BMALLT

for those who have faith, life never ends

BMALLT ! brasil. mengo. real madrid. ferrari. elvira & tony

✷ last work :: Charles, The Boyfriend Who.. ─ Compilation of moments from: What if Charles Leclerc was your boyfriend? w/ Charles Leclerc.

✷ future work :: no forecast

✷ FORMULA 1 ::

001. GRID

002. CHARLES LECLERC

003. CARLOS SAINZ

✷ FOOTBALL ::

001. MAIN

w/ jude bellingham. pablo gavi. lamine yamal & hector fort.

✷ OTHERS ::

001. MAIN

w/ Gabriel Medina

✷ last work :: Fine Line ─ You’re the club’s new physiotherapist, and before long, Hector gets injured. You’re assigned to help him recover, but your biggest challenge becomes resisting the player’s charm. w/ hector fort

✷ future work :: no forecast

✷ JUDE BELLIGHAM

001. ESPRESSO | social media

✷ SUMMARY :: Where you leave little clues on your social network.

✷ PABLO GAVI

001. CHEF GAVI | 0.790k words

✷ SUMMARY :: Where do you make a chocolate cake with your boyfriend.

✷ LAMINE YAMAL

001. BARCELONA | 0.799k words

✷ SUMMARY :: Being the daughter of a great idol of the club, perhaps it would be normal to go to Camp Nou and meet the young promise there.

✷ HÉCTOR FORT

001. CHALLENGE | 1.3k words

✷ SUMMARY :: where you and your boyfriend participate in a barcelona channel challenge.

002. AS HER BOYFRIEND | 0.3k words

✷ SUMMARY :: headcannon

003. FINE LINE | 3.1k words

✷ SUMMARY :: You’re the club’s new physiotherapist, and before long, Hector gets injured. You’re assigned to help him recover, but your biggest challenge becomes resisting the player’s charm.

starring ✷ charles leclerc x reader!fem!

summary ✷ Compilation of moments from: What if Charles Leclerc was your boyfriend?

world count ✷ 1k words

notes ✷ ¹Brazilian woman making a reference to Brazil 🙋🏻‍♀️

1. …Teaches you how to drive on the simulator and he's a ridiculously patient instructor.

The screen flashes red one more time. You missed the braking point and just buried the virtual car in the Monaco barrier.

— Shit — you sigh, frustrated, your hands sweaty on the toy steering wheel.

You were already expecting a comment, some complex technical tip, but he just laughs, a soft and affectionate sound. He puts his hand over yours on the wheel, his wedding ring lightly tapping the plastic.

— Relax, mon amour. — he whispers, his accent wrapping around every syllable. — The corner is smoother, you think of it like a dance, not a war. Let me show you. — He guides your hands, his movements are precise and calm, and for the first time, you manage to take the corner without crashing.

2. …Makes a video call in the middle of the night after a GP, just to hear you breathe.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand, cutting through the night's silence. You answer, your eyes heavy with sleep. On the screen, it's him. His helmet still in his hand, his face marked by fatigue and adrenaline, wearing his race suit stained with grease.

— I couldn't sleep — he says, his voice hoarse. — I needed to see you.

— How was it? — you ask, yawning.

— Terrible. The car wasn't right… — he starts, and then stops. — Non. I don't want to talk about it. Just… stay with me? Until I fall asleep?

He lays his phone down on the hotel nightstand, and you do the same. There are no more words, just the soft sound of each other's breathing across the ocean. It's your most intimate post-race ritual.

3. …Buys ridiculous souvenirs from every city he visits and creates a "trophy" shelf for you two.

Your shelf has a crooked mini Big Ben, a plastic Eiffel Tower with neon lights, a Silverstone fridge magnet, and a Mexican sombrero hat he swore you needed.

— Look, mon amour! From Singapore! — he announces, arriving home with a small plush Merlion with googly eyes.

You laugh, hugging him. — What is that?

— It's the symbol of the city! It spits water! — he explains, proud as if he had brought home the GP trophy.

That kitsch shelf is the map of his world, and every silly piece is proof that, even on the other side of the world, he was thinking of you.

4. …When you're sick, he turns into a mix of a nurse and a French chef.

You're in bed with a bad flu. Charles cancels a team gala dinner, citing "family commitments." He spends the whole day by your side, replacing the cold towel on your forehead and taking it as a personal mission to make a "real" homemade chicken soup.

The apartment fills with the smell of garlic and rosemary. He brings the bowl to the bed, looking at you with anxious expectation as you take the first sip.

— Is it good? Does it need more salt? Less salt? I can make another one.

It's a bit salty, and the chicken pieces are uneven. But the love with which it was made turns it into the best soup in the world.

— It's perfect, Charlie. — you whisper. The smile of relief and pride that spreads across his face is more healing than any medicine.

5. …Has a secret playlist with only songs that remind him of you.

He's super possessive of his phone, but one day you catch him driving and a playlist called "Mon Soleil" is open. It's soft French songs, some old Italian ones your grandmother used to listen to, and you can even spot a few Brazilian songs that you love and always catch yourself singing. When he realizes you've seen it, he blushes, quickly switching screens. "It was nothing," he murmurs.

But on Sunday mornings, it's this playlist he puts on low volume while making coffee, creating the private soundtrack of your love.

6. …Makes an effort to learn "the basics" of Portuguese to talk to your family.

Your mom video calls and, as always, you're translating the conversation. Suddenly, Charles leans into the frame, looks at the screen with seriousness. — How are you, Dona Carolina?

Your mom is in positive shock. He then plays his trump card, sweating bullets: — The dinner... was... delicious! — referring to the lunch from months ago that he never forgot.

The pronunciation is crooked, the verb tenses are all wrong, but the effort is so genuine that your mom starts crying from laughter and happiness. Later he asks you, proud. — Was I good? She liked me, right?

7. …Goes crazy with jealousy... over a kid.

You're at the beach, and your friend's 5-year-old nephew latches onto you, asking to be carried and for you to take him swimming. You spend the whole afternoon with little Pietro on your back, playing and laughing. Charles, who was talking with the others, starts to get quiet. He can't stop staring. Finally, he comes over, crosses his arms, and says to the boy, with fake seriousness.

— Pietro, she's my girlfriend, you know? You can borrow her, but you have to give her back.

And, before you can laugh, he pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your neck and murmuring: — All the attention has to be mine, those are the rules.

8. …Calls after a win, and the first thing he says isn't about the race.

The team radio is still echoing in your ears, the podium euphoria is a deafening roar around him. He grabbed his phone in the driver's room, the laurel wreath still on his head, the champagne drying on his clothes. The screen connects and he sees you, your face wet with tears of pride.

He leans close to the microphone, ignoring the rowdy friends in the background, and his voice, hoarse with emotion, whispers:

— Did you see? That last lap? That was for you. Because you told me I could do it. Je t'aime. Je t'aime tellement.

And in that moment, amid the chaos of a professional achievement, the only thing that matters to him is that you know that it's also yours.

starring ‎‎‎✷ charles leclerc, carlos sainz, lewis hamilton, oscar piastri, lando norris, max verstappen, franco colapinto & kimi antonelli

‎‎‎‎summary ‎‎‎✷ Loving someone goes far beyond just being by their side. Maybe he hasn’t moved on from you yet—maybe he never will. But how would they react if they saw you now?

word count ‎‎‎✷ 2.9k words.

notes ‎‎‎✷ My first fic in this style. I hope you like it!

F1 GRID MASTERLIST (SOON)

✷ charles leclerc — the Night in Monte Carlo

It was supposed to be just a quiet night after the Grand Prix, a way to shut off his mind from the whirlwind of the race. But Monte Carlo had never been an innocent place for Charles. It was where everything had begun and, eventually, where it had all ended.

Just one drink, he repeated to himself, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach as the icy glass burned in his hand. And then he saw you.

Your laughter cut through the bar like a familiar melody. The same laugh that used to fill his home, the one he still claimed belonged to the two of you years ago, back when you both still believed the world could wait. Now, seeing you there—so close, yet so out of reach—made every muscle in his body tense.

You noticed him too. How could you not? Charles had always carried that presence—the magnetism of someone who bore the weight of millions of eyes, yet here, he just seemed like a man wrestling with his own memories.

— Charles… — Your voice was barely a whisper, laced with surprise and something else—or was it resentment?

He smiled, that crooked, half-guilty smile of his.

Minutes later, you were walking through the warm Monte Carlo night, the distant hum of luxury cars echoing through the narrow streets. Neither of you wanted to admit you remembered every step of that path. But memory was treacherous, as vivid as the feeling of his fingers laced with yours in the past.

And then it happened.

In the same alley where, years ago, you had said goodbye amid tears and accusations, Charles stopped. There was something in his eyes—an apology, a regret, and a desperate longing for one more chance.

— I can’t do this — you began, but the words came out weak.

He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint trace of alcohol making resistance impossible.

— Then don’t say anything — Charles murmured before his lips found yours, hungry, urgent, as if they could erase every mistake of the past.

It was wrong. It was dangerous. But it was inevitable.

✷ carlos sainz — the Innocent Lie

Carlos parked the car on the nearly empty street, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. He repeated it to himself like a mantra: Just here to grab my things. Nothing more. A simple task—get in, take what he’d left in the apartment, and leave before any old feelings could sink their claws back into him.

But his heart knew it was a lie.

When you opened the door, the familiar scent of your perfume hit him like a wave. Everything was the same—the messy sofa, the soft glow of the living room lamp, and your expression, caught between surprise and a quiet exhaustion only those who’ve loved too much recognize.

— You came… — Your voice was low, almost disbelieving.

— Just getting my things, — he replied, firm, as if believing it hard enough could save them both from the inevitable disaster.

But then you offered wine. A flimsy excuse to keep the conversation from dying in the hallway. And he accepted. One glass became two, then three, and before they realized it, they were sitting side by side on the living room rug, laughing at old jokes, reliving memories neither of them had dared touch since the breakup.

Longing was an invisible guest between them, thickening the air. Every laugh melted into a lingering glance, every brush of fingers against a glass lasted a second too long.

— You’ve always been terrible at just grabbing your things — you teased, but there was sadness beneath the lightness.

Carlos took a deep breath, eyes locked on yours. He knew he was about to make the same mistake all over again.

— Just this once… — he murmured, pulling you closer.

When your lips met, it was as if Madrid faded around them. Only the heat of skin, the taste of wine, and the raw need to lose themselves in each other existed.

And then, morning came.

Light seeped through the thin curtains, the distant hum of the city creeping into the room. You were there, head resting on his chest, breathing steady. And in that moment, Carlos felt the weight of déjà vu. This was the third time. Three reunions, three postponed goodbyes, three innocent lies he told himself.

— Just this once… — he whispered, fingers tracing imaginary lines along your skin. But deep down, he knew—it was just another lie.

✷ lewis hamilton — the Reckoning in Ibiza

The music pulsed like a racing heartbeat, vibrating through the walls of the club bathed in neon purples and blues. Lewis wasn’t the type to lose himself in places like this—not anymore. But there was something about this Ibiza night, something in the mix of salt air and expensive perfume, that dragged up memories he’d buried against his will.

And then he saw you.

Dancing at the center of the floor, skin glowing under the strobe lights, smile effortless, eyes closed as if the entire world was just the rhythm of the bass. You’d always had that gift—existing so fiercely that everything else blurred into the background.

Lewis felt his stomach twist. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to feel this. But he couldn’t look away.

Just one dance, he told himself. Harmless. Like the old days, when you were just two kids in the middle of an endless summer, before broken promises and continents of distance.

When your eyes met his, the smile you gave was as dangerous as a wet track curve. You didn’t have to say a word. Lewis crossed the floor, and suddenly, the space between you didn’t exist anymore.

The touch of your hands was a spark. That first lap on slick asphalt—unpredictable, impossible to control.

— Just one dance, huh? — you teased, lips too close to his ear, your voice nearly swallowed by the DJ’s beat.

— That’s what I keep telling myself, — he answered, hands on your waist, guiding your movements like your bodies still remembered every step, every mistake, every perfect turn.

The night stretched like a loop. Drinks. Laughter. Lingering glances. And when the club began to empty, neither of you could let go.

You ended up on the beach.

The crash of waves replaced the electronic thrum, and the sun began to bleed into the horizon, staining the sky orange and pink. Lewis lay back in the sand, you curled beside him, fingers tangled like that alone could freeze time.

— We said we wouldn’t do this again, — you murmured, voice drowsy, half-lost to exhaustion.

— I know… — he said, eyes fixed on the sea — But with you, it was never simple.

It was a mistake. You both knew. But on that Ibiza morning, with the taste of salt and want still on your lips, it felt like the only road left to take.

✷ oscar piastri — the Slip-Up in Melbourne

It was just coffee.

Oscar kept repeating it to himself as he waited in line at the Fitzroy café, the scent of roasted beans mixing with the damp air after the rain. There was nothing wrong with catching up with someone from the past—just a quick chat. They were adults, mature enough to handle this. Right?

Then you walked in.

His heart kicked up—annoyingly, unexpectedly. You were smiling as you shook the drizzle from your hair, and suddenly, everything felt exactly like before: lazy afternoons, quiet laughter, fingers tangled under the dinner table.

— Oscar… — you said, hesitant, like his name was an old taste on your tongue.

He gave you a half-smile. Familiar, but with an edge of nerves.

— Hey. Just… grabbing coffee? — He tried to sound casual.

And that’s what they did. For nearly two hours.

But it wasn’t just coffee. It was the sound of your laugh cutting through the café chatter, the absent-minded way you tucked your hair behind your ear while listening to his stories about races, airports, life on the road. It was that inside joke—the one only the two of you understood—that made you both laugh so hard the couple at the next table glanced over.

When you suggested walking back to your apartment because it’s close, Oscar didn’t hesitate.

He should have.

Because there, in the narrow hallway, you both stopped. The silence was heavy, the air thick with memories. A minefield.

— This is a terrible idea — you whispered, eyes locked on his.

— I know — Oscar said, but his hands were already cradling your face.

The kiss was urgent, almost desperate, like it could make up for lost time. Clothes were forgotten on the way to the couch. Quiet laughter, muffled sighs—the kind of intimacy that only exists between people who’ve known each other too well to pretend they feel nothing.

Afterward, Oscar lay there, chest rising and falling too fast, scrambling for an excuse, some logic to cling to. You were propped up on the pillow, watching him with something caught between fondness and wariness.

He broke the silence first:

— This doesn’t mean anything.

You just smiled. Didn’t answer.

Because both of you knew it was a lie.

✷ lando norris — the Late-Night Call

It was 2 AM.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up the dark room with your name on the screen. Lando stared at the glow, his pulse quickening for a reason he refused to name.

Don’t answer.

The thought looped like a mantra.

But his finger swiped across the screen anyway.

— Hey… — His voice was rough with sleep and something else.

On the other end, your silence spoke louder than words. Lando closed his eyes, exhaling. He knew what this meant. He always knew.

— You okay? — he asked, already knowing the answer didn’t matter.

— No. — That was it. Simple. Direct. Enough to make his chest tighten.

Don’t go over there.

That’s what he told himself as he grabbed his keys, shoved his shoes on in a hurry.

The city was quiet, almost complicit. Lando parked outside your building, trying to convince his heart to stay put. But when you opened the door—the familiar scent, the exhaustion mixed with relief in your expression—it dismantled every barrier he’d built.

— I know this is a terrible idea, — you whispered.

He smiled, sad.

— Me too.

Don’t kiss her.

That was his last warning before his lips found yours.

The kiss was a necessary disaster—hungry, urgent, a silent apology and a scream of longing all at once. The night stretched between tangled sheets, ragged breaths, and the illusion that maybe, just maybe, you could fix what was broken.

Then the alarm went off.

The sound was cruel, reminding you both that the world outside still existed, that promises of last time were just that—empty words.

Lando lay there, his arm still around you, and closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the same emotional trap he swore he’d avoid.

Just one more time, he told himself.

But he knew it was a lie.

✷ max verstappen — the Secret in Zandvoort

He saw you before the race even started.

Amid the sea of orange, between waving flags and colored smoke, there you were. Smiling. Like nothing had happened. Like you didn’t share a past sharp with words, slammed doors, and nights as intense as the races he fought.

Max felt his blood boil. Anger, surprise, but mostly—what he feared most—want.

Not again, he told himself as he accelerated down the track, forcing focus into every turn. But every lap, every glimpse of that smile—the one that used to be his alone—chipped at his resolve like smoke dissolving in the wind.

When the race ended, Max went straight to the motorhome, trying to escape the storm inside him.

Fate had other plans.

You were there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with that look that always undid him.

— Nice work, champion, — you said, tone too light for the chaos it sparked in him.

He scoffed, gripping control.

— What are you doing here? — His voice came out harsher than he meant.

— Just watching. Not allowed? — you teased, but there was something in your eyes—a flicker of nerves, a silent acknowledgment of the danger in being here.

Then, silence. The tension was thick, heavier than the scent of fuel in the air.

Max stepped closer. Then again. Until there was no space left between you.

— Just tonight, — he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

His lips met yours with the hunger of a man denying his own heart. Anger turned to want, want turned to relapse, and before they knew it, they were locked in the motorhome, hands frantic, words lost between kisses and gasps.

It was fast. Urgent. A storm. Like always.

After, Max stayed there, forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath—and his sanity.

— We said we wouldn’t do this anymore, — you reminded him, voice weak.

— I know, — he said, fingers still tracing your waist. — But with you… it’s never that simple.

✷ franco colapinto — the Reunion in Buenos Aires

He’d told himself he wouldn’t come back here. But Buenos Aires had a way of tricking the heart. The streets lit by old lanterns, the distant sound of a bandoneón from some nearby restaurant—it all felt like an invitation to the past.

Then he saw you.

Across the dimly lit bar in San Telmo, your eyes met his through the crowd. Impossible not to remember. The last time, you were in the same hotel, the same room, with bitter promises between tears and kisses that shouldn’t have happened.

— Franco… — you said, like his name was an old secret on the tip of your tongue.

He smiled, that restrained smile that hid more than it showed.

— Didn’t think I’d see you here again.

— Me neither. — You took a sip of wine, the glass trembling slightly in your hand.

The tango started. Slow, hypnotic, filling the space between you. Franco held out his hand, and before you could hesitate, you were in his arms.

The world disappeared.

Every step, every turn, was a memory etched into skin. The heat of bodies too close, his gaze locked on yours, the scent of wine and want mixing in the air. A dance you both knew by heart—and hated loving.

When the song ended, the silence between you said more than words ever could.

Then, almost without realizing, you were in the hotel elevator, fingers tangled, breaths unsteady. The same hotel. The same room.

Franco shut the door behind him, eyes searching yours for an excuse not to do what you both knew would happen.

— We’re good at this, — you whispered, lips almost brushing his.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve reminded you of all the promises to stay away, of why the breakup had been necessary. But his hand was already on your waist, pulling you closer.

— Yeah — was all he managed before losing himself in you again.

✷ kimi antonelli — the Mistake in Bologna

Rain poured over Bologna’s narrow streets, turning the old stones into liquid mirrors reflecting the streetlights.

Kimi was sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the unsent message on his phone. He’d promised. Promised himself he wouldn’t do this again.

Then, three knocks at the door.

He hesitated, pulse spiking. Maybe the neighbor, maybe a delivery… but deep down, he already knew.

When he opened the door, there you were.

Drenched from the rain, hair clinging to your skin, eyes wide and pleading like the weight of the world was right there in the hallway.

— I shouldn’t be here… — you started, voice shaking as much as your hands.

— I shouldn’t be opening the door, — he replied, but he was already pulling you inside.

The scent of rain and perfume filled the apartment. Neither of you spoke for a moment. Every breath felt like a string pulled too tight, ready to snap.

— Just for tonight, — you whispered, almost begging.

Kimi clenched his jaw. He should say no. But he’d never known how to say no to you.

— One more time, — he surrendered, the words sounding like defeat.

The kiss was desperate, wet from the rain still dripping from your skin. His hands gripped your waist like he wanted to memorize every curve.

By the time they came up for air, they were in the bedroom, clothes scattered, low sighs filling the silence. It was wrong. It was stupid. But it felt so right.

Later, lying beside you, Kimi stared at the ceiling again. You slept, face peaceful, as if the outside world didn’t exist.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily.

One more time, he told himself.

But he knew it was a lie. He was stuck in this cycle, like a car stuck in gravel, spinning its wheels, going nowhere.

feinzleclerc!rádio! Welcome to all chapters of the "one hundred..." series.

❝ A HUNDRED KISSES I'VE ALREADY GIVEN YOU ❞

summary ✷ Where you list one hundred kisses very important to you and Charles.

★ Chapter 01 - From kiss 01 to 20.

★ Chapter 02 - From kiss 21 to 40.

★ Chapter 03 - From kiss 41 to 60.

★ Chapter 04 - From kiss 61 to 80. - soon

★ Chapter 05 - From kiss 81 to 100. - soon

feinzleclerc!radio! leave your feedback about the series here.

❝ A HUNDRED TIMES OF US ❞

COMING SOON

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST ✷ DAILY LIFEMASTERLIST (SOON)

special project made by feinzleclerc ²⁰²⁵. Translations or adaptations prohibited without my consultation/permission.

© All rights reserved

starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem !

summary ; Where you list one hundred kisses very important to you and Charles.

warnings ; ¹ English is not my first language.

word count ; 3.6k words

notes ; PART 01 | 02 | 03 • 04 & 05 COMING SOON

feinzleclerc!radio! ; I haven't even finished this series and I already want to start another one about "one hundred..."

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

41. The Air Kiss

The restaurant was loud, packed with politicians and important businessmen for some tedious charity dinner. You were sitting three tables ahead of him, wearing that black dress he hated because it attracted too many stares, while he tried to look interested in a conversation with some FIA director.

Your eyes met over a waiter’s shoulder. He made that troublemaker-boy face.

You raised a warning eyebrow in silent alarm: Don’t.

Charles, of course, ignored it completely.

With his hand hidden under the table, he lifted two fingers discreetly to his lips—holding eye contact like he was challenging you—and blew a kiss through the air.

And you… how could you, you nearly knocked over your wine glass trying to catch the air kiss subtly. When you glanced back at him, he was biting back laughter while pretending to care about the directors’ table talk.

42. Post-Nightmare Kiss

The hotel room was bathed in shadows, only the ticking wall clock breaking the silence. You woke suddenly, cold sweat sticking your camisole to your back, your heart pounding so hard it seemed to want to escape your chest. The nightmare clung to your skin like a second bedsheet.

Before you could steady yourself, the warmth of a body pressed against your back, and a firm arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if he knew exactly what you needed.

—Shhh, I’m here…— Charles’ voice, rough with sleep and thick with that never-fading French accent, soothed like a balm.

He didn’t ask what happened. He already knew. He always knew.

You turned, your eyes finding his in the dark—and he didn’t hesitate. His lips met yours in a kiss that was half comfort, half promise.

It was slow, deep enough to erase every trace of the nightmare. Your fingers tangled in his sleep-mussed curls while his traced circles on your back, as if writing you’re safe directly onto your skin.

When you pulled apart, he kept his nose pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, a mischievous smile on his lips.

—Better?— he murmured, his voice so low you felt it more than heard it.

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled him back for another kiss—this one sweeter, lazier. The kind that said yes without a single syllable.

And when you finally fell asleep again, curled into him like a riddle only he could solve, he stayed awake a little longer, his lips brushing your forehead in a silent vow: no nightmare stood a chance against him.

43. The Journey Kiss

The taxi honked outside the apartment, engine already running, as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder. Charles stood in the doorway, hair a mess from waking at 5 AM just to make you coffee, his gaze heavier than it should’ve been for a simple work trip.

—Only three days— you reminded him, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

He took your right hand, turned your palm up like reading a fortune, and before you could ask—

Kissed your wrist—where your pulse beat closest to the skin.

—Save that one— he murmured, lips warm against your veins.

Then kissed your lifeline slowly, as if trying to stretch it.

—That one too.

Finally, he pressed his lips to the center of your palm, folding your fingers over the spot like sealing a precious package.

—Only open it when you get to the hotel.

44. The Kiss That Never Came

The yellowed envelope slipped from the sock drawer where you’d hidden it for years. Charles, sitting on the bed with a wineglass in hand, raised an eyebrow at your expression.

—What’s that?— he asked, bare feet finding yours under the sheets.

You turned the envelope in your fingers, his address written in a hesitant script you barely recognized as your own. The letter inside was a monument to fear and hope—three pages of confessions scribbled on a sleepless night, back when he was just the driver who let his coffee go cold in press conferences.

—I was going to send this to you— you admitted, heart pounding like you were betraying a secret from another life. —At the 2019 British GP.

Charles took the envelope with the reverence he reserved for trophies, green eyes scanning every curve of your handwriting like a treasure map.

—Why didn’t you?

—Because on mailing day, you posted that photo with the Red Bull blonde.— You laughed, poking his chest with the envelope. —Almost threw it out.

He smiled—that slow smile that still tied your stomach in knots—then brought the envelope to his lips, kissing it right where your name was written.

—It’s late— he murmured, eyes brighter than the wine in his glass. —But it arrived.

And that night? He read every word aloud, feigning outrage at the parts where you doubted him, until you stole the letter back—sealing it with a kiss far better than the envelope’s.

45. The Ticklish Kiss

The couch was warm, the TV movie just background noise, your bare foot resting shamelessly in Charles’ lap. He was distracted, fingers drawing random circles on your leg, when something shifted.

You felt it first—the warm exhale that always meant he was about to do something stupid.

—Charles, don’t—

The kiss started at your heel—light, almost polite, making you squirm.

—STOP!— you shrieked, trying to yank your foot back.

He held your ankle with a racer’s grip, green eyes gleaming with pure mischief.

—Haven’t found the right spot yet— he murmured, before kissing the arch of your foot where he knew you were weakest.

Your laughter echoed through the house—loud, uncontrollable, the kind that made your stomach ache.

—I’ll kill you!— you threatened between giggles, struggling to escape.

—There— he finally released your foot, smug as if he’d won a race. —Now you’re officially kissed from head to toe.

46. Ice Cream Kiss

The summer heat was brutal, the GP food truck line endless. You stood under the umbrella, fanning yourself with a press pass, when Charles appeared with two LEC-branded ice cream cups.

—Got you chocolate— he announced, as if he didn’t do this every time.

You raised an eyebrow, pointing to the other flavors from his own brand.

—Amazing how the brand ambassador always picks the same one.

He sat beside you, knees brushing yours, and took an exaggerated first spoonful from your cup.

—It’s my favorite too— he lied, chocolate-smeared smile giving him away.

You rolled your eyes but let him steal another bite before grabbing his collar.

The kiss was cold at first—the ice cream still fresh on his lips—but warmed fast when he deepened it, his free hand finding your waist.

When you pulled apart, a drop of ice cream dripped from your chin.

—Definitely better than vanilla— he murmured, swiping it away with his thumb before licking it.

47. The Angry Kiss

The fight started over nothing—maybe him forgetting your anniversary (again) or you using his favorite shirt to clean makeup brushes. Arguments flew like sparks until, in a fury, you hurled a couch pillow at him.

Charles caught it midair and in one fluid motion closed the distance between you. His green eyes were dark—but not with anger.

—You’re unbearable— you spat.

—You love it— he shot back, voice low and rough.

The kiss began as an attack—teeth clashing, lips pressed too hard—but in three seconds, it became something else. Your hands, which had been shoving his chest, now pulled him closer, fingers digging into his shirt.

Charles groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist like taking a sharp turn at high speed.

—We’re not done fighting— you murmured, already arching into him.

—You’re lying— he retorted, smile audible as he nipped your lower lip. —Already forgot what we were arguing about.

He was right.

48. The Perfect Knot

The Ferrari event required full dress code—impeccable suit, polished shoes, and of course, the red tie you hated. Charles stood before the mirror, fumbling with the knot for the third time, when you stepped behind him.

—Let me— you offered, fingers already tugging the red silk.

He sighed in relief, tilting his head back to watch you.

—You always do it better— he admitted, voice softer than necessary.

Your hands worked quickly, crossing the fabric with practiced ease, but then you noticed his gaze—not on the knot, but on your face, your lips just inches from his.

—Almost done— you murmured, tightening the knot with exaggerated force.

Charles couldn’t resist.

The kiss started with him leaning forward—the tie still in your hands—pulling you close by the fabric like reins. Your lips met mid-protest, and suddenly, the perfect knot didn’t matter anymore.

—Ruined my work— you complained when you parted, fingers still tangled in the tie.

—You’re lying— he countered, smirk returning. —You did that on purpose.

49. Escape

The party was in full swing—champagne, loud laughter, and the inevitable fans angling for selfies with Charles. You spotted him across the room, jacket already half-open, drink in hand like social armor, when your eyes met.

You raised a questioning brow, but he was already excusing himself from the journalists. Two minutes later, you accidentally bumped into each other near the restrooms.

—Couldn’t take it anymore— he murmured, hands already on your waist as he pushed you into the only open stall.

The kiss was desperate and sweet all at once—tasting of cheap champagne and something uniquely him. Your fingers twisted in his hair.

—People will notice we’re gone— you laughed between kisses, back pressed to the cold door.

Charles just groaned, lips trailing down your neck like he was in a hurry to mark his territory.

—Let them look— he rasped against your skin.

50. Kiss in the Overtaking Zone

Charles’ electric kart rammed yours on the final turn, a calculated nudge that sent you off-track. You yelled, helmet muffling your laughter, as he crossed the finish line celebrating like he’d won a Grand Prix.

—Cheater!— you accused, tearing off your helmet as he approached with that troublemaker grin.

—Protests must be submitted in writing to the race director— he deadpanned in perfect FIA tone.

You went to complain, jabbing a finger at his chest, but he suddenly grabbed your waist and hoisted you onto the hood of his winning kart.

—Champion’s prize— he declared, hands gripping your dress before leaning in for a kiss sweeter than any trophy.

51. The Loud Kiss

The living room couch was the perfect stage for another lazy night—you buried in blankets, Charles sprawled with his head in your lap, ranting about practice.

—The guy just doesn’t respect the racing line—

Smack!

Your kiss interrupted him, landing loudly on his slightly sweaty cheek before he could finish.

Charles blinked, protest dying as his brain processed the attack.

—What was that?— he asked, fingers touching the spot like checking for marks.

—A kiss with sound effects— you explained proudly, already prepping another. —My own invention.

Smack! This time on the other side.

Charles laughed—that warm laugh that made your chest glow—and before you could reload, he pulled you down by the neck.

—My turn— he announced, lips comically exaggerated before returning the smack with interest.

52. Vegas, Baby!

The Vegas night was hot, the air thick with cheap promises and flashing lights. You’d sworn you only wanted one drink after dinner, but three tequilas later, you were laughing like fools outside a neon-lit chapel.

—Two people enter, one leaves married!— the sign blared in shocking pink, and Charles—tie undone, eyes bright—grabbed your hand.

—Running away, journalist?— he teased, his drunk smile gorgeous under the city lights.

You matched his grin, the challenge sparking between you.

—Only if you promise to remember my name tomorrow.

Inside, a tired Elvis united you in a five-minute ceremony—your rings were plastic trinkets from a toy machine, and the kiss…

The kiss was pure chaos.

Charles pulled you in so eagerly you stumbled into his arms, your lips colliding in a sweet, clumsy crash. Someone (probably him) knocked over the microphone, feedback screeching as you laughed like there was no tomorrow, like consequences didn’t exist, like the whole world could wait.

53. Post-Vegas

You woke with a weight on your chest—Charles’ arm. The hangover hit like a hammer to the skull.

You turned to look at him and froze. A paper lay between you. Squinting, you read: Chapel of Eternal Love.

—Charles. CHARLES. Wake up and look at this.— You shook the paper under his nose, voice equal parts panic and hangover.

He opened one eye, then the other. When he read the document, his lips curved into that same disheveled smile from last night.

—Pretty.— He pulled you back under the sheets before you could flee. —But they spelled your name wrong. It’s Leclerc now, chérie.

You groaned into your hands, but he wasn’t fazed. He kissed your exposed shoulder.

—Relax.— Another kiss, this time on your elbow. —We’ll do it again. Proper church. No tequila.

—NO tequila?— You rolled your eyes, already feeling a smile ruin your fury.

—Okay, a little tequila.— He conceded, sealing the promise with a kiss to your nose. —But only after I do.

54. The Sweet Spot

You were in the kitchen, focused on chopping vegetables, when warmth suddenly pressed against your back. Before you could turn, your hair was brushed aside—

The kiss came without warning.

Your lips parted in a gasp as Charles’ mouth found that spot on your neck he knew melted you. Your body shuddered, the knife forgotten, as he kissed just below your ear, slower this time, savoring your shiver.

—Charles— you tried to protest, but it came out a moan.

—Shhh— he whispered, breath hot. —Just helping with dinner.

55. The Elevator Kiss

The luxury Monaco elevator climbed slowly, the display ticking like a countdown. You were back from an event, in the long dress and heels Charles loved, when he grabbed your wrist.

—Fifteen seconds— he warned.

—For what?—

The kiss was fast but devastating.

His lips met yours with the urgency of borrowed time. One hand on your waist, the other cupping your face, he kissed you like he wanted to memorize you in seconds. You tasted champagne on his tongue, the expensive cologne clinging to his jacket, then—

Ding.

The doors opened.

Charles stepped back smoothly, leaving you lips tingling, heart racing.

—Good evening, Mr. Leclerc— greeted the neighbor, oblivious.

Charles nodded, face the picture of professional calm, while his fingers secretly found yours behind his back, squeezing in a coded promise.

56. The Bet

The team plane was taxiing after the Singapore GP, cabin buzzing with victory champagne. Charles, still smelling of rubber and champagne, turned to you with that competitive glint.

—Bet you won’t kiss me before we hit 10,000 feet— he challenged, fingers drumming the armrest like counting seconds.

You raised a brow. It was a stupid bet. The plane was full of teammates, reporters, and—worst of all—the Ferrari boss three rows ahead.

—What do I get?—

—I’ll do dishes for a month.

—Deal.

The plane accelerated. You feigned disinterest, watching the city lights shrink. 9,500 feet. The captain announced seatbelt removal.

9,800 feet.

Charles smirked, confident he’d won.

10,000 feet.

You struck fast.

Grabbing his tie, you yanked him close and kissed him with practiced precision—quick but enough to taste the champagne on his lips.

When you pulled back, half the team was staring. The Ferrari boss coughed loudly.

—Looks like someone’s doing my dishes— you whispered into his shoulder.

Charles froze, then laughed into your hair.

—Worth every cent of the fine I’ll get.

57. A Kiss on the Yacht, Under the Stars – When the Sky Turned Accomplice.

The Mediterranean breathed that night, gentle waves kissing the yacht’s hull like whispered secrets. You stood on the upper deck, your light dress dancing with the breeze, when Charles appeared with two champagne flutes and an expression that screamed anything but "coincidence."

—Sky’s beautiful tonight— he remarked, as if he hadn’t rented the entire boat just for this moment.

You pointed to the clouds threatening to smother the stars.

—So beautiful you can barely see a thing.

He laughed, fingers sliding down your arm to interlace with yours, pulling you toward the railing.

—Give it five minutes.

Then, as if by magic—or a Charles who’d clearly checked the weather—the clouds parted. The sky erupted into constellations, and he stole your gasp of surprise to press against you, hands firm on your waist.

The first kiss was theft—quick, sweet, tasting of champagne and audacity. The second? A slow-motion surrender, with tangled hands in hair and that quiet moan that made him smile against your lips.

When you pulled apart, your lipstick was smudged at the corner of his mouth.

—Better than stargazing— he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip like underlining an obvious truth.

And on the way back? He "coincidentally" stalled the yacht mid-sea—"Technical trouble," he lied—just to prolong the night and the taste of you on his lips.

58. Persistence

Beginnings are always messy. You had moments worth remembering—and moments when doubt gnawed at your mind, when Charles seemed like a riddle you’d never solve.

The bar was packed, music throbbing, and you’d spent twenty minutes pretending not to see Charles across the room. He, in turn, spent twenty minutes pretending not to watch you every time you turned away.

Until he finally appeared beside you, his whiskey glass clinking pointedly against yours.

—Avoiding me?— His voice was pure challenge, dark eyes playing with the dim light.

You smiled, deliberately slow as you sipped your drink.

—Stalking me?

He laughed, the sound rough and too close to your ear.

—Only if you let me.

That’s when you turned fully to him, fingers twisting in the cold chain of his necklace, yanking him close until his body heat seared into yours.

—Then kiss me or walk away, Leclerc. I’m tired of games.

The kiss was an explosion—hands cradling your face like he’d waited a lifetime, lips that didn’t ask permission, bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces only they knew how to fit. You tasted challenge and victory on his tongue, felt the low groan when you bit his lower lip.

—Still think I’m avoiding you?— you breathed, fingers trembling slightly against his chest.

Charles grinned, that dangerous smile promising more.

—No. But we should test the theory again. Just to be sure.

59. The Calm-After-the-Storm Kiss

The Santiago Bernabéu roared around you, the scoreboard cruelly lit: 2-0 to the rivals. You were on your feet, hands gripping your hair, eyes burning with outrage.

—Charles, if they’d made that cross in the first half—— You dropped back into your seat.

Your despair was so intense even nearby fans laughed. Charles, calmly beside you with a crooked smile, seemed more entertained by your meltdown than the match.

—Mon amour, it’s just a game—

— JUST A GAME?— You whirled on him, eyes flashing as if he’d insulted your entire bloodline. —Real Madrid isn’t ‘just a game,’ it’s a religion. If Bellingham had—

That’s when he struck.

A firm hand tilted your chin, his lips cutting off your fury mid-rant. The kiss was pure surprise—soft but deliberate, his tongue silencing your protests before you could blame the goalkeeper. You tried to grumble, but his fingers at your neck were a better argument.

When he pulled back, your outrage had vanished.

—Better?— he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip like a post-storm caress.

—…Maybe I overreacted.

— Maybe — he agreed, eyes glittering with amusement.

60. You’re Already Family

The Leclerc home in Monaco was warm, the air sweet with vanilla and caramel as you stepped into the kitchen—and saw, on the table, exactly the chocolate-raspberry cake you’d casually mentioned loving the week before.

—Voilà, ma chérie! (there, my dear!) — Pascale smiled, her hands still dusted with flour. —Charles told me it was your favorite.

Your heart lurched. You glanced at Charles, leaning in the doorway with a smirk half-guilty, half-proud.

—You… told her?— you whispered, ears burning.

—Of course— He shrugged, eyes bright with mischief. —She insisted.

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t wanted to be a bother, hadn’t expected special treatment… But when you looked at Pascale, at Lorenzo laughing as he sliced the cake, at Arthur stealing a raspberry before it was served—you realized: they weren’t doing this out of obligation. They wanted to.

—Merci, Pascale— you murmured, voice thicker than you’d like.

Charles slid closer, his hand finding yours under the table.

—They adore you, you know?— he whispered, lips grazing your ear. —Almost more than they adore me.

You laughed, heart light, and he took the chance to tilt your chin, sealing your lips with a kiss as sweet as the cake but as warm as the coffee Pascale served afterward.

—There— he murmured, dark eyes smiling into yours. —Now you can’t say you’re not family.

(And when you left, Pascale shoved an entire tray of cake into your bag—"For snacks this week.")

summary ; You’re the new physical therapist, determined not to fall for the charms of a spoiled athlete. But when an injury sidelines one of the players and you’re assigned to his recovery, the daily sessions, heated arguments, and stolen glances start wearing down your resolve. Then, on the night of a victory, he pulls you into the empty locker room and asks if you hate him. Well… guess not, because all that time together sparked an intimacy that was never supposed to happen.

starring ; hector fort x physiotherapist reader

warnings ; ¹English is not my first language. So the translation may be a bit nonsensical in some parts. (translator)

word count ; 3.1 words

notes; kind of cliché, but in my defense, I love writing stories like this.

MAIN MASTERLIST

THE STARRY BARCELONA night matched the glow of the fans - it was incredible how they had enough voice to sing through all ninety minutes. The game was tied two-two, just one goal away from Barcelona taking the championship lead.

The opposing attack found an opening on the flank. Hector managed to intercept the play, but the opposing striker pressed and regained possession.

If only it had been just any ordinary ball recovery. The game was fierce and hungry, the opposing attack thirsty. The tackle was brutal, sending Hector crashing down instantly as he clutched his knee.

The referee blew the whistle and teammates rushed to Hector. He groaned in pain as they tried lifting him so the game could continue. Pedri shot a look and gesture to the coach suggesting this looked worse than they'd thought.

Your first meeting with Hector had happened two days earlier at the training facility. And let's just say it might have been... tense.

You were reviewing the players' old files - you know, that paperwork of keeping everything updated - when Hector walked into the room.

— So you're Carlos's replacement? — he said.

— Not a replacement. I'm the club's new physical therapist. — you replied.

He let out a short laugh. — You like challenges? Because working with me will be one.

— If you act like a professional player, we won't have problems, Fort.

He gave you one last look before leaving and slamming the door hard. Ego - that was your first impression of Hector Fort.

But now he lay on the grass, writhing in pain. And above all, you had to keep professional separate from personal.

The diagnosis wasn't good. Torn ligament. Minimum six weeks out.

When you entered the physio room next day, he was already there, sitting on the treatment table with his knee immobilized, face unreadable.

— So... — he began as soon as he saw you. — Guess we'll be seeing each other more than intended.

You sighed deeply, put on your gloves and approached to examine the injury site.

— You always this serious?

— When dealing with irresponsible people, maybe.

— I wasn't irresponsible, it was a normal play. — he defended.

— Not talking about the play. — He looked curious.— Played hungover?

— I didn't even drink at the party.

— So it's true you went to a party the night before the game? — You stopped to stare. — Not sure why I'm surprised.

— You said it so certainly I thought you'd seen me there. — He gave another mocking laugh. — Been watching me... (your name)? — He made some effort to read your name stitched on your clothes.

— I watch everyone, it's my job to know what you're doing that affects performance.

— Or maybe you were enjoying the party and I just didn't see you. — he teased.

— Enough about this!

You discarded the gloves you'd put on and went to your desk.

— What's wrong? — he asked watching you write excessively on the file.

— Nothing serious, but... — you sighed deeply. — Don't want to inflate your ego, player. But I'll need you to take off your shorts.

He raised an eyebrow and grinned. — Didn't even buy me a drink and already want me undressed.

— Hector. — You fixed him with an impatient look. — Either cooperate, or I'll put you in a rigid brace.

Maybe he thought you'd give him an opening for his joke, just maybe. So he sighed irritated and pulled down his shorts. — Happy?

You ignored the comment and continued your work. — Just checking swelling, don't misunderstand.

Days became weeks, and you could see Hector wasn't what you'd thought. Remember your first impression was ego? You discarded it - not 100%, but most of it.

Hector was easy to talk to when in good mood. You'd discovered and memorized things about each other. For example, you learned he loved pasta and got nervous in front of cameras, whether recording for Barcelona's channel or interviews.

He discovered you loved gold jewelry, hence bought you a pricey gold necklace. You questioned his gesture but he said it was thanks for caring about his recovery. He'd also memorized your coffee time - 9:30 AM with sugar just right. Once he tried making it for you but got the sugar wrong, and kept trying since.

— Got it right today? — he asked as you set the cup down.

— No. But almost. Maybe someday.

— Think I got it long ago, you just won't admit.

— Always so provocative. — You teased. His gaze lingered. — Something on my face?

— I recognize that necklace.

— Oh, the one you gave me? — you said simply.

— Of course I remember, first time seeing you wear it here. — he smiled.

— Because it's first time wearing it to work. — You feigned indifference and kept typing.

— To work? So you've worn it other times outside?

— Wasn't I supposed to?

— Not that. Just thought you'd tossed it in your closet.

Through these small details, you noticed his attentiveness. Like when he saw you arguing with a staff member and wordlessly stood by you, arms crossed. Of course the guy found it strange and backed off.

And the looks.

God, the looks.

When your hands worked his muscles and you felt his body tense - not from pain, but something else. When he'd go quiet, watching you with intensity that twisted your stomach.

But you wouldn't fall for his game.

— Know gum isn't healthy. — he said taking the gum from your desk.

— Then go without mobility exercises too, know that?

He chuckled. — I know! But I worry about you, can't have my favorite therapist getting diabetes. — He started chewing.

— Favorite therapist? Sure Hector, we're done today.

He laughed while grabbing his phone from some corner. — Till tomorrow, favorite therapist.

Days passed with near-comfortable predictability. Each session, Hector seemed to open up more - not just his injured knee, but with words, glances, small gestures. You noticed he talked less about football and more about mundane things: favorite foods, dream trips, his parents' dog.

— Notice how people here say " vale " for everything? — he commented one day as you adjusted the resistance band on his leg.

— Part of Catalan charm. — you replied. — Now keep posture, your hip's tilting.

— Always so bossy. — he teased. — Bet you're like this at home too.

— Only with those who deserve it.

He laughed again, but his gaze lingered on your face too long. You quickly focused on his thigh muscles responding to the exercise.

— Feeling pain? — you asked, forcing professionalism.

— Only in my heart. — he murmured with a crooked smile.

— Hector... — you closed your eyes briefly. — Focus.

Some afternoons, he started staying after sessions. Sometimes with two coffee mugs. Others, just sitting while you organized reports.

— You always stay this late? — he once asked, more curious than teasing.

— Someone's got to keep you whole for next game. — you replied without looking up.

He stayed quiet, but you felt his gaze again - like he was mapping your face.

— Know I don't do this with everyone. — he said suddenly.

— Do what? — you asked distractedly.

— This. Bringing coffee, talking so much... noticing if someone's tired.

— Hector, getting sentimental? — You raised a brow, hiding the warmth in your cheeks.

— Maybe. Or maybe my therapist deserves some care too.

You didn't reply, focusing on your screen. But your heart raced anyway.

His improvement was clear - stronger knee muscles, less swelling, smoother movements. Yet oddly, Hector never seemed eager to be discharged.

He'd joke about missing these sessions. You'd tease back asking if he'd miss the pain. He even marked the café near training center you frequented every Friday for their classic chocolate cake. He'd wave like he'd been expecting you.

Small things, almost insignificant, but building tension hard to ignore.

Like when your hand accidentally brushed his abs adjusting bandages. Your eyes would meet again. He'd say nothing, but the smile at his lips spoke volumes.

Or when you, unconsciously, started wearing his gold necklace more often. And Hector always noticed.

— Like how it looks on you. — he'd say quietly, almost intimately.

— Keep this up, I'll think you enjoy testing my patience. — you'd reply, feigning disinterest.

But you'd started wondering: who was really testing whom?

You wanted to believe this was temporary, that Hector was just someone you coexisted with at the facility - nothing beyond. But then it hit you, hit when you accidentally crashed your car on the road. That weekend you'd visited friends living far away, with no way back.

The tow truck had taken your car, you'd done all necessary procedures. But you? How would you return?

You started thinking who to call... your mom was traveling with your sister, no chance. Then Hector's name came to mind. You dialed and he answered quickly.

— (Your name) what's the honor? — he said upon answering.

— Hector, I crashed my car. Help me.

— You hurt? At hospital? — concern clear in his voice. — Tell me where.

— Don't want to bother, but I can't get home, I'm kinda far.

— Ah... I don't have a car, but...

— Sorry to bother Hector, bye. — you cut him off thinking he couldn't come.

— No! No! — he said before you hung up. — But my dad does.

— Your dad knows?

— No, and he doesn't need to. — he laughed. — Send location, I'm coming.

— Okay. Waiting, Hector.

This was pivotal. If you'd been close before, now it intensified. Hector spent the whole night thinking how you'd reached out to him. Especially knowing you'd called him first after your mom. Next day, he brought the usual coffee to see if he'd gotten the sugar right, plus chocolate cake.

— Not Friday, Hector. — you took the slice.

— Would you refuse cake I brought just for you?

— Cheap shot! — you said smelling the chocolate. — Want some?

— It's all yours.

Hector sat across, watching as you took a bite. — Hey, got frosting.

He leaned in, thumb brushing your lip corner.

— Thanks! — you thanked but quickly looked away.

— You always like this? Or just cold with me? — he asked.

— Maybe I like seeing you try to resist. — you said. — You're no saint either, Fort.

— Oh come on. — he leaned back. — Know I've dreamed about you? And worse, even in dreams you don't make it easy.

— Try harder, maybe in your dreams I'll give in. — he grinned.

— Problem is, you are the dream.

— Hector...

Hector recovered. The weeks - months even - flew by. You couldn't deny missing the player.

Missing the coffees. How he always got the sugar wrong yet appeared every morning with a cup, just to chat while you updated reports. How he'd sit nearby, on his phone like the facility was his comfort zone.

Especially the teasing. Those little barbs disguised as jokes making you roll eyes yet hide smiles. Strange how these memories now returned vivid, like imprinted: his voice saying your name, his gaze full of something you refused to decipher.

You caught yourself thinking of him more than you'd admit. If he remembered the necklace. If he still had coffee at 9:30 out of habit. If he missed you too.

And it hadn't even been two weeks since his return. Your thoughts were interrupted by knocking.

— Hector? — A smile surfaced seeing him at your door.

— Brought coffee. — he smiled sheepishly. — Know it's past 9:30, but didn't forget.

— Didn't have to, Hector.

Liar.

— Of course I did. So favorite therapist, how's life without me?

— Most peaceful ever.

— Who said you like peace? — he stared.

— Where'd that come from?

— You've been moping around. Didn't you notice your smile yesterday when I waved at you from the field?

— Polite smile.

— Sure. — he scoffed. — I don't get it.

— Get what?

— I can't play, but can't stay here with you either. How's that work?

Truth was, he couldn't play yet. But physio sessions were over - now just training adjustments. If not, they'd reconsider more physio.

— Already explained, physio sessions are limited.

He sighed tiredly. — You'll be at the stadium tomorrow?

— Definitely Hector.

Next night, post Barcelona's important victory - you entered to grab your bag and found the place empty.

Almost empty.

Because he was there.

And before you could react, Hector grabbed you, your back hitting the wall, his warm body pressing against yours.

— Say you hate me. — He whispered, voice rough, lips centimeters from yours. — Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because I can't stop thinking about you?

Your heart raced. You should push him away. Should curse him.

But when he finally closed the distance, you discovered...

The locker room was silent, just distant victory celebrations echoing. Harsh lights cast cold tones on white tiles, but the air between you burned.

Hector didn't hesitate.

He gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back like claiming you.

His kiss wasn't gentle. It was collision of pent-up frustration and desire. You tried resisting, hands against his chest, but he just laughed against your lips.

— Lie. — He breathed before recapturing your mouth.

And it was true.

Your body betrayed you before your mind, hands fisting his hair to pull him closer. He groaned, satisfied, and you felt his smirk before his tongue slid against yours - slow, deliberate, like memorizing your taste.

The wall was cold. His touch burned. When you broke apart breathless, foreheads touching, his gaze locked onto yours.

— And yet I'm still at peace. — you breathed shakily.

He smiled - that smile you'd sworn to resist.

— You lie as badly as you kiss well, therapist.

Then he pinned you against the lockers, and this time, you didn't resist.

© FEINZLECLERC ²⁰²⁵ — translation prohibited without my permission

— inbox open. taglist coming soon.