these little details stuck with you, and you couldn’t get rid of them even if you tried.

“I’ll think about it,” you say, finally getting the TV to play. “Races aren’t really my thing.” “Fair enough,” Oscar says at the same time Lando gasps. “They aren’t for everyone.” “How do you work for a Formula 1 team yet don’t like going to races?!” Lando frowns. “That’s a crime.” “It’s not a crime,” Oscar says before you can answer. The two start a debate over it, and you use the opportunity to escape back to the galley.

You wouldn’t say you regretted leaving Ferrari. You left for a reason—one that continued to haunt you everyday. But you missed the familiarity. The people, the red, the schedule.

You sigh quietly, leaning against the cabinets.

You missed him.

You missed his stupid jokes, his cocky voice, the way he stared at you like he knew you from the inside out. He’d stopped calling and texting ages ago, when you’d made your first Instagram post revealing you were with Mclaren. It’d made it look like you’d moved on, which was the purpose.

You hadn’t, and a small part of you hoped he hadn’t either.

The flight progresses smoothly. By the time you’ve touched down, you’ve managed to push the thought of him to the back of your mind.

“Think about it though,” Lando says, walking alongside you with Oscar on the other side. “One race.” “Don’t listen to him,” Oscar sighs. “Lando, you realise she probably has plans of her own.” “Does she?” Lando looks over at you pointedly. You shrug, “I’ve got friends here.” “See? Plans,” Oscar says, walking into the airport. “Don’t pressure her.”

You smile, and just as you’re about to follow the two inside, your phone starts ringing. “Coming?” Lando asks, and you pull out your phone, glancing down at the contact name.

“Yeah,” you say, still staring at the screen. “I’ll catch up.” “Alright,” Lando says, following Oscar into the building.

Your finger hovers over the accept button. Before you can second guess yourself, convince yourself this was as much as a fuck up as that night in Italy, you press down.

There’s pure silence on the other end of the line.

Then, “You picked up.”

Your finger clench around the phone at the voice.

“Charles—” “You answered.”

You’re still standing there, in heels, in a uniform that still didn’t feel right. You can tell he’s home by the silence, and the occasional roar of a sports car you’d only find in Monaco. He sounds the same. He sounds so, utterly familiar that it hurts.

“Why’d you call?” you say, trying to relax. “You’re—it’s been months. You haven’t called for months. Why now?” “I miss you.” “Charles.” “That hookup wasn’t a mistake.” “It was a mistake.” “I’ve liked you for five years.”

You pause, fingers tightening even more.

“Five years,” he repeats, and his breathing is ragged. “And I’ve never done shit about it. This is me doing something. Come back. Come back to Monaco, please.”

Fuck.

“I can’t—” you shut your eyes, blocking out all the noise around you. “I can’t come back. I don’t do this kind of thing. I don’t fuck clients.” “Please.” “It’s been four months.” “And I’m not over you. I’m not over that night,” he goes quiet, and when he speaks again it’s softer. “I know you aren’t either.” “I am.” “Then why’d you answer?”

You’re the one who goes quiet this time. Truthfully, you had no clue why you’d answered. You hadn’t given yourself time for reasoning, or any rational thought.

“I don’t know,” you say. “I don’t…Charles. I’m not coming back.” “How long are you going to avoid it—avoid me?” “I’m not—” “You left. You ran away, and this is the first time you’ve ever picked up any of my calls since that night.” “I have to go.” “Just come back. You can’t stay in London forever.” “Charles,” you say, and you hear him go still on the other end of the phone. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t answer. Not for what feels like a good five minutes.

“You’re leaving again.” “Goodbye, Charles,” you manage to say.

You hang up before he can say anything else.

liked by scuderiaferrari and others charles_leclerc Solid results, solid weekend view comments user12 LETS GO CHARLES user13 is it js me or does he lowkey look sad

user14 ferrari does that to everyone user15 LMFAO

liked by charles_leclerc, lando and others ynln mood view comments lilymhe Obssesed liked by creator lando is that really what you pack on flights

ynln i'm traveling too remember

user16 charles STILL being in her likes even after she left ferrari 💔 user17 i wanna be u when i grow up liked by creator

Mclaren didn’t pay as much as Ferrari did.

That was the excuse you were using to explain why you missed your old job. You knew you were lying. You knew the real reason was because of a Monegasque, 5’10, brunette man, but you’d never admit it.

You’re sitting on one of the seats of the private jet, curled up while staring at nothing. It felt weird not to be working on an active flight, and you were only here because Lando and Oscar had decided to take a different jet that didn’t belong to Mclaren.

No tasks meant you were alone with your thoughts, and for some reason, every single one of those thoughts led back to your old job. And Charles.

“Hey,” Lando sits beside you, making you look over. “You look stressed.” “I am stressed,” you answer, sighing. “I hate being on flights when I’m not working.” “But that isn’t the reason why you’re stressed.” You go quiet, before answering, “Yeah. It isn’t.” “Then what is it?” “I’m not sure,” you say, glancing to the other side of the plane where everyone else is. “Work stuff. I miss Ferrari.”

Lando nods, eyebrows furrowed like he’s really thinking of an answer. “Then why’d you leave in the first place?” “Because I made a mistake and a panicked.” “I’m sure it couldn’t have been that bad.” You smile, almost bitterly, “It probably wasn’t. But I panicked and left anyway.”

He nods again, leaning back in his chair. You turn to look in front of you, at the black TV screen. “If you miss it that bad, you should go.” You keep your eyes on the screen, ignoring the panic that settles in your head at the mere thought of going. “If you miss it to the point it’s all you can think about it,” Lando continues, and you sense him look at you again. “Maybe it’s worth facing whatever consequence you might have.”

Your fingers clench, then unclench, and you sigh again.

“Thanks, Lan.” “Anytime,” he says, standing up. He pats you on the shoulder as he passes by. “Don’t stress too hard, okay?” You keep your eyes closed, his words replaying through your head.

Mclaren didn’t pay as much as Ferrari did. That was your excuse for deciding to go back.

It’d been months since you left, weeks since that last phone call.

Charles still wasn’t sure what to make of it. He barely remembered anything that happened that night in Italy, though he’d randomly get flashes of it—your voice, your skin pressed against his, the empty space next to him when he’d woken up.

The new girl they’d replaced you with was nicer, with a softer voice and wide eyes. He barely said a word to her on flights, partially because whenever he did, a pang of guilt stabbed at him.

She wasn’t you. She’d never be you.

He missed how easy it was with you there, how he never had to ask you for anything because it’d already be done. He missed teasing you, and having you respond with something that managed to stay professional yet snarky at the same time.

He missed you.

The rest of his usual Ferrari crew are up ahead of him, boarding the plane back to Monaco. He’s lagging behind slightly, the last of the entire group, eyes on his phone. He can hear one of the mechanics start up a conversation with someone, though he doesn’t focus on it.

“Buona sera.” “Sei tornata!” There’s a soft, feminine laugh that follows, one that sounds familiar and foreign all at the same time. “Non potevo starti lontano.”

The conversation floats past him, and it’s only when he’s physically stepping foot into the plane when he looks up.

His heart stops.

It isn’t some new, random person staring at him with the wrong kind of champagne in one hand.

It’s you.

You’re standing there, in the same uniform he’d always seen you in, the smallest smile on your face like you didn’t even realise it was there. You don’t look shocked at the sight of him. You look like you’ve been waiting.

“You—” he stops, frozen on the spot, his mind struggling with words. “What are you—” His eyes flicker to the glass you held, Dom Pérignon, then further into the plane where a replay of Monza is playing.

“Hi,” you say, still smiling. Your attention is solely on him, fingers mindlessly tapping on the glass in your hand. “I—” He leans forward, hands sliding around your waist as his lips crash onto yours. You barely have time to set the champagne glass on one of the countertops, eyes shutting as you melt into him.

It isn’t soft. It’s desperate, full of five years worth of pining, six months of chase and missed calls. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands tighten around your waist like he’s scared you’ll leave again. Everything else goes quiet. The only thought in his head is you.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling away. He stays there, against you, head dropping onto your shoulder. Your eyes are wide, but you reach up again, your fingers threading through his hair.

“You’re back,” he says, almost like he’s convincing himself. “You’re—You—” “I’m back,” you smile, hands dropping from his hair and wrapping around the back of his neck. “Mclaren wasn’t paying as much as I liked.” “And you’re staying?” “I’m staying.”

He exhales, eyes shutting. “I’ve liked you for five years.” “I know that.” “I still like you.” “I know that too.” His eyes open again, and his hand moves to cup your jaw.

“Try this out with me,” he says, soft. “Please.”

Your heart races at the words. You’d left because of that very reason, because of the possibility of him and what it meant for your job.

“Okay,” you answer, equally as soft. “I will—I’m…I’ll try.” “And don’t leave this time,” he mutters, low and pleading. You go quiet, long enough a sense of panic starts in his gut. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say, breathless. “I promise.”

He moves closer, kissing you with relief instead of desperation. There's leisure to it. Like he knows he has nothing to worry about anymore.

“I—” “Charles,” you say, blush rising up your neck. “I’m working.” “Right,” he says, clearing his throat and taking a step back. “You’re working.” He turns, hesitating and looking at you as if he still can’t believe you were here, but then he disappears further into the plane.

You can’t stop smiling for the rest of the flight. Neither can he.