It was 2:41 a.m. when the car pulled into the Monaco apartment complex. The city was quiet, the sea still in the dark, and your limbs ached with exhaustion — but your chest ached even more.
It had been your first trip away since becoming a mother. Nearly two weeks. You had left behind your baby boy and your husband, counting down the hours until you could return to them. Facetimes helped, sure. But it wasn’t the same. You missed his warmth. His weight in your arms. The soft baby smell of his shampoo and the sleepy way he said, “Mama,” with his whole soul.
Charles opened the door for you, barefoot and hoodie-clad, hair a tousled mess. He looked as tired as you felt.
“You’re home,” he murmured, smiling gently.
You didn’t even greet him with a kiss. You looked past him, your voice cracking with emotion as you whispered, “Can you get him?”
Charles nodded. “Of course.”
And he turned, padding down the hallway.
You stood frozen in the living room. The silence of the apartment made everything feel heavier — the time you missed, the milestones he might’ve hit, the things you hadn’t seen. You sniffled, wiping your eyes before the tears could fall.
Then came footsteps.
And soft, sleepy babbling.
Charles appeared, holding your son against his chest, the baby’s head resting on his shoulder. His little fists were curled into Charles’ hoodie, feet dangling in blue footie pajamas, curls a sleepy mess against his forehead.
Your breath caught.
Charles knelt beside you and gently shifted your baby so he could see your face.
“Mon amour,” he whispered to the baby. “Regarde… Maman est là.”
Your son blinked, dazed. He stared at you.
Then gasped. “Mama!”
The way his face lit up — his eyes wide, mouth open in surprise and delight — it shattered you in the best way. He wriggled out of Charles’ arms with a squeal and crawled toward you as fast as his little legs would let him.
You were already kneeling when he threw himself into you, arms locking around your neck, his little body melting against yours.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t babble. Just breathed heavily against your shoulder and clung to you like his tiny soul had been holding its breath since the day you left.
“I’m here,” you whispered, kissing his head again and again. “I’m here, baby. I’m home.”
Charles sat beside you quietly, his hand resting on your back. “He wouldn’t sleep without holding something that smelled like you,” he murmured. “Tonight, he’ll sleep through the whole night, I know it.”
But your son didn’t seem interested in sleep now. He just curled deeper into your chest, like he was trying to become part of you again.
His chubby hand reached up and grabbed a fistful of your hair. Not to pull — just to hold.
And with tears in your eyes and your heart finally whole, you whispered, “I missed you so much, mon cœur.”
The room stayed silent, except for his soft breathing, and the gentle warmth of Charles’ hand on your back as the three of you sat together — whole, again.
Hiii as you might have seen Alexandra announced her bridesmaids so maybe reader is a childhood friend of hers, ( they grew up together and everything but she lives in Paris) so ofc she’s one of the bridesmaids. So as she’s never been ( or just been a few times) in Monaco she never properly met the Leclercs so Alexandra invites her to dinner in their house with everyone: Charles, Lorenzo , Charlotte, Pascale … and she meets Arthur maybe he spills water on her dress or he makes a fool of himself ( + blushing and everyone teasing him )or something a bit awkward and cute like that 🥰
Anyway no pressure at all!! And I love your stories ( I actually got this idea after reader your George “ I have a boyfriend” fic when reader mentions Alex’s bridesmaids )
𓂃۶ৎGrabbing the Bouquet! x AL
#pairing: Arthur Leclerc x Fem!Reader
#summary; When being the bridesmaid goes absolutely wrong and right at the same time.
#word-count; 2K
#MASTERLIST
The Leclerc marriage might as well be bigger than the Monaco Royal family's.
It was all the talk from Monte Carlo all the way to the south of Chile and north of Norway. West of USA and east of Australia. Everyone wanted to know the details of clothing, food, local, hour, all of it. Recently though everyone just wanted to get to know the bridesmaid of Alexandra Leclerc.
Of course the public expected the normal famous girls, Rebecca Donaldson, her mother, another WAG she's close to, but when the list name came out one stood out: Y/N. Not a WAG, not family, not a fellow influencer, unbeknown to everyone she was the closest of all the group of girls. Only Alexandra's childhood best friend, the one who had been there way before fame, before Charles, before the chaos.
The invite to become a bridesmaid had been natural and very expected, they had this planned out since diapers after all. A simple "I'd feel honored to have you as my bridesmaid, Y/N" and it was on it's way.
The thing is, the marriage would take place in Monaco of course. Capital of luxury, cars, and her groom's homeland. She had barely ever been there, once or twice maybe visiting-- usually it was Alexandra who'd stop by in Paris. So stepping out the car to that incredible city was certainly a new view.
The streets bathed in marble, cleaned and polished to perfection, the overly dressed people walking around or driving their sports car, it's the closest to heaven you'll find. The Leclerc house and family was much like the province they lived in. The manor was modern and high as to see the circuit below them, decorated for the pre-wedding lunch like a victorian painting. A voice cut trough her thoughts filled with cotton like a bullet.
"Y/N! You came, oh I'm so happy."
"Alexandra!"
The two old friends found each other in a hug, those heartfelt ones. When pulled back they both looked one another up and down. Her best friend looked simply amazing, the picture of grace and beauty. Chestnut hair straight and glowing, a soft elegant white ankle length dress, a pure sketch of Aphrodite.
"You look...spectacular." Y/N told her, as if that was new.
Her friend just swatted her hands, so casual "Don't even, you look incredible!"
With a sigh of acceptance or just simple awe, she continued "Alex this...this is a dream!" They chuckled "It's like you live in those movies we used to see as kids."
"I guess I just fell in love with that sort of guy, Charles lives a very...different life than most." The friends interlinked arms, starting to just walk around calmly trough the balcony.
"He does, that's for sure." She agreed, before she could continue to say something about her fiancee, Alex interrupted
"You should find someone as well."
Her tone..it was that tone that told Y/N her friend was planning something, and had been for a long time. Dreaming about finding her best friend a guy close to her so they could continue to see each other all the time, forever. It was Alexandra's way of being, if she had the leverage she wanted to bring her friends up with her.
Y/N's face blushed, "What do you mean by that."
"Just that'd be nice for you to find yourself... a boyfriend, maybe someone close to me." After some silence, she teased her "Heard Lando's single."
"Ew no, party guy much."
"Lewis?"
"You wish, he's out of reach even for us."
"How old is Hadjar?"
"Too young for me!"
"Now who else is single..."
"Nobody! Stop it" She jokingly swat her hand at her friend, both girls giggling like teenagers at their talk. "I'm not dating some driver, I'm not made out for this life like you are."
"You just wait, you'd make a super WAG, and you'd keep me company." Her voice was dreamy and all.
"That's all you want, isn't it? If you want my company so bad why don't you just marry me?"
The rest of the afternoon blurred into laughter, soft music, and the clinking of glasses that never quite emptied. Y/N stayed close to Alexandra most of the time, fingers occasionally brushing as if to reassure themselves that this was real—that after all these years, after all the distance and change, they were still exactly this. She had seen Charles from afar, talked to him once.
"Congratulations!" She offered briefly, a pleasntry.
He nodded politely "Thank you, it's so nice for you to have come, really. Alexandra could loose any bridesmaid, but not you."
Her lips formed a sad smiled "Awn, that's.. super nice, thanks for that."
He was charming, she'll give him that. Super handsome, a gentleman, she could 100% understand why Alex wanted this one, but he just didn't make her type. Too posh, like a little Ken doll from the royalty came alive.
His mother was equally a lady, Pascale had welcomed her warmly and accepted the marriage gift she had to offer.
"You're such a pretty girl." She admired, was the whole family just this nice?
"Thank you, Mrs Leclerc."
"I haven't seen you often, have I?" She started, this motherly look to her eyes that was quite comforting to see.
"Not really, I stay in Paris most the time. Alex is the one to come and see me."
"You know--"
It all happened quite fast. Whilst the older lady was preparing to go into some story about her youth or some story about her kids, they both heard a loud "Maman!" before a huge crash of two bodies. Y/N just felt someone huge slip on top of her and food drip down her shoulder as she found herself yelping and down the ground. Everyone around a 500 meter radium probably saw, gasps flew around.
When she finally managed to take a look at who had managed to tackle her, it wasn't hard to recognize him. Arthur Leclerc, Charles' younger brother. Apparently he had come running to his mother, slipped on a wet patch of something and managed to tumble both of them down whilst he had a full plate of spaghetti and sauce on his hand, which now were either on the floor or on her dress or his shirt.
After a small moment of confusion from every side, he knelt up and a horrified expression took over his face. "Merde merde merde, I'm so so sorry." He began apologizing.
Her gentle nature felt more embarrassed and sorry for him than mad really. "It's okay." She couldn't really say anything else though, it was awkward enough.
He helped her to her feet and groaned. "Shit, I'm an idiot. I ruined your dress."
"It's really okay, Arthur." She tried to reassure him.
"No! No, it's not, I'll.. I'll find you another dress." He was so red in the face he looked like the ferrari car. He looked around, hands rubbing nervously. "Uhm...Alexandra?"
Her best friend ran over, her cute brown eyes widen at the scene "Oh non Y/N." She sighed, "I really liked that dress, you looked adorable... but let's not be negative. At least it wasn't the official dress. I'll find you something else." Her heel clicked as she ran inside to look trough her own wardrobe, whilst Arthur couldn't help but just look like a sad puppy.
"I'm really sorry, Y/N is it? You're a bridesmaid, non?"
She chuckled and nodded, the worst of it was just how she smelled like food. "Yeah, Alex's best friend. And you're the famous Arthur?"
He gave a little chuckle, still not over the whole momentum. He found her hand and began leading her inside where they'd be out the public view. "I wouldn't say I'm very famous."
"You're a Leclerc, your family is like...more famous than the King and Queen of Monaco."
"I...yeah, to some point." He snorted, then his eyes roamed her body. "Alex was right, you did look amazing in that dress. Such a shame."
Oh what a flirt, was he not all french courtesy like his brothers?
Her cheeks tensed as she gave him a lopsided smile "Why thank you, but I'm sure Alex will find me one of those high fashion stuff, you've seen her, wouldn't be caught in a lazy afternoon hoodie for dead."
"You're staying for the whole wedding week?" He asked
"Yeah, bridesmaid duty calls. Are you a groomsmen?"
He nodded shyly, "Me and my brother Lorenzo both, it's like a little family tradition."
Before their chit chat could continue, Alexandra's voice boomed from upstairs. "Y/N come up! I've got the perfect dress!"
***
Every bridesmaid had a matching groomsmen, Rebecca had Carlos, Charlotte had Lorenzo, Y/N had no one. So it did feel a little planned out when Alexandra-- already in her beautiful and stunning wedding gown came over to her best friend and announced. "I'm pairing you up with Arthur if that's okay."
It would normally be very simple, but the way her friend couldn't help but look a little flushed was strange. "Of course... so we'll walk down the aisle together?"
"Yes, yes, just that."
When she found her boy and they linked arms, ready to do it all like it had been planned out, Arthur began with: "I don't have a spaghetti plate near me."
She snorted "You shouldn't be allowed near spaghetti for a decade now."
"Oh cmon" He laughed, a hand by his mouth-- such a small noticeable detail. Once again in the very same way he looked her up and down "You look stunning when you're not covered in sauce."
And then he winked.
Actually winked like a bloody fratboy and it was so endearing to watch.
"I--" She stumbled over her words, and just as the doors opened and she felt hotter than the sun, she whispered "Thank you."
It unfolded like something pulled straight from a dream—effortlessly luxurious, yet deeply personal in ways only someone so close to Alex like Y/N had been could understand. The bay glittered brighter that day, the ceremony draped in soft whites, delicate florals, and quiet opulence that never once felt excessive, only perfectly them. Every detail, from the gentle music echoing over the sea to the way their hands lingered together just a second longer than expected, carried a kind of tenderness that made even the most extravagant elements feel just right. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was emotional, the kind of love that settled warmly in everyone’s chest and stayed there long after the last glass had been emptied
That was for the media though, the afterparty was more for the family and friends. Loud mexican music booming, bridesmaid dancing around Alexandra like a cult of some sorts. And then the most waited moment of every unmarried lady arrived.
"I am going to throw the bouquet!" Alexandra announced, the girls shrieked and found themselves wrapping up in a ball around 3 meters behind her.
Y/N as well of course, she wasn't opposed to love-- just sadly single. In fact, grabbing that damn flower bouquet might as well just boost her confidence.
Alex made a whole show of pretending to throw once, twice, and finally-- the flowers were in the air! They spun, all girls reached out laughing, and when those tulips fell right onto Y/Ns hand like Venus herself had directed them there, she couldn't help but boost about it.
"YES!" She yelled, hugging it close and then finding her way to hug Alexandra as well.
"I can't believe you got it! Means your wedding is the next hm!" She grinned, which just made her friend shrug.
"I haven't even gotten a boyfriend, calm down."
"Oh but I think you're close."
Alexandra's hand pointed to someone in the crowd, and standing up admiring from afar was none other than Arthur himself. He had a sly smile to his face, thoughts in his head like a made out map of everything he wanted to do now. The blush that rose to her face told it all. Was it so obvious like that? How Arthur had become to smitten so quickly? It's common isn't it, those party boys who'll kiss anyone often find their soulmates suddenly and quickly.
Alexandra took the opportunity to tease. "We might end up both being Mrs Leclerc after all!"
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#note; Thank you so so much for your ask!! When I wrote that part in "I have a boyfriend" I really was thinking about a fic later haha, you read my mind! Hope you enjoy and ask anything anytime! It was hard to not turn this into an Alexandra x Reader grrrrrrr
summary: they say dogs are a man’s best friend, but a certain dachshund may be man’s best wingman
pairing: Charles Leclerc x veterinarian!reader
warnings: none ( i mean use of y/n if you count that)
word count: 2.6k
masterlist
It was no surprise that Charles Leclerc adored animals, specifically dogs. So, when word spread like wildfire around Monaco that he had adopted Leo, it was only a matter of time before the duo showed up in your clinic.
You had heard about Leo from the gossip mill - Charles had been spotted walking the dog around the streets of Monte Carlo, and the photos of the two of them quickly made the rounds on social media. The sight of the Formula 1 driver, usually so composed and intense, walking around with an adorable dachshund puppy had the whole city cooing with affection.
You had been working as a vet for a few years now, as one of the only ones in Monaco, so you were no stranger to having a celebrity walk through your doors. In fact, you had Alex Albon walking through your doors practically every month with the zoo he had. But hearing your techs swoon at the fact Charles was in your clinic, made you question how big this guy really was.
“Y/n, Leo Leclerc is in room four for you. He’s here for his routine exam. So far everything looks good,” one of your techs said.
“I bet Charles looks even better,” another one called, overhearing the conversation.
Your eyes rolled, but you couldn’t help but chuckle at their remarks. “Focus on Leo, not Charles,” you teased, though you knew their excitement was understandable.
Taking a deep breath to prepare yourself, you grabbed your stethoscope and walked toward room four. You were a professional, after all, and your job was to make sure Leo was in tip-top shape, not to let the celebrity connection distract you.
As you knocked lightly on the door, you heard a soft voice call from the other side. “Come in!”
You opened the door to find Charles sitting on the exam table, with Leo happily bouncing around at his feet. The little dachshund’s tail wagged furiously as soon as he spotted you, making a beeline for you as though he’d known you for ages.
“Hey there, Leo,” you said, crouching down to meet the enthusiastic puppy. You pet him for a second before standing back up. “I’m Dr. Y/L/N, but you can call me Y/N. I’ll be your primary veterinarian.”
Leo’s little tail wagged even harder at the mention of his name, and you couldn’t help but to smile at the sight. His big brown eyes stared up at you, full of trust and excitement.
“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N,” Charles said as he got off of the exam table. His smile was easy, and you noticed how much more approachable he looked when he wasn’t in his racing suit. “I’m glad to see you’re the one handling Leo today.”
You nodded, doing your best to focus on the task at hand, though your heart was pounding into your throat. “He’s a cutie. And I’ve heard a lot about him from the clinic’s gossip mill. Seems like you two are quite the duo.”
Charles chuckled lightly, glancing down at Leo, who was now sitting patiently at his feet, as if sensing the shift in attention. “Yeah, Leo’s been a good distraction for me. Definitely makes my life a bit more fun, and I think he’s a great companion for my downtime.”
You turned to Leo, picking him up and placing him on the exam table, where Charles once sat. “He’s got a lot of energy for a little guy. Looks like he’s been keeping you on your toes.”
Charles shrugged, the slightest hint of amusement in his expression. “He definitely does, but I love having him around. Plus, he’s a great way to relax after a stressful weekend, just walking him around and enjoying the quieter side of things.”
“Sounds perfect,” you replied, settling your stethoscope into place. “Let’s make sure everything is going well with him. I’ll just start with a quick check-up, get his vitals and make sure he’s healthy.”
You focused on Leo, quickly going through the routine exam. His heart rate was normal, his coat was shiny and healthy, and his eyes were bright. After a quick examination, you looked up at Charles. “He’s in great shape, Charles. No issues at all. He’s a happy, healthy little guy.”
Charles sighed in relief, his smile widening. “I’m glad to hear that. I was worried I might be doing something wrong.”
“Not at all,” you assured him, chuckling. “You’re doing everything right. It’s clear you care about him a lot.”
You scooped Leo into your arms and informed Charles you would be taking Leo into the back room to give him his shots. What you didn’t mention was that it was also an opportunity for all of the techs to fawn over the puppy.
Once you brought Leo back into the exam room, Charles' eyes lit up, though you were unsure if it was at you, or the dog. You gave him a few instructions for Leo’s next few weeks, including a reminder to keep up with his vaccinations. “He’s good to go! Just a few follow-ups, but nothing to worry about.”
You bid goodbye to the driver as you guided him up to the receptionist's desk. There, you gave instructions on the next exam date.
Charles had the day of the exam circled on his calendar the minute he got home. Sure, he wanted to be a good dog dad and pay attention to Leo’s appointments, but he also couldn’t wait to see you again.
Unfortunately, he didn’t realize that since Leo had done so well, the follow up appointments that had been scheduled were only with the techs, not with you. He went through with the appointments, but in the back of his mind, he had to find a way to see you again. And thankfully, Leo gave him plenty of excuses.
It all started when Leo ate a blade of grass.
Now, Charles knew that eating grass wasn’t going to kill his dog, but he was worried it might make him a little sick… and he wanted to see you again.
So, he scheduled an appointment.
As soon as you saw Charles and Leo’s names on the schedule, a smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You tried to shake it off, you were just doing your job, but there was something about seeing him that made you feel a little lighter.
As the time drew nearer, you found yourself making sure everything was in order, the clinic bustling with its usual activity. Your techs were curious no doubt - they’d fawned over the duo when they took care of the dog’s follow up appointments, and definitely talked about the “celebrity dog dad” a little more than they probably should’ve.
“Y/n, Charles and Leo are in room three for you. He mentioned Leo had eaten some grass earlier today, but so far, everything seems normal,” your tech informed you
You walked towards the exam room, preparing yourself to see the driver and his dog again. As you entered, you saw Charles sitting on the chair this time, gently scratching behind Leo’s ears. The little dachshund’s tail was wagging, and he immediately perked up when he saw you, jumping down from Charles’ lap.
“Hey, Leo,” you greeted, crouching down to pet the excited pup. “What’s all this fuss about grass, huh?”
Charles looked up from his phone and smiled when he saw you. “Hey, Y/N. Yeah, Leo decided to sample some grass this morning, and now I’m just a little paranoid.”
You chuckled, standing up to meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Dogs eat grass all the time. Most of the time, it’s harmless. But let’s take a quick look just to be sure.”
You began your routine examination of Leo, checking his belly, feeling for any signs of discomfort, and listening to his heart. Leo seemed perfectly fine, happily squirming and wagging his tail as you worked.
“See?” you said, glancing up at Charles. “He seems to be in good spirits. No signs of anything bothering him.”
Charles let out a relieved sigh, but there was still a hint of concern in his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve just been overthinking it. But I’m still getting used to being a dog dad, you know?”
You smiled warmly, meeting his gaze. “Like I said at our first appointment, you’re going great, Charles. Leo’s in good hands.”
He looked at you with a soft smile, and for a moment, there was a brief pause in the conversation. It was like neither of you wanted to break the moment, but eventually, Charles cleared his throat and stood up.
“Thanks again, Y/N. Seriously,” he said, giving you an appreciative look. “I’m glad I came in today, even if it was just for a little blade of grass.”
“It’s no problem at all,” you replied, trying to keep your composure. “Take care of Leo, and we’ll see you for the next check-up.”
But you saw him much sooner than the next check-up.
Only a few weeks after the grass related appointment, your receptionist came into the back area, where you and your techs were prepping for surgery. You had a busy day ahead of you, with having back to back appointments all day, and the only break you got was your thirty minutes of lunch.
“Mr. Leclerc is on the phone,” your receptionist began, causing a bunch of oooo’s from your staff. “He said that Leo stubbed his toe and wanted to see if you had availability for today.”
You paused for a moment, wiping your hands on your scrubs as you turned toward your receptionist. “Leo stubbed his toe?” you asked, trying to suppress a smile. You could hear the excitement in your staff’s whispers behind you, but you didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much Charles’ calls were starting to feel like little breaks from the clinic chaos.
“Yeah, that’s what he said,” your receptionist replied, her tone amused. “Should I tell him to hold on or that you’re in surgery?”
You quickly ran through your schedule in your head. It was packed, but a stubbed toe? You could squeeze that in. You didn’t want to seem like you were too eager, but you couldn’t help but feel a little excitement at the thought of seeing Charles again.
“I can take a shorter lunch,” you said, giving your receptionist a quick nod. “Schedule him for the last twenty minutes of that half hour.”
Your receptionist raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as she turned to make the call. As soon as the door closed behind her, your techs immediately leaned in, their eyes sparking with curiosity.
“You know you two aren’t fooling anyone, right?” one of them teased. “You’re excited to see Charles again.
“And he’s got to be wanting to see you if he’s making an appointment over a stubbed toe,” another one chimed in.
You rolled your eyes, trying to stifle a grin. ‘It’s just a stubbed toe,” you replied, but your voice betrayed you, laced with a hint of amusement. “He’s just a concerned dog dad. Nothing more.”
Your techs exchanged knowing glances, clearly not buying it.
“Uh-huh,” one of them smirked. “A ‘concerned dog dad’ who keeps calling in for the tiniest little thing. Sure.”
“Maybe you should get him a frequent flyer card,” another suggested, grinning.
You shook your head, trying to ignore the warmth growing in your cheeks. “Focus, guys. You have things to do, remember?”
They held up their hands in mock surrender, but you could still feel their eyes on you as you turned back to finish prepping for the day.
When the status of Leo’s appointment changed to “arrived” on your computer, it took everything in you to remain calm and composed. The butterflies in your stomach only grew as you heard Leo’s excited barks from down the hall.
Once your techs informed you that the Leclercs were ready to see you, you made your way to the exam room, trying to keep yourself steady with every step. When you opened the door, Charles was sitting there, looking as relaxed as ever, with Leo perched on his lap.
“Hey there, you,” you greeted Leo first, just like you always did. “I heard you got a stubbed toe this time around.”
Charles chuckled, giving you a sheepish look. “I know, it’s ridiculous. But he seemed to be limping a little, and I didn’t want to take any chances.”
You nodded, appreciating his concern for his dog. “It’s never ridiculous to take care of our furry friends,” you said, your eyes briefly meeting his. There was a warmth in his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down.
You got Leo up on the exam table, gently checking his paws and making sure everything looked good. As you worked, you noticed Charles’ gaze lingering on you - though this time, it felt different. His smile was softer, more intentional, and there was something in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat.
Finally, after checking Leo’s paw, you turned to Charles. “Good news. It’s just a little sore, probably from the way he landed. No major damage.”
Charles visibly relaxed, his tension easing as he gave a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear that.”
As you gave Leo a few gentle pats and wrote down the instructions for recovery, you could feel Charles’ eyes on you again. There was a quiet moment between you two, one that made the air feel just a little thicker, like there was more unsaid than spoken.
“Thank you for always being so patient with me, and with Leo, and I appreciate you squeezing us in at the last minute,” Charles said, standing up to walk toward the door. He paused for a beat, then glanced back at you with a small but meaningful smile. “Would I be able to squeeze into your schedule again sometime, for coffee or drinks?”
You felt your heart flutter as the words hung in the air. It was the question you’d been waiting for, yet the reality of it still made your breath catch in your throat. For a second, you just looked at him, the familiar warmth in his smile making your pulse quicken.
You tried to play it cool, but you couldn’t hide the slight blush creeping onto your cheeks. “I think I could make some time for you,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “I’m not usually this free, but for you? I’ll make an exception.”
Charles’s smile widened, and you could see a spark of relief in his eyes. He stepped back into the room, the distance between you narrowing as he moved closer. “Tomorrow? After work?” he asked, his tone a little more tentative, as if waiting for your confirmation.
You nodded, your heart racing a little faster now. “Tomorrow works. Let’s say, six?”
He gave a small, excited nod, clearly trying to contain his enthusiasm. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up. I’ll make sure not to keep you waiting.”
You both stood there for a moment, the air thick with anticipation, before he gave a final smile and turned to leave. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”
As he exited the room, Leo wagged his tail, clearly eager to follow. You watched him walk out, a mixture of excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside you. You leaned against the exam room table for a second, trying to catch your breath, before shaking yourself out of the daze. You still had a job to do, but you couldn’t help but smile to yourself as the thought of tomorrow played over in your mind.
Author’s Note: I’ve been listening to Men’s Best Friend on repeat, and it’s been inspiring me to write. It's realy short but I realy wanted to write something, some of the songs felt like they perfectly match certain drivers. If you have any suggestions for other songs I could use as a base for a story and which drivers you think they’d fit I’d love to hear them.
The apartment in Monaco was too quiet for what it contained. The kind of silence that wasn’t silence at all, but disappointment pressed into walls and furniture, making the air thin. A candle stub from last night still sat on the table, wax slumped in defeat.
She had worn silk, heels, hair curled. He had promised Dinner. Just us. I’ll make it up to you, mon amour. By midnight, she was barefoot on the sofa, mascara smudged, the reservation long canceled. The door opened, finally, and he came in laughing, sneakers squeaking, hoodie crooked, smelling of sweat and other people’s jokes. He paused when he saw her, guilt flickering like a match, then died just as quickly. He kissed the her hair and slipped into the bedroom.
It wasn’t always this way.
When they met, she thought his messiness was charming. The way he lost his keys three times a week, only to find them in between the couch cushions. The way he forgot to charge his phone but showed up at her window with flowers instead. The way he would tumble into her arms at odd hours, boyish grin wide. She loved being the one he ran to, the one who steadied the whirlwind. It made her feel essential.
But the years wore down the shine. The forgotten keys became lost passports. The dead phone became missed anniversaries. The boyish grin stayed boyish, while she had grown tired of babysitting. What once made her heart swell now made her jaw clench.
She woke up to the smell of burnt toast. Charles stood barefoot in his hoodie, curls wild, spatula clumsy in his hand. His phone was plugged in, finally, a bright green battery glowing like he’d discovered electricity.
“Good morning,” he said, grinning, like that solved something.
She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “I tried to call you.”
He winced. “Phone died. I forgot to charge it.”
Her laugh was sharp, humorless. “Of course you did.”
“I thought maybe breakfast—” He gestured at the pan, hopeful.
“Breakfast?” She crossed the room, the silk hem of her robe brushing her thighs. “You left me waiting in a dress last night while you chased beer and banter, and now you think a plate of rubber eggs is redemption?”
He looked at her like a child caught cheating on homework. For a second she almost pitied him. Almost.
The word stung him. She saw it land. He dropped the spatula like it burned.
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” she said, sipping coffee, “but it’s true. You never take care of yourself. You never plan ahead. If I’m not here, nothing happens. You run to me for everything—your schedule, your laundry, your life—and I’m supposed to clap every time you manage to act like an adult for five minutes.”
His eyes were wide, wounded. “ I love you.”
She laughed, hollow, shaking her head. “You love having me around. You love knowing someone will fix it when you forget. That’s not love, Charles. That’s dependency.”
He reached for her hand, desperate. She let him touch, then pulled away. “You know what’s funny?” she said. “At the start, I thought it was sweet, the way you leaned on me, the way you needed me. I thought it made me special. Now I see it for what it is: laziness. You never grew up because you never had to. Because people like me keep saving you, over and over.”
His lips parted, useless, searching for the apology that would reset the cycle. She was already shaking her head.
“I don’t even choose men like you,” she said, voice low, she was talking to herself more than him, wich realistically wouldn’t make a difference on the hind sight. “You choose me. You always do. The boys who play hard to get. The men who are too incompetent to be partners. Somehow, you all find me. And I’ve let you..” She set the mug down. “But not anymore. I’m done, Charles.”
He stood too fast, knocking over a stool. “Please—”
She smiled, sad and sharp. “Save it. You’ll charm the next one. She’ll believe your dimples mean devotion. She’ll think your chaos is cute until it isn’t. And you’ll run to her the way you ran to me. Always running. Never arriving.”
The sea breeze rushed through the door as she opened it, carrying her out. She didn’t look back.
On the street, Monaco glittered in the morning sun—yachts bobbing, cars purring, the city alive with men who thought charm could replace effort. She laughed to herself, a sound half bitter, half free.
They would keep finding her. Again and again, the man-children of the world, too pretty for their own good. But she didn’t have to keep staying.
ᯓwho☆: 𝒞harles x reader (fluff, angst x drabble) ᯓwhat☆: charles promises to win at monza for you, but when he crashes and spirals on the radio, the cameras catch your lips trembling. when he finally reaches you in the garage, he rushes to apologize, and all you want is to know he’s safe. ᯓwc☆: 865 ᯓa/n☆: yesss got to writing againn lessgooo!! this is a very short one w no actual banner but hey atleast i wrote yaya graziee mille per l'attesa, ti amo!
you should’ve never let him promise.
the night before monza, he was pacing the motorhome like his nerves were made of electricity, running a hand through his hair every three seconds. you were sitting on the small couch, knees pulled to your chest, just watching him burn holes into the carpet.
when he finally stopped in front of you, he cupped your jaw so gently it nearly broke your heart.
“i want to win for you tomorrow,” he whispered, forehead touching yours. “for your home. for your people. for us.”
you shook your head, soft. “charles, you don’t need to promise me anything.”
but he just smiled — that hopeful, reckless smile he only gets before a race he believes in.
“i want to,” he said.
you should’ve known then. promises at monza never end softly.
and the next day, the world tilts.
lap 27. you’re standing with the engineers, hands clasped behind your back like you’re trying to hold yourself together physically.
and then — metal skids. gravel flies. the ferrari spins.
your breath exits your body like someone punched it out of you.
for a moment, everything is muffled. like your ears stop working.
and then his voice bursts through the radio, raw, violent, ruined.
“fuck! fuck, i’m so stupid— why did i do that— i fucked up, i’m sorry— i’m so fucking sorry—”
he’s almost shouting, voice cracking, panic bleeding through every syllable. it’s not anger. it’s self-destruction. it’s the sound of a man who thinks one mistake erased every good thing he’s ever done.
the camera finds you instantly.
your face looks still, emotionless, unreadable but your eyes, god, your eyes are shaking to every screen to make sure you we like your body can’t keep the flood down any longer.
the world sees heartbreak. but all you feel is fear.
fear that he’s hurt. that the crash took more than points.
the second you see him climb out of the car, legs shaking, hands still gripping the steering wheel like he didn’t realize he let go, you finally breathe again. only barely.
when he returns to the garage, he rips the helmet off like it’s suffocating him. his eyes are glassy, frantic, searching.
and then he spots you.
he freezes. like his body just stops knowing how to function. “amour…” his voice cracks on the word. “i— i’m so sorry…”
he takes a step toward you, then stops halfway, hands lifting and falling back down like he’s scared of touching you, scared he’ll make everything worse. “i promised— i said i’d win— and i just— i ruined it, i ruined everything, i—”
“charles.” your voice is barely a whisper.
his jaw clenches, shoulders shaking with guilt he doesn't know how to carry. he tries again, voice breaking open. “i disappointed you. i disappointed your family. i disappointed—”
you close the distance before he can finish, grabbing his face in both hands. his breath catches hard in his throat, like he didn’t expect you to touch him at all.
“look at me,” you murmur.
his eyes flick to yours, terrified. shattered.
“i don’t care about the promise,” you say quietly.
you feel him inhale like a drowning man.
“i don’t care about the win. or monza. or the points. i only care about you. are you hurt?”
he swallows, hard. “no. i’m okay. just… stupid.”
“don’t say that,” you whisper.
you don’t even realize you’re crying until his thumb catches a tear running down your cheek. the moment he sees it — really sees it — his expression collapses.
“amour…” his voice is a whisper, barely formed. “don’t cry, please. i— i crumble completely when you cry.”
he sounds devastated. like your tears physically break him.
he finally pulls you into his chest, arms curling around you with a kind of desperate gentleness, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear between blinks.
and that’s when you fall apart.
your hands fist into the fireproof layer he’s half-wearing, your forehead pressed against his shoulder as sobs shake through you — soft, quiet, but enough to make his breath hitch in panic.
“i was so scared,” you whisper, voice shaking. “i thought you were hurt. i didn’t care about the race, charles. i just needed you to get out of that car.”
his arms tighten around you immediately, hugging you like he’s trying to hold your fear himself.
“i’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “i’m here, i’m here, i’m here.”
you feel him shaking too — not from the crash, but from guilt melting into relief.
“i don’t care if you win,” you say into his chest. “i care if you come back.”
he pulls back just enough to cradle your face, his eyes red and shining but finally, finally softening.
“i love you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your tear-stained cheek. “i’m so sorry i scared you.”
you shake your head. “just stay safe. that’s all i want.”
charles leans in, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm and trembling.
“i’ll always come back to you,” he whispers.
and somehow, even after a crash, even after the heartbreak, even after the promise shattered on lap 27. that feels like the only win that ever mattered.
Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one. PT 1
Song: After Hours · The Weeknd
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4
Word count: 12.9k
MASTERLIST - F1
Charles sighed, another wave of that dull, persistent ache washing over him. It was the kind of feeling you attributed to a long day, an early morning, anything but the truth: a hollow space where his soulmate should be.
In this world, finding your soulmate was practically a given. A man simply had to pay attention to the pervasive sense of well-being that blossomed the closer he got, like basking in the sun after a long winter. Women, on the other hand, experienced the opposite. A gnawing anxiety, a yearning that intensified with proximity, only to be extinguished by the kiss that confirmed the connection.
Charles had always envied the ease with which others navigated this aspect of life. He'd seen friends practically vibrate with happiness as they zeroed in on their matches, their faces glowing with a newfound understanding.
He’d witnessed public displays of affection, the relief on the woman’s face palpable as the kiss settled the tremor in her soul. But for Charles, nothing. Just the ever-present, low-grade ache.
He was currently seeing Alexandra, a vibrant artist with paint-stained fingers and a laugh that could fill a room. He liked her. A lot. They shared a passion for old movies, bad puns, and late-night talks fueled by cheap wine.
But there was no soul-deep connection, no magnetic pull, no burgeoning sense of peace. And, crucially, no agonizing need emanating from Alexandra.
They had been upfront with each other from the beginning. A pragmatic agreement born from a realistic understanding of their world.
“If one of us finds their soulmate,” Alexandra had said, swirling the wine in her glass, “we break up. No hard feelings. Friends, maybe? If that’s not too weird?”
Charles had agreed, the thought of losing her already a small pang in his chest. The potential for a real connection, even if not the connection, felt too valuable to pass up.
He was at Alexandra's apartment now, ostensibly to help her hang a new series of paintings. The walls were already a riot of color, abstract swirls and bold strokes that somehow managed to create a sense of harmony.
She was humming softly as she fiddled with a level, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Looking at her, bathed in the afternoon light streaming through the window, Charles felt a surge of affection. He appreciated her easy smile, her quirky sense of humor, the way she always seemed to see the best in him.
But still, the ache persisted. Proof, if he needed it, that she wasn’t the one.
He handed her a hammer. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "how are you feeling? Any, you know… existential dread?"
Alexandra snorted, a smudge of paint adorning her cheek. "Existential dread is kind of my default setting, Charles. So, no. Nothing specific." She hammered a nail into the wall with practiced ease.
He felt a pang of guilt. He was testing her, probing for signs, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe… But he knew it was futile.
Over the next few weeks, Charles found himself increasingly preoccupied with the idea of soulmates. He started paying closer attention to the people around him, subtly observing couples, searching for that telltale glow of contentment on the men's faces, the relieved serenity settling on the women's.
He noticed that happy couples were everywhere.
Everyone had found their soulmate somehow, except him. . . .
༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶
Charles clenched his jaw, the familiar sting of frustration pricking at his temples. "Carlos, you better stop asking that question," he warned, his voice tight. He hated this. Hated the constant reminder of his perceived failure.
Charles grimaced, shoving a forkful of carbonara around his plate. "Carlos, you know the answer to that. Lay off, will you?"
Carlos just grinned, a smug, infuriatingly happy expression plastered across his face. "Just checking in, mate. You've been at this for years. How many 'almosts' are we up to now? Thirty? Forty?"
He gestured across the Ferrari cafeteria with his fork towards Rebecca, his soulmate, who was engrossed in a conversation with a mechanic.
They looked sickeningly content.
Charles felt a familiar pang of envy. In this world, finding your soulmate was supposed to be easy. A biological compass, really. For men, the joy, the sheer rightness of being near your soulmate was unmistakable, a balm to the soul.
The further away they were, the heavier the weight of longing became.
It was a system that supposedly guaranteed happiness. Supposedly.
He hadn't felt that blissful uplift even once. He'd chased fleeting moments of "almost" – a slight lift in mood, a subtle easing of his constant, low-level yearning – only to be disappointed.
A waitress at a local trattoria, a tourist sketching the Duomo, a woman he’d helped carry groceries – all dead ends.
"It's not exactly something you can force, Carlos," Charles sighed, pushing his plate away, the carbonara suddenly tasting like ashes. "It'll happen when it happens."
Before Carlos could launch into another unsolicited pep talk, the cafeteria doors swung open, letting in a gust of warm air and a whirlwind of nervous energy.
A woman stood there, slightly breathless, your cheeks flushed with a nervous energy that radiated across the room. You were… striking.
Charles immediately felt… lighter. The persistent, low-level hum of anxiety that usually buzzed beneath his skin seemed to quieten.
He felt a sense of ease he hadn't experienced in years.
"I'm so sorry I'm late," you said, your voice laced with a genuine apology. "Traffic was a nightmare. I'm… I'm the new social media manager."
You swiped a hand across your forehead, a gesture that only amplified Charles's initial assessment: you were flustered, stressed, but undeniably composed.
For Charles, the world seemed to narrow to just you. The slight tremor in your voice, the way you clutched your bag, the subtle shift in your posture as you addressed the room – it was all acutely, intensely noticeable.
He felt a strange, almost protective urge to reassure you.
But he didn't say anything. Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was just a coincidence, a fleeting surge of positive energy unconnected to anything real.
He looked around the room, searching for any sign that anyone else was experiencing a similar shift. Carlos was grinning like an idiot, but that was just Carlos being Carlos.
No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
“Well, welcome!” Carlos boomed, his voice cutting through Charles's internal debate. “I’m Carlos, and this brooding gentleman over here is Charles.”
You turned your attention to Charles, and your eyes met his. He felt a jolt, a small electric shock that ran right through him. Your eyes were captivating, filled with a weariness that tugged at something inside him.
He forced himself to maintain eye contact, searching, hoping for any sign, any flicker of recognition on your face that mirrored the growing certainty within him.
But all he saw was polite curiosity.
"Nice to meet you both," you said, offering a tentative smile. "I'm… Y/N."
"Welcome to the team, Y/N," Carlos said, his smile widening. "We're happy to have you."
You took a seat at the desk opposite Charles, and as you settled in, arranging your papers and fiddling with your laptop, he continued to observe you. The feeling of well-being hadn't dissipated.
If anything, it had intensified. It was like a low, comforting buzz that resonated throughout his entire being.
He stole glances at you throughout the morning, carefully monitoring his own reactions. He felt energized, focused, almost… happy.
This was it. This had to be it.
He'd heard stories, of course, of the almost instantaneous connection, the overwhelming sense of rightness. But he'd dismissed them as romantic exaggerations.
He was a Formula 1 driver, not a fairytale prince.
Yet, here you were.
"So," you began, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickling sensation building behind your eyes. It was a familiar feeling, one that always intensified around... well, around the right person. "Let's talk strategy. We need to ramp up engagement, create compelling content, and showcase the human side of the team."
Carlos, ever the professional, jumped right in. "I was thinking we could do more behind-the-scenes videos. Show the fans what a day in the life of a driver is really like."
"Excellent idea, Carlos," you said, scribbling down notes. "We can also highlight your training regimes, your collaborations with engineers, and your interactions with the team."
You turned to Charles, expecting him to contribute. But he just sat there, staring at you, a strange, almost dazed, expression on his face. The comfortable buzz he felt was almost intoxicating, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.
"Charles?" you prompted, the prickling behind your eyes intensifying. You felt a slight pressure building in your temples, a familiar ache that threatened to blossom into a full-blown headache.
"Uh... yes," he stammered, snapping back to reality. "Sorry. I was just... thinking."
You forced a smile, the muscles in your face strained. You needed to get through this meeting. “Thinking about what it's like to be Charles Leclerc?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light and conversational, masking the desperation clawing at your throat.
"Yeah! I think it would be a good idea for the fans, you know? A day in the life, that kind of thing," he commented, radiating an enthusiasm that only amplified your suffering. "You think it would work?"
"Definitely," you managed, the word feeling like a shard of glass caught in your throat. "It's all about connecting with the fans, showing them the human side of the drivers. We could film you training, doing media obligations, even grabbing a coffee." You rattled off the ideas, desperate to keep the conversation flowing.
You continued outlining the PR activities planned for the season, the endless interviews, sponsor events, and social media appearances.
Your voice was steady, your demeanor professional, but inside, you felt like you were teetering on the edge of a cliff. The other members of the Ferrari PR team, seasoned professionals, seemed oblivious to your internal struggle.
"So," you said, finally reaching the end of your presentation, the word "finally" wanting to burst out of you. "That's the general overview. We can discuss specific schedules and logistics later."
Charles and Carlos shook their heads.
"Okay, great," you said, gathering your notes. "Then, Charles, which time are you free?" you asked, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably.
You were feeling faint, the edges of your vision blurring. "For the 'Day in the Life' video, I mean."
Charles was distracted, fiddling with the Ferrari cap in his hands. "Um, I'm free next Tuesday, I think?" he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
"Good," you said, pushing through the fog in your brain. "I'll come over with a cameraman to record the day in your life, is that okay?"
"Sure," he grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement.
You managed a weak smile in return before gathering your things and making a hasty retreat from the hospitality room. The air outside felt marginally better, but the pounding in your head refused to subside.
You had a brief meeting with the other social media managers and editors, running through the ideas you'd presented to the drivers and outlining the content calendar for the next few weeks.
You felt like an imposter, trying to project an image of competence and enthusiasm while battling a pain that threatened to overwhelm you.
It was a dull, persistent ache, a hollow pit in your stomach that resonated with an inexplicable longing. It was the Soulmate Sickness, as your grandmother used to call it, with a dramatic sigh and a knowing look. Every woman in the world knew what that meant: your soulmate was nearby.
The closer they were, the more intensely you felt the ache. It was a cruel irony of fate: men felt blissful contentment when near their soulmate, a sense of completeness and belonging; for women, it was an agonizing reminder of the connection, a pull toward someone they wouldn't truly be at peace with until that kiss.
You knew the stories. Women driven mad by the constant ache, unable to function, their lives consumed by the desperate need to find, and then kiss, their soulmate.
And now, here you were, feeling the first tendrils of that very despair wrap around your heart on your first day at your dream job.
Lunch was a torturous affair. The Ferrari hospitality room was a vibrant, bustling place, teeming with engineers, mechanics, team managers, even the drivers themselves. Every single person felt like a potential source of your pain.
You picked at your pasta, forcing down each bite as the ache amplified, a constant, throbbing reminder of the unknown man who was probably enjoying the greatest day of his life.
You told yourself it was just nerves from the new job. The pressure of living up to expectations. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn’t just butterflies. This was something far more profound, far more insistent.
You were close to him. Very close. Whoever he is.
You leaned back in the seat, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths, trying to regain control. The ache lessened, but it was still there, a dull background hum that buzzed beneath your skin.
You must have found your soulmate, you thought, the idea settling in your stomach like a lead weight.
here was no other explanation for it. And that terrified you.
It could literally be anyone in the Ferrari hospitality room. An engineer with grease under his nails, a stern-faced strategist, a camera-shy photographer, or even… Don’t even go there.
You didn’t need this right now. You were just starting your first day at your dream job. A job you’d worked years for, poured your heart and soul into. You couldn't let some primal, biological imperative derail your career before it even began.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, starting the engine. “Okay. You can do this. You’re strong. You’re capable. You’re going to ignore this feeling. You’re going to focus on your work. You’re not going to let some random guy you haven’t even met ruin everything.”
Easier said than done, of course. . . . .
Charles felt it the moment you walked out the glass doors of the Ferrari factory. A dull ache, a low thrum of dissatisfaction that had been a background noise in his life, suddenly amplified, blossomed into a full-blown longing.
It was a feeling he instantly recognized, a feeling every man in their world was intimately familiar with.
The closer you were to your soulmate, the better you felt. The farther, the worse.
And this… this was the worst he’d ever felt.
He’d only met you a few hours ago.
He'd found you intelligent, quick-witted, and surprisingly unfazed by his fame. He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Hadn’t needed to. He'd always assumed his soulmate would be… obvious.
A grand, sweeping feeling, not a dull ache that exploded into unbearable yearning the second you left his sight.
Now, driving home through the winding streets of Italy, all he could think about was you. Your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the intelligent questions you'd peppered him with.
The longing intensified with every mile he put between them. The confirmation was undeniable.
He practically threw open the door to his apartment, the silence amplifying the hollow feeling in his chest. He needed to figure this out. He needed to figure out you.
He spent the bulk of the next few hours running through other possibilities, but it all kept centering on you. He felt an energy and inspiration around her that he didn't feel with anyone else. As his thoughts grew chaotic, he realized he needed to talk to someone.
Someone who knew him, who understood him, and who wouldn’t dismiss this as some fleeting infatuation. He needed to talk to his mother.
He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found her name. He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.
“Hi, maman,” he said, when she answered, trying to keep his voice casual.
“Charles! Mon chéri, how are you? It’s been too long.” Her voice was warm and full of genuine affection.
“I’m good, maman, busy, as always. But I wanted to ask you something. It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated? Is this about a girl other than Alexandra, Charles?” There was a knowing amusement in her voice.
He hesitated. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Look, you know about soulmates, right? About the feeling men get when they’re close to theirs?”
“Of course, I know. Why? Have you… found the one?” Her voice was laced with anticipation.
“I think so. But it’s… intense. I barely know her, but the feeling is overwhelming. It's all I'm constantly thinking about. Have I ever mentioned her? Her name is Y/N, she's new to the social media team.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.
There was a pause. “Someone from your work, Charles? How long has she been working there?”
“I think today was here first time. And no, I've never mentioned her to you. I didn't think anything of it before."
"And you're sure? You truly feel the ache and longing? It is not just a passing infatuation?"
"Maman, I'm sure. I can barely function."
His mother sighed softly. "I see. Well, mon chéri, I don't know her either so I won't know much. This is uncharted territory for me. But you know the rules. You know what women experience with their soulmates."
Charles groaned. "Don't remind me. The poor girls--having to deal with the pain until they get rid of it with a kiss? And if she is my soulmate and I'm just making assumptions, I'll look like a complete idiot."
"That is a risk you will have to take, mon chéri. But if it is truly meant to be, it will all work out. Perhaps you should take a chance? Is she single? And do you even know if she's interested?"
Those were good questions that Charles didn't know the answer to. "I haven't got a clue."
"Then you must find out, Charles. Do not let fear hold you back. This could be the most important thing you ever do."
He knew she was right. He couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. He had to find out if you felt it too. He had to know if he was right.
"Okay, maman," he said, a newfound determination entering his voice. "I'll do it. I'll talk to her. I'll find out."
"That's my boy," she said, her voice full of pride. "I have faith in you, Charles. Now tell me more about this (Y/N)..."
They talked for another hour, his mother peppering him with questions about you, your personality, your work ethic, your smile.
He described you as best he could, trying to convey the spark he felt whenever you were near.
The sterile white of the break room seemed to press in on you, mirroring the suffocating feeling in your chest. You clutched your phone, the cool plastic a small comfort against your trembling hand.
"Dad, I think I found my soulmate," you whispered into the receiver, the words heavy with a sadness that threatened to consume you.
"Really, baby? Why do you sound sad then? Do you not like them?" His voice, warm and familiar, crackled through the speaker, a stark contrast to the icy fear gripping your heart.
"I don't even know who they are," you muttered, staring blankly at the faded motivational poster on the wall. “I was just working, it was my first day, and I just… felt it. This horrible, gnawing ache. It’s constant, Dad. Like a phantom limb screaming for connection. I’m terrified."
A pause stretched between you, thick with unspoken memories. "Is it because of what happened to Mum?" he finally asked, his voice laced with a cautious tenderness.
"Yeah," you managed, the single syllable choked with emotion. The ache in your chest intensified, a physical manifestation of the dread that had been your constant companion since your mother-
"Look, sweetheart," your dad continued, pulling you back from the abyss of memory, "I know this is hard. But you can't let what happened to Mum. This is your soulmate. Maybe… maybe things will be different. You owe it to yourself to find out."
You knew he was right, logically. But the knot of fear in your stomach refused to loosen. "I don't know, Dad. What if… what if it's like what happened to Mum? What if it makes me miserable?"
"Then you walk away. You're strong, Y/N. You're smart. You can handle anything life throws at you. Just… don't let fear paralyze you."
His words, as always, offered a sliver of hope. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "Okay," you said, the word barely audible. "Okay, I'll… I'll try."
"That's my girl. Now, tell me about this job. How was your first day?" He deftly steered the conversation away from the soulmate dilemma, a tactic you were grateful for.
You spent the next few minutes recounting the whirlwind of activity that defined your first day as a social media manager for Scuderia Ferrari.
You’d always been passionate about racing, and landing this job was a dream come true. The adrenaline-fueled atmosphere of the paddock, the roar of the engines, the sheer dedication of the team – it was intoxicating.
Your responsibilities included managing their social media presence, creating engaging content, and interacting with fans. It was a demanding role, but one you were eager to excel at.
As you spoke, you deliberately pushed the unsettling ache to the back of your mind. You focused on the thrill of the job, on the excitement of being a part of something so iconic.
“It was insane, Dad. Honestly, I felt like I was dropped into a beehive. But everyone was so welcoming. And the cars… they're even more beautiful in person."
By the time you hung up, the edge of panic had dulled. The ache was still there, a constant reminder, but you felt a renewed sense of resolve. You would face this, whatever it was.
You wouldn't let fear control you. . . .
༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶
The heat of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit presses against you, even in the relative cool of the Ferrari garage. You lift your camera, framing Carlos as he adjusts his racing gloves.
“Looking good, Carlos! Give us a little intensity for the fans.” He throws you a practiced, smoldering glare. Perfect.
Your job is straightforward: capture the behind-the-scenes energy, the pre-race jitters, the quiet moments of focus before the storm.
You’re Ferrari’s social media manager, tasked with humanizing the drivers, making them relatable, building that connection with the tifosi. You love it, most days.
You pan the camera towards Charles' side of the garage. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, stretching his neck, a tiny, nervous habit you've noticed over watching him on the TV. “Charles, a word for the fans? Pre-race thoughts?”
He stops, turns, and that devastatingly charming smile flashes across his face. “Just focused, ready to give it my all for the team. Forza Ferrari!” He winks at the camera, and your stomach does a little flip. Annoying.
You’ve felt it more and more often lately, especially around Charles. That…ache. A dull, persistent anxiety that settles in your chest, a yearning that tugs at the edges of your awareness.
And it's happening with Charles Leclerc.
You lower the camera, forcing a professional smile. “Thanks, Charles. Good luck out there.”
“See you after the race,” he says, the words laced with a casual warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.
He gives you a fleeting glance, something almost…knowing in his eyes, before turning and heading towards his car, disappearing into the controlled chaos of the pit lane.
You flush, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. This can’t be happening. You know Charles has a girlfriend. You’ve seen the pictures splashed across the internet, the Instagram stories.
It's a glamorous, very public relationship. And the rules are clear, etched into the very fabric of your society: your soulmate is someone available, someone unencumbered.
You can't steal someone else's. It's just not done.
The starting grid is announced over the loudspeakers, and the garage erupts in a flurry of activity. You busy yourself with filming the mechanics' final checks, the engineers hunched over telemetry screens, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your chest.
You’ve always taken the soulmate phenomenon for granted. It’s just a fact of life. Everyone experiences it, this biological imperative designed to ensure connection, stability, the continuation of society.
You’ve felt the faintest twinges before, in passing, around men you’ve met briefly. Dismissible, almost forgettable. But this…this is different. This is a constant, throbbing ache that threatens to consume you, particularly around Charles.
You meticulously avoid thinking about it, focusing instead on your work. You rule out the possibility entirely.
Charles is taken. End of story.
You even make a mental list of all the other eligible men in the paddock, mechanics, engineers, even other drivers – anyone but Charles.
The race begins, a blur of roaring engines and screeching tires. The giant screens in the garage display every angle, every overtake, every heart-stopping moment. You film the reactions of the team, the collective held breath as Charles and Carlos battle for position.
The final laps are agonizing. Charles is leading, but Max is closing in. The tension in the garage is palpable. You find yourself gripping your camera so tightly your knuckles turn white.
Then, it happens. Charles crosses the finish line. Victory.
The garage explodes in cheers, shouts, and high-fives. You film it all, the raw, unadulterated joy of the team, the shared sense of accomplishment. The crowd is ecstatic.
Charles, still helmeted and dripping with sweat, is guided into parc fermé. You film him climbing out of the car, pumping his fist in the air, soaking in the adulation. He looks…triumphant. Magnificent.
You jostled for position, aiming your camera, capturing his big smile as he hugged his race engineer and the rest of the team. He moved with an exhilarating energy, a palpable buzz of adrenaline that rippled outwards.
He was a magnet, and you found yourself drawn closer, your professional detachment wavering.
And then, he saw you.
His smile widened, somehow becoming even brighter. Before you could think, could prepare, he was striding towards you, his arms outstretched. The awareness hit you like a physical blow.
The gnawing anxiety, the sharp, almost unbearable yearning that had been quietly simmering beneath the surface for weeks, now flared into an inferno.
The closer you were to your match, the more intense the yearning became. And right now, the intensity was almost unbearable.
He pulled you into a tight hug. Your phone, trapped between the two of you, emitted a muffled squeak as it was squished against his chest.
His smell, a heady mix of sweat, gasoline, and something uniquely Charles, filled your senses. It was intoxicating, addicting.
He was feeling it too. The way he squeezed you, the pure, unadulterated joy radiating off him in waves. He was basking, thriving, feeling the best he'd ever felt.
It was confirmation. Undeniable, irrefutable confirmation.
He was your soulmate. But how was that possible? He already had a girlfriend.
Your head swam. The crowd roared, but it sounded distant, muffled. The ache intensified, threatening to overwhelm you. You felt like you were going to faint.
He let go, and your legs momentarily forgot their job. You stumbled, your balance completely gone.
Charles reacted instantly. He reached out, his hand gripping your arm, effectively blocking you from the view of the nearest camera. His grip was firm, supportive. He pulled you closer, shielding you from the prying eyes.
"Sorry," you mumbled, finding your footing. Your voice was shaky. You needed to get out of here, to process this, to… to breathe. The feeling was too much.
He searched your face, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you alright? You went a bit pale there."
You plastered on your most professional smile, even though your insides were screaming. "Just a bit overwhelmed. It's… it's a big win."
He didn't seem entirely convinced, but he let it go. "You were filming everything?"
You nodded, holding up your phone. "Got some great shots. The team's going to love it." You forced yourself to meet his gaze, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Congratulations, Charles. You deserved this."
His smile returned, genuine and warm. It sent another jolt through you, tightening the knot in your stomach. "Thank you. And thank you for everything. You do an amazing job."
"It's my job," you said, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.
"Exactly," he said, his eyes twinkling. "And you're very good at it."
He turned back to the crowd, basking in the cheers, signing autographs, and accepting congratulations. You took the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed, swallowed by the throng of red-clad fans.
You needed to escape.
You found refuge in the relative quiet of the Ferrari hospitality suite. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversation were a welcome change from the sensory overload of the garage.
You found a quiet corner and sank into a plush armchair, your phone still clutched in your hand.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. This was a disaster. A beautiful, glorious, terrifying disaster.
Your mind raced. What did this mean? What were you supposed to do? Did you tell him? Did you pretend you didn't know? How could you possibly continue to work alongside him, to maintain even a semblance of professionalism, with this knowledge hanging between you?
Your phone buzzed. It was a text from your boss.
"Amazing content! The fans are going wild! Get some shots of the podium ceremony and then meet me in the strategy room. We need to plan the social media blitz for the next 24 hours."
Right. Back to reality. Back to work.
You took another deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. You could deal with this. You had to.
You grabbed your phone and headed back into the fray.
The podium ceremony was a whirlwind of confetti, champagne, and roaring cheers. You filmed it all, capturing Charles's triumphant grin as he hoisted the trophy high above his head.
You interviewed team members, capturing their jubilant reactions. You worked on autopilot, pushing down the anxiety, ignoring the ache.
Later, in the strategy room, you sat around a large table with your boss and several other team members, brainstorming ideas for social media posts, videos, and live streams. You contributed your suggestions, focusing on data, engagement, and trend analysis.
You were a machine, efficient and effective.
You glanced at your phone. A notification from Instagram. Charles had posted a photo of himself on the podium, holding the trophy. The caption read: "Forza Ferrari! Grazie Mille!"
You quickly liked the post. You had to. It was your job.
As you worked late into the night, crafting social media posts and scheduling content, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had irrevocably changed.
You were no longer just a social media manager. You were… something more.
“Dad, I think I’m broken,” you mutter into your phone, voice barely above a whisper.
“Why is that, baby?” your father replies, his tone tinged with concern and curiosity, a familiar warmth that reassures you even now.
You sit up, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. “I think Charles Leclerc is my soulmate,” you explain, your heart thudding heavily in your chest, “but he already has a girlfriend.”
“So?” he asks, as if trying to sift through the fog of your anguish.
“What do you mean, 'so?' He already loves someone else,” your voice rises slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface.
“You’ve dated other people who weren’t your soulmate, didn’t you?”
“Well…” You fall silent, realizing he has a point, but it’s not just about dating. You’ve been aware of the perfect connection that exists out there—an electrifying touch that ignites the air around you as you near your true soulmate, a sensation that you’ve yet to experience despite countless suitors.
“But this feels different, Dad,” you finally manage to articulate, your voice cracking. “I’ve felt it—this allure, this pull whenever I'm near him. It’s like I’m supposed to be drawn in, but I can’t get close enough. And now he’s with someone else.”
Your father exhales softly, and for a moment, you think he's contemplating your plight. “Sweetheart, sometimes soulmates have their own timing. Life isn’t always a clear path. It can twist and turn in ways that feel frustrating.”
You groan, flopping back down onto your bed, the familiar nagging feeling in your chest intensifying. “But it’s not fair. I don’t want to wait. What if he’s never free?”
You hear him sigh. “You’ll find your way, darling. None of this is broken. You’re simply allowed to feel.”
But feeling is exhausting. With a grumble, you hang up the phone and toss it to the side.
You pull the covers up around your shoulders, your mind spiraling into thoughts that latch onto one another like tangled threads. . . .
In a world where finding your soulmate was practically a given, it felt ludicrous to deny the truth that lingered like an uninvited guest in the back of your mind. You had tried everything to resist.
The tingling sensation of well-being that blossomed in Charles’s presence was undeniable. Every crease in his smile felt like warmth on a cold winter day, and yet every time you were near him, you felt a gnawing anxiety that scratched away at your insides, waiting for that inevitable kiss that would confirm what you both already knew.
But you avoided Charles at work—until that dreaded Tuesday arrived.
As the clock ticked toward your call time, dread clawed at your stomach. You were tasked with interviewing Charles for a video segment about his recent successes in racing, a seemingly innocent job that had broader implications—one of which was unveiling the truth of your connection.
The whole ordeal left you on edge, not just because of the content of the interview but because of the man you were supposed to be interviewing.
You arrived at his house in Monaco early, fidgeting nervously with the equipment, tapping your foot against the polished floor.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" your cameraman, Mark, asked, sensing your anxiety as he set up the camera. "It's just a video. You could probably wing it."
"You don’t understand," you said, crossing your arms tightly. “It’s not just about the interview.”
As if the universe had conspired to gift you a moment of reprieve, you heard a distraction—a small bark followed by the sound of paws padding against the floor.
You took a deep breath, prepping yourself for whatever awaited you beyond the door.
“Alright, let’s do this,” you whispered to yourself, trying to muster confidence.
You knocked, and after a heartbeat, the door swung open. There stood Charles, his tousled hair glowing softly in the morning light. Cradled in his arms was Leo, who seemed just as excited to see you.
“Hey there, superstar!” Charles greeted, his eyes sparkling with warmth as he shifted Leo to his side. The dog wagged his tail furiously, seeming to sense the tension in the air. “You made it early!”
“Yeah, um…” you fumbled your words, trying to navigate the delightful familiarity of his presence. “I figured it would be good to start on time.”
“Of course!” Charles stepped aside, allowing you into his immaculate home. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the air, and as you entered, you could feel that familiar sense of well-being swelling inside you.
It was infuriating how easily it came.
Leo plopped himself at your feet, looking up at you with expectant eyes. “He likes you,” Charles commented, chuckling as Leo nudged your shoe with his nose.
“Who wouldn’t? He’s a sweetheart,” you replied, squatting down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, trying to mask the flutter of emotions that rose within you. “You’re the lucky one, huh, Leo?”
Charles laughed, a rich sound that sent butterflies tumbling through your stomach. “He’s definitely the lucky one in this household. Come on, let’s get the cameras rolling before I lose my nerve in front of you.”
He led the way into a cozy living room adorned with art and memorabilia from his racing career.
As you settled in, you realized that despite your intentions, you could feel that gnawing anxiety creeping in. It was as if every question you planned to ask was swiftly brushed aside by the rush of feelings that accompanied Charles’s presence.
With Mark now behind the camera, you cleared your throat. “Uh, so, how does it feel to be one of the top drivers in the world?”
Charles shifted in his seat, looking relaxed but attentive. “Honestly? It feels unreal every time I put on that helmet. The roar of the engine, the thrill of the race—it’s like this exhilarating dance with danger. But, you know, having my family and a strong support system means the world.”
The sincerity in his voice stroked against your heartstrings. “That’s incredible. Speaking of support, who do you think has had the biggest impact on your career?”
He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aside from Leo?” he teased. “Honestly, it’s you. Your support during last week was amazing.”
Your heart stuttered, and you choked on the words that caught in your throat. “Me?”
“Of course! Whenever you’re around, things just feel easier. I can’t quite explain it,” he said softly, leaning forward as if he was letting you in on a profound secret.
The air crackled between you, and suddenly, the interview felt less like a professional exchange and more like an uncharted territory. You knew you had to breach the elephant in the room, but unease held you back.
“Charles, I—”
Just then, Leo sprang up and knocked over the camera, causing a flurry of laughter to erupt as Mark jumped up to steady it. “Leo! Not now!”
You glanced back at Charles, heat flaring up your cheeks. “Why must you distract us like that?”
Charles grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “I think he senses the chemistry.”
You shot him a skeptical look, but there was no denying the truth in his words. As the camera slowly righted itself, Charles turned serious for a moment.
“Maybe he’s trying to help,” Charles replied, gesturing toward Leo, who had taken residence in your lap, wagging his tail like a flag of friendship.
“Right, because if there’s one thing a dog knows, it’s romance,” you quipped, eliciting a chuckle from Charles that warmed you from the inside out.
“Well, he definitely knows love,” Charles said, a softness returning to his tone as he reached out to scratch Leo behind the ears.
The gesture was so tender, so effortlessly intimate, that you felt a familiar gnawing in your chest, the yearning that intensified with each stolen glance at him.
After a moment, you resumed the interview, Leo settling in your lap like a warm blanket. “What inspired your latest project, Charles? Is it something personal?”
Charles leaned back, a thoughtful expression clouding his features. “Honestly? It’s more than just art for me. It’s about connection. I want people to feel understood. When I see someone looking at my work and they smile, or their eyes light up, it makes everything worth it.”
You nodded, engrossed in his words, but all the while, the underlying tension was like a thread unspooled, weaving a fabric of dubious comfort.
“That’s admirable,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “But do you think art can replace human connection?”
His gaze sharpened, the levity of a moment ago dissipating into something contemplative. “I think art can enhance it,” he replied. “But at the end of the day, it’s about the people in our lives. The ones we cherish. The connections we nurture.”
A hint of unease slithered through you at his answer. The thought of deep connections—those that sparked a sense of well-being—made your heart race, but the yearning you felt, a subtle gnawing anxiety, was just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.
You shifted your gaze, avoiding the intensity of his eyes.
“So what else does Charles Leclerc do in a day?” you asked, trying to redirect the conversation.
Charles's expression lightened as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I hope you brought your running shoes because I have to take Leo for a walk,” he said, glancing at his dog, who perked up at the mention of his favorite word.
Leo barked, his tail wagging furiously against your lap.
You looked at Mark, the cameraman, who was observing the interaction with a knowing smile. “You up for some running?” you asked him, half-joking, half-earnest.
“Sure,” he replied, his enthusiasm infectious.
Charles rose from his chair, and Leo leapt to the floor, ready for action. “Let’s hit the trail then! I know a great path nearby that winds through the park.”
The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden hue over the park where Charles and you had decided to take Leo for his much-needed walk.
The vibrant greens of the grass contrasted with the vibrant colors of the flowers that had begun to bloom, a perfect backdrop for the evening. Leo bounded ahead, his tail a blur as he explored the scents of the world around him.
Charles chuckled as he watched Leo dart after a butterfly. “He’s like a kid, isn’t he? Full of energy and wonder.”
You smiled, glancing at the exuberant dog. “He definitely knows how to enjoy life. It’s contagious, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Charles agreed, turning his attention back to you. His eyes sparkled with a warmth that sent that familiar sense of well-being blooming in your chest, an unmistakable sign of his connection to you.
Mark, the cameraman, adjusted his camera, capturing the scene. “This is great! The light is perfect here. Just keep talking; I’ll get some candid shots.”
“Sure thing,” you said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the persistent sensation of gnawing anxiety that accompanied you whenever you got closer to someone like Charles.
“So,” you began, trying to shake off the nervous energy, “do you take Leo on walks like this often?”
“Whenever I can,” Charles said, his smile widening. “He’s my little buddy. It’s good for both of us. You know how it is—work can get hectic, but he reminds me to take a break and enjoy the simple things.”
You nodded, feeling the warmth of his sentiment wash over you. “I get that. Sometimes I feel like I’m so caught up in deadlines and projects that I forget to take a moment to breathe.”
“Hey, we should do this more often then. Get out, walk, enjoy nature,” he suggested, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.
“Sounds like a plan! I could use some fresh air,” you said, a little lighter now.
As Leo darted back to your feet, his wet nose nudging against your leg, you bent down to give him a scratch behind the ears. “Hey there, buddy! How’s my favorite dog?”
Leo responded with a happy bark, and you looked up to see Charles watching you, his gaze soft and appreciative.
“You’re great with him,” he said. “It’s nice to see.”
“Thanks! I just love animals. They have a way of making everything feel less complicated, don’t you think?”
Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Totally. They don’t judge or overthink things. They just love.”
You felt a twinge of vulnerability, the familiar yearning in your chest growing more intense as you met his gaze. “And what about people? Do you think we overthink love too much?”
“Maybe,” he said, shrugging lightly. “But it’s hard not to, especially when you know what it feels like to find your soulmate.”
“Right,” you said, your voice softer. The weight of his words settled over you, a mixture of warmth and anxiety. “But what if it’s not as simple as it seems? What if we’re all just…lost?”
Charles moved closer, his expression earnest. “You’re not lost. You just need to follow your instincts. Pay attention to what makes you feel good. That’s the key.”
“Easier said than done,” you replied with a teasing smirk, but inside, the knot of anxiety twisted tighter.
Mark was busy adjusting his lens, trying to catch the candid moments. “You two are great! Just keep being yourselves. The chemistry is palpable!”
You felt a rush of warmth at the compliment but also an echo of that gnawing feeling, the sense that something was waiting, just out of reach.
“Hey, how about a little race?” Charles suggested, glancing down at Leo, who was now eyeing a distant squirrel.
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you can keep up?”
“Bring it on!” he grinned, playfully nudging you. “I’ll give you a head start.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. Let me know when you’re ready.”
As he counted down, you took off, your heart pounding not just from the run, but from the thrill of the moment. You could hear Leo’s paws thumping behind you, the sound of Charles’s laughter ringing in your ears.
You didn’t want to think about the anxiety, the longing, or what it might mean. You just wanted to feel free, even if just for a moment.
You reached the far end of the open field, glancing back over your shoulder to see Charles and Leo closing the gap.
Charles had an effortless grace to his stride, and even as you stood there catching your breath, you felt that familiar warmth radiating from him.
Charles caught up to you, his chest heaving with laughter. “You’re faster than I expected!”
You grinned, your chest rising and falling. “You underestimated me!”
His eyes sparkled, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. “I did! You’re like a gazelle out here.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “A gazelle? Really?”
“Okay, maybe more like a clumsy gazelle,” he corrected, grinning as he bent over to pet Leo, who had finally returned, panting with excitement.
“Hey, no need to insult me!” you laughed, and the familiar warmth of his presence wrapped around you, banishing the anxious thoughts—if only for a moment.
“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.
“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark, the cameraman, calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.
You glance back at Charles, who has a boyish grin plastered on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. His exuberance is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to forget the gnawing anxiety that usually accompanies your moments with him.
“You ready?” Charles asks, his breath coming in light pants as he straightens up, brushing stray leaves from his shirt.
You nod, the sunlight dancing in your chestnut hair as you brush your fingers through it. “Let’s go finish this.”
But as you start to walk, the gnawing anxiety returns, creeping in slowly like a shadow. The closer you get to him, the more palpable it becomes, a reminder of the connection you cannot seal. It’s a force you can’t escape.
For him, it’s a sense of peace, a warmth that envelops him, but for you, it’s an unbearable longing that only seems to worsen.
You carry Leo in your arms, feeling the comforting weight of his playful exuberance. He wriggles, trying to escape your hold to chase after a butterfly.
“Alright, alright, little buddy,” you say, gently setting him down. He takes off, bounding with enthusiasm.
“Seems like Leo has no problem being carefree,” Charles muses, watching the puppy chase the flitting insect.
“Yeah, if only we could take a page from his book,” you say lightly, but your heart feels heavy.
You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment.
You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.
You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment. You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.
As you walk back toward the bench, Leo frolics in the grass, tumbling and rolling as if to illustrate pure joy. Charles kneels beside him, scratching his ears, and you feel an unshakeable pang in your heart.
“Alright, you two, let’s wrap this up!” Mark calls, gesturing for you to take your places.
As you settle down beside Charles, you can’t help but feel the weight of your feelings bearing down. You catch his eye, and there’s something electric between you.
“So, coming to the end of this interview, do you think you’ll win the championship this year?” you ask, your voice a mixture of professionalism and underlying affection.
“I’m confident that me and Ferrari can achieve big things this year,” Charles replies, his expression earnest, his eyes sparkling with hope.
“That’s what we like to hear,” you respond, letting the moment linger just a second longer than necessary. Your heart races, and not just from the anticipation of the race season ahead.
There’s an unspoken rhythm between you, pulsing in the air like a melody only you two can hear.
You ask more questions, the interview flowing smoothly. Charles speaks with passion about his dreams and aspirations, his love for the sport evident in every word. But all the while, you feel the gnawing anxiety that accompanies your every interaction.
You want to close that distance, to extinguish that yearning, and the idea of a kiss hangs in the air like a tantalizing promise.
“Okay, that’s a wrap! This has been ‘A Day in Charles Leclerc’s Life.’ I hope you guys enjoyed the video and enjoyed me beating him in a race,” you say, your voice light and teasing.
“No way! I gave you a head start,” Charles shoots back, laughter bubbling in his chest.
“There’s no proof,” you shrug, a playful smile spreading across your face.
“Okay, okay,” he concedes, shaking his head with a smirk. “But one day, I’ll challenge you to a real race. And I won’t let you get away with a head start.”
“Is that a promise?” you counter, your heart racing for reasons beyond the thrill of competition.
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that wraps around you. “It’s a promise. But let’s not forget—every time we race, you have to hold my hand as we get started. You know, for luck.”
You both laugh, the sound filling the spacious area, weaving through the barking of Leo, enjoying his carefree afternoon. Mark flashes a thumbs-up, signaling the end of the scene.
You grinned, a surge of pride warming you.
“Leo, it's time to go home!” you called, your voice laced with playful exasperation.
The miniature dachshund, a furry, low-slung missile, ignored you completely. He zipped across the grass, your ID lanyard dangling precariously from his mouth like a hard-won trophy.
Charles was doubled over, his laughter echoing through the spacious park, a sound that made your heart skip a beat.
“He really likes your lanyard, I think,” Charles chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye.
“He likes anything he can chew on,” you retorted, but your voice was light, your frustration dissolving in the warmth of his amusement. You resumed your pursuit. “Leo! Come back here, you little menace!”
The chase continued, a comical dance of wills. Leo, fueled by mischief, weaved between trees and benches, the lanyard flapping like a tiny, rebellious flag.
You were gaining on him when he veered sharply, heading straight… for Charles’ legs.
Charles yelped, a surprised sound that only made you laugh harder. Leo, triumphant, dropped the lanyard at his feet and sat, panting, tail wagging furiously.
“Traitor!” you declared, feigning offense. You scooped up the lanyard and clipped it back onto your shirt. “He’s clearly playing favorites.”
Charles knelt, scratching Leo behind the ears. “He has good taste, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes met yours, a mischievous glint in their depths.
Heat bloomed in your cheeks. “I… suppose so.” You busied yourself with putting the lanyard away, avoiding his gaze. “We should probably get going. Mark’s almost packed up.”
Mark was indeed packing up, efficiently dismantling the equipment, blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging within you. The relief of leaving this park, this proximity, was almost palpable.
The walk back to the car was a pleasant one, objectively speaking. The air was cool and crisp, the scent of freshly cut grass lingering in the breeze.
Charles walked beside you, Leo trotting happily at his heels. It should have been idyllic. Instead, it felt like walking a tightrope strung precariously high above a chasm of suppressed emotions.
“I really enjoyed today,” Charles said, his voice soft, breaking the comfortable silence. “It was… relaxing.”
You forced a smile. "I'm happy I was able to make you comfortable," you said, the words feeling hollow even to your own ears. Comfortable for him, maybe.
He stopped walking, turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn't quite decipher. "You know," he began, tilting his head slightly. "Most interviewers just ask questions. You actually listened."
You swallowed, the anxiety tightening its grip. "That’s… kind of the point of an interview," you managed, trying to laugh it off. "Besides, it's your life. It’s fascinating."
"Is it?" He stepped closer, and the internal hum escalated into a full-blown alarm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drummer urging you to flee. "Or are you just being polite?"
You averted your gaze, focusing on a distant tree. "I wouldn't waste my time if I wasn't genuinely interested," you mumbled.
Charles chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”
Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting his. The amusement was gone, replaced by an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”
Before he can respond, Mark’s voice cuts through the tension. “Y/N! Am I still giving you a ride home?”
“Uh, oh yeah…” You falter mid-sentence as a wave of panic washes over you. The realization hits you like a cold shower, drawing your attention away from Charles and back to the alarming truth.
Your bag—your essential items, including your keys—are still at Charles’ house. “Shit,” you mutter.
“Um, you can go without me,” you say, mortified now, as a flush of embarrassment floods your system. You can’t even look at Charles. “I left my bag in Charles’ house.”
A flicker of something crosses Charles’ face that you can’t quite decipher—concern? Amusement?
“Okay, see you tomorrow,” Mark calls as he turns on the ignition in his car and pulls away, leaving you alone with Charles.
Now that the silence has settled around you like a thick blanket, you feel the gnawing uncertainty of your emotions wrapping tighter.
Your conflicting instincts tempt you to stay, to dive deeper into the maddening connection of your fate and his, while another part of you urges you to run—run far, far away from this simmering tension and the anxiety that burns you from within.
“You’re okay with walking there, right?” Charles asks, his brow slightly furrowed, eyes searching yours for affirmation.
“Yep,” you manage to reply, though the word barely escapes your lips.
As you walk, Leo, Charles's loyal dog, bounds between you, a bright streak of fur and happiness that somehow lightens the weight pressing on your heart.
You steal a glance at him, noting his handsome features, the way the light catches his dark hair, and the tension in the air thickens—a familiar feeling that both excites and scares you.
The awkward silence envelops you both, filled with unspoken words and parallel thoughts. You’re lost in your own mind, analyzing what Charles meant earlier, wondering if he sensed the connection your heart insists is there.
You catch a glimpse of frustration flickering in Charles's eyes; he’s wrestling with an internal battle of asking if you feel the same, if you both belong to this invisible thread of destiny.
Before long, you arrive at his house—a cozy, unassuming space that feels utterly alive with its charm. Charles opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first while he carries Leo in his arms.
The familiar scent of cedarwood and freshly brewed coffee envelops you as you step inside.
“Just grab your bag and let’s get out of here,” you say to yourself, trying to mask the heaviness that clings to your heart.
But as you move towards the living room, Charles’s voice halts you, a note of sadness threaded through his tone. “Could you please stay for a while? Leo really likes you.” Leo barks in enthusiastic agreement, his tail wagging furiously.
Your resolve begins to soften at the sight of Charles's hopeful expression, the way his eyes shine with an almost childlike earnestness.
You look down at Leo, wagging his tail expectantly, and your heart sinks a little further. “Okay,” you finally say, a reluctant smile breaking through the anxiety.
You both settle onto the plush sofa, Leo scrambling onto your lap, his warm presence comforting against the storm of emotions inside you.
As you play with Leo, tossing a soft toy for him to chase, Charles watches you with an intensity you can hardly bear. His admiration for you lingers in the air, and you can’t ignore the flutter in your chest.
“Leo thinks you’re the best,” he says, a gentle laugh escaping his lips. “I think he has good taste.”
You chuckle, trying to mask the heat rising to your cheeks. “If Leo approves, then there must be something good about me.”
“I do think you're wonderful,” he comments, and for a moment, the world around you fades. His sincerity wraps around you, igniting that undeniable pull between you both.
“Thank you, Charles,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing, betraying the wall you had built around your heart. If Leo had any say in the matter, he certainly seemed to be steering you in Charles’s direction.
Leo decided he was ready for some action again, leaping from your lap to chase after the soft toy you had tossed across the room. The joy on his face was immeasurable, a reminder of life’s simplest pleasures.
You wondered if it was too late to change the subject before you allowed yourself to drown in the depths of connection that was blooming—an uncharted territory you feared to venture into.
“May I take a picture of you and Leo for my ‘Cute Leo’ folder?” Charles asked, his eyes sparkling like the stars. Before you could respond, he pulled out his phone, and you found yourself nodding, an odd mixture of excitement and dread flipping your stomach.
The click of the camera sounded as you smiled down at Leo in your arms, your affection for the dog pouring out in earnest.
“Perfect,” he m, glancing at the screen before a look of longing crossed his features. You caught a glimpse of the image—your face beaming with love and happiness, a stark contrast to the inner turmoil festering inside you.
“What do you think about soulmates?” Charles asked suddenly, breaking the momentary silence, the question landing heavily between you like an anchor.
You froze, your heart pounding as you looked up into those earnest eyes. “What do you mean?” you asked, trying to read his expression, warm curiosity mingling with something deeper.
“Like, just your opinion on them,” he rambled, the casualness of his tone masking the weight of the subject. “Do you think you have one? I’m curious.”
You hesitated, the words wrapping around memories you had tried to suppress. “Well, I think everyone has a soulmate, but for me, I don’t think I want to meet mine,” you said slowly, drifting your gaze to Leo, who was now engrossed in an imaginary chase.
“Why?” Charles’s question was soft yet insistent, a kind invite for you to unfold the truth. You could feel the warmth emanating from him; it was a stark contrast to the chill that had purposefully wrapped itself around your heart.
You took a deep breath. “An accident happened in my family. It changed my thoughts about soulmates. I believe they come with too much trouble and pain,” you explained, the words flowing out before you could even think them through. In that moment, you realized you were baring a part of yourself that you rarely shared, but perhaps the weight of your thoughts would be understood—especially if he might be your soulmate.
Charles’s expression fell, and you felt your heart splinter as he absorbed your words. Did he not understand the implication behind them? Did he not know that you believed the tether between you was fraught with risk?
“I see,” he said quietly, but the shift in his demeanor was palpable—the distance grew between you, as if an ocean had poured in to separate your worlds.
“Your thoughts are different, of course,” you attempted to lighten the mood, forcing a strained grin. “You’ve already found your soulmate, right?”
He nodded, but the agreement held a quiet hesitance that did not escape you.
“… with Alex.”
His heart sank as he grappled with the realization. “You think Alex is his soulmate?”
He froze, his eyes wide with realization, as if the universe had just collapsed around him.
Did you—could you—really believe that Alex was truly his soulmate?
Before he could muster a response, your phone rang, jolting you both from the oppressive silence. You glanced down at the screen to see your dad’s name flashing.
“Oh! I forgot I was getting dinner with my dad! I have to go, sorry,” you said hurriedly, shoving your phone back in your pocket, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the air.
“Do you need me to drive you there?” Charles asked, glancing at you with sincerity.
“It’s not necessary; it’s just Cantinetta Antinori,” you replied, adopting a nonchalant tone that didn’t quite mask the tightness in your chest.
“Right. No problem,” he murmured, but you caught the muted disappointment in his voice, a low tremor that tugged at your insides. It felt like a tether unraveling, and you hated it.
You stood up from the couch, leaving Leo behind as you tossed your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for letting me play with Leo a little. See you tomorrow, Charles.”
“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, his tone infused with an aching bittersweetness as he followed you to the door and opened it.
You hesitated for a moment, caught by the sight of him standing there, hands tucked into his pockets.
You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and you walked away, fighting the urge to turn back and reassure him, to do anything to stop that look of muted disappointment from settling in his features.
“Right, Leo, let’s go visit Maman,” he sighed, trying to infuse a sense of normalcy into the moment, the dog wagging its tail in response.
Charles shrugged off his coat, the familiar scent of lavender and simmering herbs enveloping him. “Maman! I’m home,” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the cozy, book-lined hallway.
A moment later, a woman with kind eyes and a flour-dusted apron emerged from the kitchen. “Charles! You’re back early. Did the interview go well?” Pascale pulled him into a warm embrace.
“It was… great,” Charles said, carefully avoiding her gaze.
“Great, eh? That’s good. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Why don’t you relax?” Pascale patted his cheek. "I'm making your favorite."
He managed a smile. “Sounds wonderful, Maman.”
Pascale then looked at Leo, his dog, a golden retriever, on the floor. "How have you been?"
Leo barked happily, running around her feet. Pascale laughed, stooping to pet Leo before returning to the kitchen. Charles followed, leaning against the counter, his mind replaying the events of the afternoon.
"So, what are you thinking about? Y/N?" Pascale suddenly asked, startling him.
He jumped. “Um, yeah, I told you she interviewed me, right Maman?”
“Yeah, you should be happy then,” she said with a knowing look in her eye.
“I was, and I still am. She’s amazing, beautiful, and funny but…” he paused, a shadow falling over his face.
“But?” Pascale asked, her curiosity piqued.
“I asked her about soulmates, and she said something about having an accident in her family which made her not want to find her soulmate. She also thinks that Alex is my soulmate, but I couldn't say anything because she had to meet her dad at some restaurant,” he ranted, running his hands through his hair in frustration.
Pascale looked at her son with sympathy. "Okay, fils, breathe. Now, I'm curious, do you have a picture of her?"
“Um… yes, I do,” he said, fumbling for his phone. He pulled it out and showed his mother the picture he’d taken of Y/N holding Leo in her arms earlier that day. She had an easy smile and her eyes sparkled.
Pascale smiled as she looked at it. "She is very pretty. She looks familiar, but from where?" She handed the phone back. "What restaurant was she going to?"
“She said Cantinetta Antinori,” he replied.
Pascale’s brow furrowed. "I've been there a few times." She paused, a distant look in her eyes.
Charles, seizing on this new thread of conversation, asked, “How do you get a soulmate again?” He needed a refresher, a grounding in the established reality that you seemed determined to ignore.
Maybe if he understood the mechanics better, he could understand her resistance. He knew the theory, of course, but hearing it again, reaffirmed, might help.
Pascale considered his question carefully. "You meet them around the age of 12-13," she said slowly, her gaze drifting off as she mentally scanned her memories, searching for any significant event or interaction from that period.
"You have an instant connection with the person, at least that's how it was with me and your father," Pascale smiled, thinking about her late husband.
Charles thought about any girls he had met at that time. Was it anyone in school or any girls who were in karting? He had always been passionate about racing, and it was through this hobby that he had met many of his closest friends. But as he went through the list of girls he had known, none of them seemed to fit the bill.
"What if you don't meet them at that age?" Charles asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What if you don't feel that instant connection?"
Pascale shook her head. "It's not always instant, Charles. Sometimes it takes time for the connection to develop. And sometimes people meet their soulmates later in life. It's not a hard and fast rule."
Charles nodded, taking in this new information. He had always thought that finding his soulmate would be a simple, straightforward process. But now he was beginning to understand that it was more complicated than he had initially thought.
"How do you know when you've found them?" Charles asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Pascale smiled, her eyes softening with affection. "You just know," she said, her voice filled with certainty. "It's like a feeling of completeness, of wholeness. It's like you've found a piece of yourself that you didn't even know was missing."
He smiled too, thinking about her. "Well, it definitely feels like that," he admitted, a blush creeping up his neck.
"Oh maman! The food!" he exclaimed, jolted back to reality by the pungent smell of burning garlic.
He leaped up, rescuing the pan just as Pascale shrieked in mock horror. "Charles! You scared me! And look at what you almost made me do to dinner." She chuckled, waving a wooden spoon at him playfully.
He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Maman. Lost in thought."
༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶
Charles, still buzzing from his go-karting victory, walked along the familiar street towards home. The plastic trophy, a symbol of his triumph, felt warm against his palm.
His family had promised a celebratory barbeque, and the aroma of grilling burgers already tickled his senses.
He was twelve years old, practically a teenager, and life felt good.
As he passed Cantinetta Antinori, the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes usually a comforting aroma, was overridden by something else: the unmistakable sound of crying.
It was a soft, muffled sound, but persistent enough to slice through the celebratory bubble he'd been inhabiting. Charles, usually one to avoid emotional entanglements, found himself drawn towards the source.
Behind the restaurant, tucked between the brick wall and a overflowing dumpster, sat a girl. She was about his age, maybe a little older, with long, dark hair that obscured her face. Her shoulders shook with each sob.
Even from a distance, Charles could tell she was pretty, the kind of pretty that made him feel a strange flutter in his chest he couldn't quite decipher.
Ignoring the nagging voice in his head that urged him to keep walking, to focus on the promised party, Charles approached cautiously.
The stories his older brother, Lorenzo, told about girls – complicated, dramatic stories – flashed through his mind. But he couldn't just leave her there.
"Hey," he said, his voice a little higher than usual, "are you okay?"
The girl froze, her sobs abruptly cut short. Her head snapped up, and she blinked at him, her eyes red and swollen. She frantically wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the remnants of her tears.
"Um, I'm okay," she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.
The lie hung in the air between them. Charles wasn't stupid. "You don't sound okay," he countered gently, edging closer. "Is something wrong?"
She hesitated, her gaze flickering between Charles and the ground. He noticed she was wearing a simple blue dress. He also felt a… something. A strange pull, like a gentle current tugging him closer.
It was faint, barely noticeable, but definitely there. It was a warm, comforting feeling, like wrapping himself in his favorite blanket on a cold day.
"It's nothing," she insisted, but her voice cracked on the last word. More tears welled up in her eyes.
Charles, emboldened by the strange comfort that emanated from her, sat down beside her on the cracked pavement. He kept a respectful distance, unsure of how close was too close.
"Everyone cries sometimes," he said, trying to sound wise beyond his years. "It doesn't mean it's nothing."
She finally met his gaze, her dark eyes filled with a vulnerability that tugged at his heart. "It's my mom," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "She passed away."
Charles's own breath hitched. He didn't know what to say. He'd never experienced anything like that. He just sat there, silent, feeling utterly helpless.
"It was really sudden," she continued, the tears flowing freely now. "She was fine one day, and then…she just didn't wake up."
Charles reached out and awkwardly patted her arm. "I'm really sorry," he said, the words sounding inadequate even to his own ears.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Everything feels…wrong."
"I can't imagine," Charles said, wishing he could offer her more than just empty words.
Then, an idea sparked in his mind. He held up his tarnished trophy, a shy, hopeful smile gracing his face. "My family are celebrating my win. Do you want to come and celebrate with me?"
Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering within their depths. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.
Charles smiled, a genuine, bright smile that chased away some of the shadows in his own heart. "It's okay, it's my party! Come on," he said, standing up.
He held out his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment, then wiped her tears and took his hand. He pulled her up gently.
"Well, we have to be quick, my brothers might finish all the food," he said, grabbing her hand and starting to run, a playful grin on his face.
She stumbled a little at first, but soon matched his pace, a faint smile finally gracing her lips.
The aroma of barbeque hit them long before they reached the house. The air thrummed with laughter and music. A string of brightly colored lights crisscrossed the backyard, illuminating a scene of chaotic celebration.
Charles' family was large and boisterous, a whirlwind of hugs, loud conversation, and the constant clinking of glasses.
"Hi, Maman!" Charles called out, not letting go of her hand.
Pascale, his mother, a woman built like a sturdy oak tree with a smile as warm as summer sunshine, turned towards them. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in her, still clinging to Charles' hand.
A knowing smile spread across her face.
"Charles! Congratulations, mon chéri!" She engulfed him in a bone-crushing hug, then turned her attention to her.
"And who is this lovely young lady? A friend from school?" Pascale's eyes were knowing.
Charles' eyes widened in embarrassment. He hadn't even properly learned her name! He'd been so caught up in the simple, radiating joy that had bloomed within him ever since she'd agreed to come to his party – a joy so potent it felt like sunshine warming his bones.
He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "What's your name?"
"Y/N L/N," she whispered back, her voice barely audible above the party noise.
"This is Y/N, Maman. She's celebrating with us!" Charles beamed, squeezing her hand reassuringly. The feeling of rightness was almost intoxicating for him.
Y/N offered a small, hesitant smile. "Hello, Madame." The gnawing anxiety felt almost unbearable, a constant flutter in her chest like a trapped bird.
And yet, underneath, something felt… safe when she was with Charles. It was a faint, unfamiliar sensation, easily drowned out by the anxiety, but it was there.
“Please, call me Pascale,” his mother’s smile never faltered. “Come, come, you must be starving! Let me get you something to eat.” She steered them towards the barbeque, where Charles's father, Hervé, was presiding over a veritable mountain of grilled meats.
The rest of the evening was a dizzying swirl of faces and food for Y/N. Charles, radiating an effortless confidence he'd never possessed before, introduced her to his boisterous brothers, Arthur and Lorenzo.
“So, Charles, finally found a girl who can tolerate your driving?” Arthur teased, ruffling his younger brother's hair.
“Yeah, she must have a strong stomach!” Lorenzo chimed in, winking at Y/N.
Charles flushed with embarrassment. He was too busy beaming at Y/N to notice the heat creeping up his neck. "Leave her alone," he mumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. He was just too happy.
Y/N managed a weak smile. She felt like she was walking through a dream. The anxiety never truly left her – it was a persistent hum beneath the surface – but it was tempered by the genuine warmth and acceptance she felt from Charles's family. They didn’t treat her like an outsider, but welcomed her into their midst with open arms.
Charles, for his part, never left her side. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out funny anecdotes about his family, explaining the rules of karting, and generally just making sure she felt comfortable. The warm, happy feeling never left him, growing stronger with each passing moment.
As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the fairy lights began to flicker, Y/N felt a sharp pang of sadness. The thought of going back to her quiet, often lonely, existence was almost unbearable.
She’d never experienced anything like this before – a feeling of belonging, of being seen, of being… important.
“Thank you,” she said quietly to Charles as they stood by the gate, the last of the guests drifting away. “For inviting me. For everything.”
Charles blushed, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. He was suddenly shy, the carefree confidence of earlier replaced by a nervous energy. "It was nothing. I had fun."
He looked up at her, his eyes earnest and a little vulnerable. "We should do it again sometime."
Y/N's heart skipped a beat. The anxiety spiked again, almost overwhelming her, making her breath catch in her throat.
But beneath it, that faint sense of safety flickered, growing a little stronger. She managed a small, hesitant smile. "Maybe."
Charles, feeling braver than he had ever felt before, reached out and gently touched her hand.
His entire body thrummed with contentment, a feeling so pure and untainted that it made his head spin. "I hope so."
Y/N, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions swirling inside her, acted on instinct. She leaned forward and quickly pressed a kiss to his cheek, the briefest, lightest touch.
Then, before he could react, she turned and ran, disappearing into the night.
Charles stood there, stunned, his cheek burning where her lips had touched. The simple joy was now charged with something else, something electric and confusing and intensely exciting.
He touched his cheek, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Though he never saw her again after that day. . . .
SUMMARY — they said goodbye years ago. At least, they tried. Now, standing across a crowded wedding, they learn that some endings don't stay dead-and some feelings never fade.
word count 7k
contains slowburn, second-chance romance? about two people reuniting at a wedding years after breaking apart, angst, and feelings resurfacing.
letter from the author 💌 . . . my inbox is open so feel free to send requests 💝
masterlist
THE RIVIERA SKY is too bright for how your stomach feels. A kind of wrong light—warm and golden, yes, but sharp, like it’s catching on every edge you’ve been trying to smooth down for years.
You told yourself it wouldn’t matter. That one wedding isn’t enough to knock loose whatever you’ve nailed shut. You’ve been happy enough, busy enough, far enough away for long enough that even his name stopped feeling like an open wound.
But then you saw it on the invitation list. Charles Leclerc.
You thought about not coming. You almost didn’t. But the bride has been your friend since you were twelve, and you couldn’t explain it without making it obvious, and so here you are, in a dress you don’t feel pretty in, with your hands clenched in your lap as the car pulls up to the venue.
You tell yourself you’ll avoid him. Monaco has enough ghosts already—you don’t need to resurrect this one.
The venue is beautiful. Painfully so. Wide stone steps leading up to a terraced garden, strings of lights already strung even though the ceremony is hours away. Guests mill about in sharp suits and dresses the color of wealth, laughter lilting too easily through the air.
You take a glass of champagne because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. And then you see him.
From across the courtyard, near the fountain, his profile is unmistakable. Hair a little longer, shoulders broader, hand resting in the pocket of his tailored suit pants like he doesn’t even realize how effortless it looks. He’s laughing at something someone said, teeth flashing, dimples cutting into his face.
You look away so fast your neck aches.
You avoid him for the first hour. It’s easier than you thought it would be—there are plenty of people to talk to, people who don’t know what you and Charles used to be, who don’t see the ghost of what he meant to you in the way your eyes skip over him every time he’s near. But you feel him.
You don’t even have to look. There’s a shift in the air when he’s close, something quiet but electric. The same thing it used to be, only heavier now, weighted with everything unsaid.
You remember the last time you saw him. The argument on your apartment balcony, voices low so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, his jaw tight and eyes glassy, your heart breaking even though you swore it already had. He’d said, “Maybe you should just go, then,” and you had. You didn’t look back.
When the ceremony begins, you manage to sit three rows behind him. Not beside him, not near him. Just far enough that you can pretend you don’t notice the slope of his shoulders under his suit jacket or the way he runs a hand through his hair before the bride walks down the aisle.
Your heart stumbles once when his head turns slightly, like maybe he feels you there. Like maybe he’s looking for you.
But then the music swells, and you force yourself to watch the bride instead, to smile when she meets your eyes, to clap when the vows are done.
After the ceremony, there’s wine and small plates on the terrace. You keep to the edge, talking to an old friend about safe things—work, travel, how beautiful the ceremony was. It’s enough to almost calm you down.
Until you hear your name. It’s soft, tentative. Like he’s not sure he should say it out loud.
You turn before you can stop yourself.
And there he is. Charles.
Close enough to touch, wearing the same suit you noticed earlier, his tie a little loose now, a hand resting on the back of his neck like he’s nervous. Which is ridiculous, because you’ve never known him to be nervous.
Your mouth goes dry. “Hi,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else.
He nods once, something tight in his jaw. “Hi.”
The silence after stretches long enough for both of you to hear it.
“Been a while,” he says finally. His accent is thicker than you remember, or maybe you’re just hyper-aware of it now.
“Yeah,” you say. “Years.”
He nods again, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Or maybe compare it to the one he remembers.
You want to ask how he’s been. You want to tell him you’re happy now, even if that happiness sometimes feels a little fragile. You want to do a lot of things.
Instead, you nod toward the champagne table. “I should—”
“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, stepping back like he’s giving you space, like maybe he thinks that’s what you want.
You do.
You don’t.
You don’t know.
For the rest of the evening, you orbit each other like strangers. Like maybe you’ve never seen each other cry. Like maybe you don’t know what his voice sounds like when he says your name in the dark.
But every time you catch him looking—because you do, you always do—your chest aches with something you don’t want to name.
The reception moves inside as the sun dips low, turning the Riviera sky into a watercolor of pink and orange. Tables glitter with candles and crystal glasses, the air thick with soft music and the hum of too many conversations at once.
You take a seat near the edge of the room, relieved when a woman you vaguely know slips into the chair beside you, pulling you into polite chatter about how stunning the bride looks, how perfect the ceremony was. It’s easy to let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, focusing on the way the candlelight flickers against her wine glass instead of the man across the room.
Charles sits two tables away, angled just enough that you catch pieces of him between shoulders and flower arrangements. His jacket is off now, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a picture of ease that doesn’t reach his eyes when they flicker—always, inevitably—toward you.
You sip your drink and look away.
It takes another half hour before you speak again.
He approaches while you’re at the dessert table, reaching for a plate of lemon tarts. There’s no warning, no time to prepare—just his voice, low and even, saying your name like it’s foreign on his tongue.
You freeze, fingers tightening on the plate. “Hi,” you manage, because apparently that’s all you know how to say to him now.
“Hi,” he echoes, mouth twitching like he almost smiled but thought better of it.
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. He looks at the tarts. “You still hate lemon?”
You blink, surprised he remembers. “Yeah. Still do.”
He nods, sliding a chocolate mousse onto his plate instead. “Good. More for me, then.”
The silence between you isn’t sharp, exactly—it’s soft, padded with years of knowing each other and years of not.
You step aside to let someone else through, and he follows you toward the quieter corner near the bar.
“How’ve you been?” he asks. It’s a simple question, but his eyes are searching, like he wants more than the obvious answer.
You shrug lightly. “Busy. Moved a couple of times. Work’s good.” You glance at him. “You?”
His jaw flexes once. “Busy too. Racing, traveling, you know.”
You hum in response, because yes, you do know. You knew before anyone else did, back when he was still dreaming about it on late nights in your apartment, hands moving through the air as he explained corners and apexes like you were supposed to understand.
You remember the first time he won something big. The way he showed up at your door, champagne on his shirt, grin splitting his face, lifting you off the ground as he spun you around your tiny living room. You’d kissed him so hard your teeth knocked, both of you laughing into each other’s mouths.
You push the memory away like it’s hot to the touch. He leans against the bar, looking at you with something hesitant in his expression. “You still in Paris?”
“Yeah.” You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Feels like home now.”
There’s something flickering behind his eyes at that, but he doesn’t press. He just nods once, softly.
Someone calls his name from across the room—a teammate, loud and grinning. Charles lifts a hand in acknowledgment, then looks back at you.
“You look good,” he says finally, like he can’t hold it in any longer.
Your throat tightens. “Thanks. So do you.” It’s awkward, stilted, but real.
You find yourselves at the same table after that, a subtle magnetism neither of you comments on. The small talk continues, stretching out like a bridge you’re both scared to cross but can’t quite walk away from.
He tells you about a restaurant he discovered in Tokyo. You talk about the bookshop near your apartment that hosts poetry nights. It’s safe, surface-level—but then he laughs at something you say, and it’s the same laugh as before: open, bright, with that soft edge like he’s surprised by it.
You catch yourself smiling, almost involuntarily.
Later, during a lull between toasts, he leans toward you slightly. “Remember Rome?”
The words hit you like a soft punch. You swallow, eyes narrowing. “Rome?”
He nods, mouth twitching. “The gelato place with the ridiculous neon sign.”
You blink, then laugh despite yourself. “Oh my God, yes. The one where you dropped your cone, and that kid laughed so hard he fell over.”
He grins, looking down briefly like he can’t believe you remember too. “I still hate strawberry because of that day.”
The laugh that slips out of you feels dangerous, like standing too close to something flammable.
For a moment, it’s almost easy. Almost like nothing happened, like you’re not two people who walked away from each other bleeding years ago.
And then the music shifts, and someone grabs the microphone to announce the first dance. You pull back slightly, suddenly aware of how close you’ve leaned, of how easily this could tip into something you’re not ready for.
Charles notices too; you see it in the way his hand curls against the edge of the table, like he’s physically holding himself back.
“Want another drink?” you ask quickly, breaking the moment.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” As you stand, his hand brushes yours. Barely. Almost nothing. But it sends something sharp through your chest.
You don’t look at him when you walk to the bar. You don’t have to—you already know he’s watching.
The bride and groom take the floor first, their bodies swaying slow and easy to a love song that feels almost too tender for the air between you and Charles. You watch from your seat, trying to focus on the way the bride’s veil shifts with each turn, the way she’s smiling like the world doesn’t exist outside this room.
Charles sits across from you, elbow resting against the back of his chair, his gaze cutting toward you when he thinks you’re not looking.
You look anyway. For a second, it’s like staring into something you’d buried years ago—something with teeth.
When the music fades into applause, the DJ announces the dance floor is open, inviting everyone else to join in. Couples file toward the center, dresses spinning, laughter curling through the air.
You stand, mostly to avoid the way Charles is looking at you again, but before you can step away, he’s there, blocking your path with nothing but a hesitant expression and a question hovering between his brows.
“Dance with me?” Two words. That’s it. Simple, low, but your chest feels too small for how much it holds.
Your first instinct is to say no. To protect yourself, to keep your hands at your sides where they can’t betray you. But something in his face stops you—the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for rejection, the way his fingers twitch slightly at his side.
You nod. Just once. “Okay.”
The dance floor is crowded, which helps. It means you don’t have to be too close, don’t have to feel his heartbeat against your own. Except when his hand settles at your waist—gentle, careful—you feel it anyway.
His other hand waits, and you place yours in it before you can think better of it.
For the first few steps, you keep your eyes anywhere but his—on the ceiling lights, on the couple spinning near you, on the champagne glass abandoned on the floor’s edge. But eventually, you look up.
And he’s already looking at you. Neither of you speaks at first, letting the music fill the space. Something slow, low strings and soft piano, the kind of song that makes everything feel fragile.
“You’re still terrible at leading,” you murmur, because it’s safer than silence.
His mouth lifts at one corner. “You’re still terrible at following.”
The laugh that slips out of you is small but real, curling warm in your chest and settling somewhere dangerous.
You remember dancing with him once before. Not at a wedding, but in your kitchen, barefoot and half-drunk on cheap wine. The radio had been playing some scratchy old song, and he’d pulled you in, spinning you around between the counter and the sink. You’d stepped on his foot, and he’d laughed, kissed your forehead, told you he liked it better when you didn’t know what you were doing. You’d whispered you loved him then, so soft you weren’t sure he even heard it. He had. He always heard you.
The memory catches in your throat, and you glance away, blinking fast.
Charles notices. You know he does—his thumb brushes, almost imperceptibly, against your waist, like he wants to anchor you there. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, even though it’s a lie. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“About what?”
You almost tell him. Almost open the old wound and let him see it. But you shake your head instead. “Nothing important.”
The song ends, and neither of you moves for a beat too long. His hand lingers at your waist, your fingers still curled against his. When you finally step back, there’s something unreadable in his eyes—something soft and sharp all at once.
“Thanks,” you say, because what else is there?
He nods. “Anytime.”
Later, you find yourself outside for a moment, catching your breath. The night air is cooler, easier to breathe in, and you grip the stone railing like it might hold you together.
You hear him before you see him—his footsteps are familiar, even now. “You’re hiding,” he says, voice quiet.
You don’t turn. “So are you.”
He chuckles under his breath, moving to stand beside you, leaning on the same railing. The silence stretches, not quite comfortable but not unbearable either.
“Earlier,” he says finally, “when you laughed.. I missed that.”
The words are soft, but they land heavy. You glance at him, and he’s already watching you, eyes too earnest for your chest to handle.
You swallow. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “Okay.”
You stand there for a while, saying nothing, the distant sound of music spilling from inside. People are laughing, dancing, celebrating, but out here it’s just the two of you and the weight of everything left unsaid.
When you finally move to go back inside, he touches your arm—light, barely there, but enough to make you pause.
“You looked happy out there,” he says.
Your chest tightens. “I was, for a minute.”
His mouth opens like he wants to say something else, but he closes it, stepping back instead. “Okay.”
For the rest of the night, you can feel him watching from across the room again, like gravity. Like something you thought you’d escaped but maybe never did.
And, God help you, a small part of you doesn’t hate it.
The balcony is quieter than the gardens were earlier, the music from the reception slipping through the doorway like a memory that doesn’t belong to you. Out here, there’s only the sea and the faint clinking of silverware, a thread of laughter from somewhere far away. Strings of lights drape above, humming gently in the breeze, turning everything gold and soft in a way that feels dishonest.
You lean forward on the stone railing, drink dangling loosely between your fingers. Below, the water is dark and still, black glass stretching to meet the horizon. The French Riviera always smells faintly of salt and sun-baked concrete, but tonight there’s something sharper in it, something that hooks into your lungs and refuses to let go.
“Thought I’d find you out here.” You don’t startle, though you should. His voice has always been like that—low, threaded with something warm and unshakable, like even the night leans toward it.
You glance over your shoulder. Charles stands by the doorframe, jacket off, tie undone in the way he does when he’s tired but pretending not to be. He pauses like he’s waiting for permission, like maybe you’ll tell him to leave.
You don’t. “You still disappear when things get too loud,” he says, stepping closer.
“And you still don’t,” you answer.
His mouth tilts, almost a smile. “Not tonight.”
He joins you at the railing, close enough that your shoulders are separated by an inch that feels deliberate. The silence between you settles differently than it did inside—less sharp, but heavier somehow, like it’s holding too much.
“How’s Paris?” he asks finally.
You take a sip of your drink, eyes still on the sea. “Good. Quiet. Feels like mine.”
There’s a pause, then a soft hum of acknowledgment. “I’m glad.”
You glance at him, at the way the light pools along his cheekbone, the tired set of his jaw, a faint scar near his temple that wasn’t there before. He looks older, not in years but in edges—like life filed down something soft in him.
“You look..” you start, then catch yourself. Too easy, too much. “Different.”
His brows lift, faintly amused. “Better or worse?”
You shrug, a ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Just different.”
The wind shifts, carrying the faint tang of salt and the ghost of his cologne—amber and something clean, the same one he used to leave on your pillows. It hits so suddenly your chest goes tight.
“You still can’t stand weddings,” he says, breaking the quiet.
You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “They’re fine.”
He studies your profile, eyes lingering, softening like he’s seeing more than he should. “You used to say they felt like watching someone else’s dream and realizing you woke up too soon.”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “You remember that?”
“Yeah.” His voice dips, quieter now. “I remember a lot of things.” That’s when it hits you—not the words themselves but the way he says them, like he’s admitting to something heavier, like the weight of what’s unsaid is bending him in half.
You grip the railing a little tighter. “Charles.”
But whatever you were about to say dies there, because he turns slightly toward you, and he’s looking at you with that expression you’ve avoided all night: soft, wrecked, hungry in a way that feels dangerous.
You remember nights like this before. Balconies, rooftops, train platforms—quiet places where the world felt small and his hands felt big enough to hold all of it. He used to trace the curve of your jaw like it was something holy, whisper promises into your hair that felt too big to say out loud in daylight.
He rests his hand on the railing, fingers brushing yours—not enough to be accidental, not enough to be safe.
“You’re not wearing a ring,” he says suddenly, eyes flicking to your bare hand.
Your pulse jumps. “Neither are you.”
He lets out a low, humorless laugh, looking away. “Guess we’re both still terrible at endings.” Something inside you stirs, sharp and warm, and you hate how much of it feels like relief.
“Why are you here, Charles?” you ask quietly.
His eyes cut back to you, unreadable for a beat. “Same reason as you, I guess.”
“Which is?” He leans a little closer, enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes under the lights.
“Trying not to think about you.” The words land like a stone dropped into water—quiet at first, then rippling out until it touches everything.
You swallow, throat thick. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” His voice is soft, but there’s a thread of steel in it now.
“Because it feels like you mean it.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I do mean it.” There it is—the shift you’ve been pretending not to feel since you saw him this afternoon. Everything tilts closer: his hand brushing yours again, the air charged and heavy, his eyes dropping—just for a second—to your mouth.
And for one terrifying, thrilling moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.
He doesn’t. He steps back, one hand dragging through his hair like he needs the space to breathe. “Goodnight,” he says, and it’s softer than it should be, a word shaped like something unsaid.
You stand there long after he’s gone, heart pounding like you’ve run miles, drink warming uselessly in your hand, wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t stopped.
You spend the rest of the night avoiding him. Or at least, you try. It’s easier inside, where laughter and clinking glasses create enough static to drown your thoughts, where you can tuck yourself between strangers and pretend you don’t feel the pull like gravity. But even surrounded, you know where he is—by the way your chest tightens every time the air shifts, like the room bends slightly when he moves.
You last another thirty minutes before you step out again. The night air is cooler now, threaded with salt and the faint hum of the ocean below. You’re halfway down the back hallway when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn to know.
“You’re leaving?” His voice is quiet but certain, the same tone he used years ago when he already knew your answer but asked anyway.
You glance back at him. “I was thinking about it.”
He nods once, eyes unreadable. “Of course.”
You cross your arms, more defense than comfort. “Why are you out here?”
He gives a small, humorless smile. “Same reason as always. Needed air.”
There’s silence then, thick enough to feel. He shifts slightly, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.
“You looked happy earlier,” he says, gaze fixed somewhere near your shoulder. “On the dance floor. Laughing.”
You tilt your head, unsure if it’s meant as an accusation or a memory. “That’s what people do at weddings, Charles. They laugh.”
“Not like that,” he mutters. “You don’t laugh like that unless you mean it.”
You look at him for a long beat, then shake your head. “You always think you know me better than I do.”
His jaw tightens, something flickering across his face. “Maybe I do.”
It would be easier to walk away, to let this moment die quietly like it’s supposed to. But instead you find yourself stepping closer, words slipping before you can stop them. “You left first, remember?”
His eyes snap to yours, sharp and immediate. “I know.” He swallows. “I know I did.”
There’s so much loaded in those four words that you almost stagger under it—regret, guilt, longing so obvious it hurts to look at. You take a breath, try to steady yourself. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“We’re just talking.”
“Charles.” He huffs out a laugh that isn’t really one, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to ground himself. “You think I don’t know? That I haven’t been trying all night to stay on the other side of the room because if I don’t, I’ll..”
He trails off, shakes his head. “Forget it.”
“No,” you say quietly, something tight in your chest. “Finish it.”
He looks at you then, really looks, and you feel it all over—like a spotlight turned inward, like he’s cataloguing every piece of you he used to know by heart. “Because if I don’t, I’ll remember what it’s like to have you.”
The silence after that is unbearable. You should break it, laugh it off, change the subject—but you don’t. You stand there, feeling the pull like a riptide.
And then something shifts. It’s small at first, barely noticeable: the way he steps half an inch closer, the way your breath catches without permission.
He reaches up slowly, like he’s giving you time to move, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear—soft, careful, like he’s holding something fragile. You don’t step back.
“Do you still think about it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Your throat works, but no sound comes out.
That’s answer enough.
The kiss happens like it’s been waiting for hours instead of years. One second there’s air between you, the next it’s gone—his mouth on yours, warm and urgent, tasting faintly of champagne and something sharper, something unspoken.
You inhale sharply against him, one hand gripping the fabric of his shirt because you’re suddenly terrified of gravity. His other hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into your skin like he’s grounding himself too.
It’s not soft, not careful like it used to be. It’s desperate, uneven, the kind of kiss that pulls at old wounds even as it soothes them. You kiss him back because you can’t not, because there’s no version of you in this moment that knows how to let go.
You remember the first time you ever kissed him. A quiet afternoon, a sunlit window, laughter slipping into silence before he leaned in like it was the most natural thing in the world. That kiss had been gentle, uncertain, sweet.
This one is none of those things. This one is years of missing and resenting and wanting, all tangled into one impossible moment.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far—just enough to look at you, eyes searching, pupils blown wide. His chest rises quick and uneven, and for a second you think he’s going to say something monumental.
But he doesn’t. Neither of you speaks. The space is thick with everything you just broke open, all the air feeling used and thin.
You take a small step back, needing distance you don’t really want. “This was—”
“A mistake?” he offers, voice raw.
You hesitate, because you don’t believe it, but nod anyway. “Yeah.”
He smiles at that—broken, tired, something almost self-deprecating—but doesn’t argue. He just looks at you one last time, like memorizing your face all over again, before slipping past you toward the door.
You stand there alone, lips tingling, heart pounding, knowing something shifted and terrified of what comes next.
You wake up with the taste of him still on your lips. It’s faint, ghostlike, like the echo of a song you half-remember—but it’s there. Your body knows it before your brain catches up: the heat of his hands, the sound he made when you kissed him back, the way the world felt like it cracked open for just one impossible moment.
And then the weight hits you.
You sit up too fast, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed in the small guest room they’d given you. The wedding was supposed to be simple: show up, smile, survive the polite conversations, and leave without looking back. Not this. Not him.
Your dress from last night is crumpled on the chair, and your shoes are kicked halfway under the bed. It feels like evidence—like someone could walk in and see every mistake written on the floor.
There’s movement outside, the faint shuffle of footsteps on the stairs, a cupboard door closing. You know it’s him before you hear the kettle whistle.
You consider waiting him out, hiding until you can leave unseen, but you’re not seventeen anymore, and this isn’t a high school party. So you wash your face, pull on yesterday’s jeans, and walk into the kitchen like you don’t feel like throwing up.
He’s there, of course.
Hair still a mess, jaw shadowed, barefoot like he’s trying not to wake the house. He looks up when you step in, and there’s that same flicker as last night: surprise, then relief, then something harder to place—like he’s already bracing for a hit.
“Coffee?” he asks. His voice is low, hoarse from sleep or from you or from both.
You nod once, taking a seat at the counter because standing feels too exposed.
He pours two mugs, slides one toward you, and leans against the counter opposite, watching steam rise from his own. The silence is thick enough to choke on.
You blow on the coffee, take a sip that burns your tongue, and set it down harder than you mean to.
“This was a mistake,” you say, not looking at him.
He doesn’t flinch, but his knuckles tighten around the mug. “Yeah. You said that last night.”
“And I meant it.”
There’s a beat, sharp and fragile. Then: “You kissed me back.”
You glance up, meet his eyes, and immediately wish you hadn’t. They’re dark and tired and a little too open. “Don’t do that,” you whisper.
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I wanted this.”
He laughs—bitter, quick. “You did.”
You slam the mug down this time, coffee sloshing over the edge. “Stop acting like you know me.”
“Stop acting like you don’t care,” he fires back, straightening now, no longer leaning, no longer soft. “You think I didn’t feel that? You think I didn’t feel how much you—”
He shakes his head, pacing now, one hand raking through his hair like he’s trying to keep from falling apart. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to see you, to remember everything I tried to forget, and then—fuck—” He gestures between you. “This?”
You fold your arms, armor back in place. “Nobody forced you.”
“Right,” he says, voice sharp. “Just like nobody forced you to kiss me back.” The words hang there, brutal and heavy. You both breathe like you’ve run out of air.
Finally, you push your chair back, standing like you can leave this conversation behind. “We’re done.”
His jaw sets, eyes blazing, but his voice comes out quiet, lethal. “We were done years ago.”
You freeze, just for a second, then grab your bag and move toward the door.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it,” he says as you grip the handle. “Don’t rewrite this to make it easier for you later.”
You pause, hand tightening on the strap of your bag, because he’s right and you hate him for it. “I didn’t come here for you,” you say finally, still facing the door.
“I know,” he answers, voice breaking just enough to hear it. “But you still came back.”
You don’t turn around. You just open the door, step into the cool morning air, and walk away, heart pounding, throat tight, every step feeling like you’re trying to outrun something that’s faster than you.
Back in the kitchen, he doesn’t move for a long time. Just stands there, staring at the door like maybe if he waits long enough, you’ll come back and tell him none of it meant anything.
You spend most of the day in motion because stopping feels dangerous.
There’s breakfast with people you barely know, conversations about flight times and honeymoon destinations, the scraping sound of cutlery against porcelain plates. Every noise is too sharp, too present, and all you can think about is the kitchen—his voice, the coffee you abandoned, the way his eyes cut straight through you like he’d been waiting years to finally say those things out loud.
You keep your head down, fingers tight around your phone like it might save you from this, and you nod at the right times when someone speaks to you. There’s laughter around the table—someone telling a story about the wedding cake, how it nearly collapsed before dinner—and you manage to smile when they look at you. It feels like lying.
Every now and then, you catch yourself looking for him. He isn’t there.
After breakfast, you take your bag from the guest room and retreat outside, needing air, needing distance. The property slopes gently toward the water, sunlight glittering sharp against the waves. It’s beautiful, objectively. The kind of morning people put on postcards. But it feels sterile, too bright for how heavy your chest is.
You sit on the steps and scroll through nothing—emails, unread texts, photos of things you barely remember taking. Your thumb pauses over one image, old and unassuming: a hand on the wheel of a car, watch glinting in the sun. His watch. His hand. The day he taught you how to drive his old car in the hills, laughing when you stalled at every corner.
“Relax, you’re fighting it,” he’d said back then, hand covering yours on the shifter, smile easy and warm. “Just feel it.”
You lock your phone and shove it back in your bag. Footsteps behind you.
You don’t look up right away, but you know it’s him. The air shifts, heavier somehow. He stops a few feet back, like even he’s unsure if coming closer is allowed.
“Hey,” he says finally, voice quiet, strained at the edges.
You nod once without turning. “Hey.”
There’s a long pause. “You heading out soon?”
“Yeah. This afternoon.”
Another pause, longer this time. He moves, sits one step below you, far enough that your knees don’t touch, close enough that you feel the warmth of him.
The silence stretches thin. You keep your eyes on the water because looking at him feels like walking into fire.
“About earlier,” he starts.
You shake your head, cutting him off. “We said what we needed to say.”
His hands flex once on his knees, jaw shifting. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Doesn’t matter,” you answer, and your voice is flat, foreign to your own ears.
He laughs, low and humorless. “You really don’t pull any punches, do you?”
“You want me to lie?”
“No,” he says, turning his head to look at you. “But maybe… I don’t know. Something softer.”
That makes you look at him, finally. “I don’t have soft left for you, Charles.”
He swallows, eyes flicking away first. The words hit, but he doesn’t fight them. “Fair.”
You want to stop there, let silence eat up the rest, but something pushes out of you anyway. “You hurt me.”
The admission hangs in the air, small but absolute. His eyes close briefly, like he’d been expecting it but not like this, not so plainly said. “I know.”
“You don’t get to just show up in my life again, kiss me, and expect me to pretend like everything in between didn’t happen.”
“I didn’t expect you to pretend,” he says softly. “I just—” He stops, laughs under his breath, broken. “Fuck, I don’t even know what I expected.”
You nod, standing then because sitting feels too exposed. “I should get my stuff together.”
He stays seated, looking up at you like there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t. His hands hang loose between his knees, shoulders sloped, and for a moment you almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
You turn and walk back inside. Later, while you’re packing, you hear the sound of a car pulling up outside, the chatter of someone else arriving, voices muffled and cheerful. It all feels like another world entirely, one you’re not part of.
You zip your bag, glance once around the room to make sure you haven’t left anything, and catch yourself in the mirror. You look fine. Composed, even. But your eyes give you away, red at the edges, tired in a way that no amount of sleep will fix.
Downstairs, he’s leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets, like he’s been waiting but won’t admit it.
“You need a ride to the station?” he asks.
“No, I booked one.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
There’s a beat. He looks like he might step forward, might say something reckless, but instead he just clears his throat. “Safe trip.”
You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “Thanks.” The driver honks outside, sharp and final. You step past him, careful not to brush against him, and push out into the sunlight.
For one wild second, you expect him to follow, to stop you, to grab your wrist and make a scene like in the movies. He doesn’t.
He stays in the doorway, watching you leave like he’s trying to memorize the way your back looks when you walk away.
The train station smells like metal and rain.
It’s early, too early for most people to be traveling, which is why you picked this time. Fewer eyes, fewer goodbyes, fewer chances to falter. The tiles glisten under pale light, reflecting fragments of the morning that feels like it belongs to someone else entirely.
You check your ticket again, even though you know the time by heart. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep from thinking about him.
Outside, it’s drizzling, soft and uncommitted, the kind of rain that lingers without purpose. You watch it streak down the glass wall, blurring the view of the platform, and wonder briefly if he’s still in bed, if he even knows what time you’re leaving. You didn’t tell him. He didn’t ask.
There had been no final scene, no dramatic plea to stay. Just two people in a doorway, choosing silence over another wound, letting the weight of what they were—and what they weren’t—speak for them.
You almost wish he’d fought for it. Almost.
The loudspeaker announces a delay, static-filled and impersonal, and the handful of travelers around you groan. You don’t. You welcome the extra minutes like an undeserved gift, even though it changes nothing. You’re still leaving.
You pull out your phone and open a blank message. His name sits at the top of the screen, familiar and dangerous.
For a long moment, your thumbs hover. There are a hundred things you could say—I’m sorry, I love you still, This didn’t have to end this way—but none of them feel like they belong to you anymore. None of them would change anything.
You lock the phone and slide it back into your bag.
You think of last night. The way he kissed you like you were oxygen. The way your fingers curled into his shirt because you forgot how not to need him.
And then the morning, sharp and cold, voices raised not because you hated each other but because you didn’t know how else to say you were hurting.
There’s no taking that back. The train finally screeches into view, all steel and noise and motion. People rise, adjusting their bags, tugging jackets tight. You stand too, but slower, like you’re underwater.
Your reflection stares back at you from the window: tired, drawn, not the same person who stepped onto that wedding property two days ago thinking she could survive this cleanly.
You don’t hear him approach because he doesn’t. He isn’t there. And maybe that’s what hurts most—not the absence, but the clarity of it.
You’d half expected to see him anyway, leaning against some far wall, hands in his pockets, pretending he just happened to be passing through. It’s the kind of thing he used to do, finding ways to exist in the same space without asking permission.
But there’s only strangers here. Only the life you had before him and after him, colliding in this sterile space.
When the doors slide open, you step in. The carriage is nearly empty, a quiet hum replacing the static noise of the station. You drop into a seat by the window, setting your bag on the one next to you, and let your forehead rest against the glass.
Outside, the platform blurs. The drizzle turns to rain, heavier now, streaking the world into vague shapes and colors. Somewhere in that mess of movement and water, you think of him.
Of the way he looked at you the first time you met, eyes too bright for someone you were supposed to keep at arm’s length.
Of summer nights and car rides, quiet mornings and the way your name always sounded different in his mouth.
You bite down on your lip, hard enough to sting.
The train lurches forward. You watch as the station falls away, shrinking in the distance until it’s just another blur of lines and motion. And with it, the past few days slip further behind, like the world is conspiring to move you along whether you’re ready or not.
There’s a sharp ache in your chest, one that feels both old and new, like it’s been waiting for this moment. You grip the edge of the seat until your knuckles pale, forcing yourself to breathe past it.
This is closure, you tell yourself.
Not the romantic kind. Not the kind where people choose each other in the end and everything clicks into place. This is quieter, heavier—choosing yourself because staying would break something bigger than your heart.
You don’t cry, not really. A few tears slide hot and quick down your cheeks, and you swipe them away before they can fall onto your shirt.
Your phone buzzes once in your pocket. You don’t check it right away, just stare at the rain outside and let the hum of the train fill the space between breaths.
When you finally look, it’s a message from him. Just one line: Take care of yourself.
You stare at it until the letters blur, until the ache in your throat sharpens again, and then you set the phone face down on the seat beside you.
Outside, the horizon stretches, endless and open, and you tell yourself you’ll be okay. Maybe not now. Maybe not for a long time. But eventually.
Because love isn’t always enough. And sometimes, walking away is the closest thing to mercy you can give each other.
ʚɞ in which... charles won't defend reader online due to hate she's receiving.
ʚɞ angst, fluff ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 1000 words
ʚɞ warnings: I wanted to do a pure angst but i just couldn’t, reader falls over, breakup (beginning) ¿happy? ending I guess. Use of Y/N, Y/L/N.
-୨♡୧-
— September, 2023
The hate online isn’t nearly what made your heart into a thousand pieces, it was the lack of support from the one man you wanted support from.
“Why won’t you do this for me?” You asked Charles, a hushed tone of voice. “I- You can’t just ask them to stop?” You were almost begging for him to just… care.
“I can’t!” He shouted back- a harsh contrast to your own tone- “Fuck- You know this! They’re my fans!”
“And them telling me to die is what? Fan behaviour?”
He sat in agonizing silence, every word you spoke cutting deep because he knew you were right. But the thought of admitting it, of crumbling under the weight of his own mistakes, was unbearable.
So, he clung desperately to his fragile pride, refusing to apologize, even as guilt gnawed at him.
“If you can’t handle it anymore, you…” His voice faltered, the words catching in his throat like shards of glass.
He couldn’t finish, and you could see the unspoken truth hanging between you, heavy and inevitable.
“I should what, Charles?” You demanded, your voice sharp and trembling. “Say it.”
His breath hitched as he forced the words out, each one laced with regret. “We… we shouldn’t be together.”
The confirmation of your darkest suspicions sent a wave of anguish crashing over you. Tears welled in your eyes, and you tipped your head back, desperately fighting them off before regaining just enough composure to meet his gaze.
“You’re a coward, Charles,” you spat, the accusation dripping with bitterness. Without waiting for a response, you spun on your heel, snatching your keys from the table by the door. The slam of the door echoed through the apartment, a final, resounding note to the shattered remains of what once was.
— April, 2024
“Come onnnn, it’ll be fun!” Lily exclaimed dramatically, waving the tickets in your face with a mischievous grin.
“Lily… he’ll be there,” you murmured, the hesitation clear in your voice.
Lily Muni He, your best friend and eternal partner in crime, rolled her eyes playfully. “And so will like ten other single drivers,” she shot back with a smirk, “Plus, a ton of rich, single men,” she added, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
You couldn’t help but laugh, giving her a gentle shove. “Fine, fine, I’ll come,” you groaned, snatching the paddock pass from her hand.
“For you, Lily— not the men!”
Saturday, 25th May 2024
Monte Carlo, Monaco.
The first few days had passed without a glimpse of him, and for that, you were grateful. Today felt promising, the crisp morning air in Monaco filling you with a rare sense of optimism. You decided to start your day with a leisurely walk through the city, a few good hours before qualifying, giving you plenty of time to grab breakfast and soak in the peaceful atmosphere.
But, of course, fate had other plans.
“Leo!” a familiar voice called out, breaking through your thoughts. You turned just in time to see Charles sprinting around the corner, chasing after his little dog, the leash flapping uselessly behind him as Leo seized the opportunity to dart away.
And then, before you could react, Charles collided with you, sending you sprawling onto the pavement with a startled yelp. The impact knocked the breath out of you, and before you could fully process what had happened, you felt a warm, wet tongue eagerly licking your ear and jaw. You couldn’t help but huff out a laugh as you sat up, only to find Leo wagging his tail furiously, clearly pleased with himself.
“I—I am so sorry,” Charles stammered, thrusting his hand out toward you. That’s when you looked up and met his eyes, and the surprise and awkwardness on his face softened a little. “Y/N?”
You hesitated for a moment, then chose to stand up on your own, brushing off the lingering embarrassment. “Charles,” you greeted, your voice tinged with awkwardness.
“S-sorry—he—he just ran off…” Charles fumbled, pointing to Leo, who was still beaming up at you, his tongue lolling out in delight. You noticed the slight stutter in Charles’ voice—something he never did in front of anyone. Then again, you weren’t just anyone.
“It’s fine,” you said, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Not the first time you’ve embarrassed me.” You teased, watching as Charles forced a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m joking,” you added quickly. “How’ve you been?”
“Good, good!” Charles responded a little too quickly. “I got a dog!” he announced proudly, then blushed as he realized how obvious that was. “But, uh, you can see that.” He laughed, a little sheepish.
“How about you? Boyfriend?” he asked suddenly, the question tumbling out before he could stop it. It was a little inappropriate, but the curiosity—no, the longing—was clear in his eyes.
You offered a shy smile, shaking your head. “No… I did, but we broke up.”
“Oh?” Charles tried to sound casual, though he already knew about your ex—he might have checked your Instagram a few times. “How come?”
You sighed softly, glancing away before quietly admitting, “He wasn’t you…”
A slow, hopeful smile spread across Charles’ face. It might have been a little insensitive to feel happy about your breakup, but he didn’t care. Maybe, just maybe, you still loved him.
“I can be better,” he blurted out, his voice tinged with desperation. “I—please…” He sighed, the words hanging in the air between you.
You looked at him, your heart caught between old memories and new possibilities. “Qualify P1, and I’ll take you up on your offer,” you said, a small smile playing on your lips.
Charles grinned, hope flickering in his eyes. Maybe this time, things could be different.
