Cool kids

🏁 F1 Fics

Lewis Hamilton

Charles Leclerc

Max Verstappen

Carlos Sainz

Lando Norris

Daniel Ricciardo

All the Drivers

It’s a quiet afternoon in Monaco, the kind where the air feels just a little salty and the sea breeze slips through open windows with no urgency.

You’re sitting on a blanket spread across the sun-warmed terrace of your apartment, legs outstretched, baby Amélie asleep across your chest, her cheek smushed against your collarbone. She’s drooling slightly, one tiny fist clinging to the neckline of your dress.

Leo, is curled at your feet, panting gently, his ears twitching every so often as if even in rest he’s on duty.

“Do you think he knows he’s not a big dog?” you whisper to Amélie, scratching behind Leo’s ear. “He walks like he owns the marina.”

You don’t expect an answer, of course, but if the soft grunt Amélie makes in her sleep is any indication, she agrees.

From inside the apartment, you hear the sound of laughter, then feet padding quickly across hardwood, then...

“MAMAN! Look what Papa did!”

Maxime bursts through the open sliding doors first, grinning, two strawberries stuck onto his fingers like claws. Luca follows close behind, holding what appears to be a makeshift paper crown with crayon scribbles and a Ferrari sticker on the front.

Charles trails behind them, carrying a tray with juice boxes and two small plates of cut-up fruit and cheese. He’s barefoot, sun-kissed, and wearing a navy t-shirt that used to be yours.

“He let us eat strawberries before lunch,” Maxime tattles gleefully.

Charles pretends to look scandalized. “They were organic. And sliced. That’s basically a salad.”

You give him a look, but your heart isn’t in it. He winks, sets the tray down on the blanket, and leans in to press a kiss to your temple, then one to the soft curls on Amélie’s head.

“Is she out?” he whispers.

“She made it exactly four minutes into your crown-making craft session.”

“Understandable. Maxime takes glue sticks very seriously.”

The boys settle onto the blanket, Leo immediately scooting over to rest his chin on Luca’s ankle. Maxime offers him a piece of cheese. “For being the best guard dog in the whole world.”

Leo accepts it with regal calm, as if it’s his divine right.

You and Charles sit back against the terrace railing, Amélie shifting gently in your arms, the quiet hum of the city below you. Somewhere nearby, a yacht horn blares lazily. Birds chirp. A Vespa whirs past. Monaco hums along.

“You know what I was thinking about this morning?” Charles asks suddenly, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your knee.

“What?”

“That first summer we spent here. When the apartment had no furniture. When we had to eat pasta on the floor.”

You smile, remembering it perfectly. “And Leo was the only one with a proper bed.”

“And now look at us,” he says softly, watching Maxime show Luca how to build a tower out of cheese cubes. “Three kids, a mortgage, and enough toys to build a small city.”

“And still no matching socks for anyone,” you sigh, holding up one of Amélie’s, a soft pink one that definitely doesn’t match the yellow bootie on her other foot.

Charles laughs. “It’s called aesthetic chaos. Very trendy.”

You lean your head against his shoulder and close your eyes for a moment.

It’s warm. Not just from the sun, but from this. The life you built together, noisy and sticky and perfectly imperfect.

“I like our version of Monaco,” you murmur.

He kisses the top of your head. “Me too.”

Maxime giggles loudly, a strawberry now mushed to his nose, Luca chanting “Leo! Leo! King Leo!” as he places the paper crown on the dog’s head.

Leo sighs like a saint but allows it.

Amélie stirs in your arms, then settles again, tiny lips puckering in her sleep.

And for a long, quiet moment, nothing happens except sunlight and soft laughter and the feeling of Charles's hand, warm and sure, resting over yours.

————

the end.

------

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The Woman Who Found Courage

Elena wasn’t sure why she’d come to the rooftop event.

Technically, it wasn’t even Y/N’s launch. Just a pop-up for a sustainable fashion brand she followed loosely online. Still, something told her to show up. She’d made the dress she was wearing for the first time, a floor-length deep green wrap with slightly uneven stitching and too much thread showing on the hem. She wore it anyway.

The terrace was bathed in golden hour light. Glasses of sangria clinked over conversations about textiles and ethics and minimalist branding. Elena stood near a planter of lavender, alone, half-heartedly sipping from her drink, trying not to fidget with the fabric at her waist.

She noticed the woman before anyone else did.

Y/N L/N arrived without announcement, no entrance, no heels clacking on tile. Just soft linen pants, a breezy top, and hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but somehow she still glowed. Elena watched her float through the space, greeting friends, complimenting strangers, stopping to touch fabric with genuine interest.

And then, Elena couldn’t quite believe it, Y/N noticed her.

The designer approached with a kind smile, tilting her head toward Elena’s dress. Her voice was low but warm.

“I love this color. It suits you.”

Elena smiled, small and a little nervous. “I made it.”

Something flickered across Y/N’s face, surprise, then delight. She leaned in closer, asked a few more questions Elena couldn’t hear from where she stood. The conversation didn’t look performative. It looked kind. Gentle.

Minutes passed. At some point, a man walked up, tall, relaxed, hands in his pockets. He didn’t interrupt. Just stood close enough for Y/N to lean against his arm, resting there like it was instinct. Elena squinted, catching his profile.

Carlos Sainz.

There was a stillness to him in that moment, none of the intensity he wore on race weekends. Just a man smiling quietly while the woman he loved talked about dresses with a stranger.

Eventually, Y/N squeezed Elena’s hand. Carlos nodded. They left together, fingers interlaced, slipping out the side without needing anyone to notice.

Elena watched them go.

Later, she found a piece of paper tucked into her tote. She didn’t know when it had been placed there.

Make things you want to wear. The rest will follow. –Y/N

It wasn’t signed with a brand name or a handle. Just those words.

She pinned it above her sewing table that night. And she hasn’t stopped creating since.

——————————

The Kid Who Got a Ride Home

The storm rolled in fast, one of those early spring downpours that gave no warning, just cracked the sky open and spilled everything at once.

Mateo muttered a curse under his breath as he stood under the narrow awning outside the preschool, clutching his phone and trying to refresh the weather app like it might help. His daughter, Luna, was still inside, and he was stuck without an umbrella, his car three blocks away. Typical Tuesday.

He wasn’t the only one caught unprepared. Other parents were gathered around, shoulders hunched, rain spotting their sleeves. The staff tried to usher the kids out quickly, but the rain made everything chaotic. He barely noticed the matte black SUV that pulled up at the curb, until he saw who stepped out.

A man in joggers and a hoodie, the hood half-up, his trainers already wet. He jogged around the vehicle with surprising ease, umbrella in hand, and opened the back door.

Carlos Sainz.

Mateo blinked. Was that…? No. Couldn’t be.

But then a woman appeared too, Y/N L/N, unmistakable even in a raincoat and messy bun. She was crouched at the backseat, holding a little boy’s backpack in one hand and a Spider-Man umbrella in the other, laughing softly as she tried to keep the child dry while buckling him in.

Mateo stared. No entourage. No security. No cameras. Just two parents caught in the rain.

He must’ve been really staring because the little boy, Sebastián; if he remembered correctly, turned and waved at his daughter through the preschool window. Luna, ever bold, waved back.

A minute later, the boy was calling from inside the car. “Papi! Luna doesn’t have her coat!”

Carlos looked up then, really looked around. “Whose kid?” he asked Y/N in a low voice.

“I think she’s with her dad. Over there,” she said, subtly nodding.

Carlos approached Mateo cautiously, umbrella extended.

“You okay?” he asked in Spanish. “She’s saying your daughter’s coat is inside.”

Mateo nodded. “Yeah, just waiting. Didn’t expect the storm.”

Carlos looked up at the sky, then back at him. “We can wait a minute with you, if that’s alright. He won’t leave without saying goodbye.”

And so, they waited. The four of them, two soaked dads, a quiet woman with rain droplets clinging to her lashes, and two preschoolers pressing their hands to the foggy car windows in some kind of wordless farewell ritual.

When Luna finally ran out with her coat clutched in her hand, Carlos held the umbrella over her like it was the most natural thing in the world. He helped her into her dad’s arms and nodded once before getting back into his own car.

By the time Mateo reached his own car, he was half-wet and still in disbelief.

His daughter spoke up from the backseat. “Papi?”

“Yeah?”

“Sebastián’s daddy drives really fast.”

Mateo grinned. “Yeah, hija. I guess he does.”

———————

The Man Who Didn’t Know

Joaquim didn’t get many visitors.

His vineyard had long since stopped producing wine, and the only people who came through the winding countryside roads were either lost or chasing some romantic idea of rural Portugal they saw on a Pinterest board.

He was pruning back the fig tree when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. An SUV. Black, sleek, foreign plates. It paused just beyond the gate, the engine idling like it was thinking too.

He didn’t rush. He had lived long enough to know people came and went no matter what you did.

The passenger window rolled down, and a woman leaned over from the driver’s side. “Desculpe,” she said in careful Portuguese, “Estamos un pouco perdidos. Sabes como llegar a…?” (“Excuse me,” “We're a little lost. Do you know how to get to…?”)

“Espere,” Joaquim waved a hand, wiping dirt on his trousers. “You’re Spanish, no?” (“Wait.”)

She nodded, clearly relieved.

Behind her, a man leaned into view. Sunglasses, stubble, a faded cap pulled low. “Our GPS thinks this is a road.”

Joaquim chuckled. “It used to be.”

He gave them directions, slow and deliberate. The woman repeated them back just to be sure. She smiled when she got it right. “Thank you so much.”

“No trouble,” he said, but he didn’t step away yet. Something about them made him linger.

The man reached back into the car, rummaged for something, and handed Joaquim a bottle of water. “It’s hot,” he said. “You’re working hard.”

Joaquim accepted it with a nod. “Obrigado.” (Thanks.)

He watched them for another moment. They weren’t in a rush. The man reached across the console to tuck a piece of hair behind the woman’s ear. She leaned into it, like it was nothing and everything at once.

That simple gesture stuck with him.

It wasn’t until two days later, when his son came to visit and saw the water bottle sitting on the porch ledge, that the penny dropped.

“Where did you get this?” his son asked, flipping it in his hand. “This is from the race in Barcelona.”

Joaquim blinked. “A couple gave it to me. They were lost.”

His son stared. “Wait…describe them.”

When Joaquim did, his son looked at him like he’d seen a ghost. “That was Carlos Sainz and Y/N L/N.”

Joaquim raised an eyebrow. “The race car driver?”

“Yes!”

Joaquim shrugged. “He was very kind. She was so bright. I liked them.”

His son gaped. “And you didn’t ask for a photo?”

Joaquim smiled, the kind that comes with age and a thousand sunrises. “Some moments don’t need to be caught on camera to last.”

—————————

The Woman Starting Over

Mariana wasn’t supposed to be in that part of Lisbon that day.

The boutique she worked at was closed for inventory, and her to-do list was long and unrelenting. But the thread store on Rua da Rosa had gotten a new shipment of linen blends, and the thought of running her fingers along clean bolts of fabric sounded better than facing another spreadsheet.

So, she went. And maybe that was fate.

The shop was quiet, warm, and smelled faintly of cedar. As she stood by the cutting table, comparing two shades of sage green, a voice behind her said, softly, “Go with the cooler one. It reads better in sunlight.”

Mariana turned. She recognized the woman instantly, though not in a celebrity way. More like the way you recognize someone whose style you’ve saved in moodboards and screenshotted late at night when you need to remember what dreams look like.

Y/N L/N.

She was dressed simply, white button-down, loose trousers, no makeup, but still looked like the sort of woman people designed runways around.

“I’m sorry,” Mariana blurted out. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Y/N smiled. “You weren’t. You looked torn. I know that look.”

Mariana felt herself flush. “I… I’m starting over. With design. Again. It’s been a rough few years.”

Y/N didn’t ask for details. Instead, she looked at the fabric in Mariana’s hands. “It’s hard, right? Making things that might not work. Making them anyway.”

Mariana nodded.

They spoke for ten minutes. Maybe twelve. About pattern grading. About creative burnouts. About imposter syndrome. About how sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk into a fabric store and say, I’m still trying.

Y/N bought nothing. She wasn’t there to shop. Maybe she’d wandered in by accident. Maybe not.

But before she left, she pulled a folded swatch from her own pocket, terracotta cotton with an unusual herringbone stitch.

“I carry this when I’m stuck,” she said. “It was from my first real show. I thought no one would come.”

She placed it gently on top of Mariana’s fabric. “Here. For yours.”

And then she was gone. Just like that.

It wasn’t until later that Mariana realized a man had been waiting outside the store the whole time. Dark sunglasses, reading a newspaper, casually leaning against the wall like any other local on a slow afternoon.

She recognized him when she flipped through Instagram that night. Carlos Sainz.

He’d looked up when Y/N walked out. Not at her, but for her. And when their eyes met, he smiled like he’d been smiling for her all his life.

————————————

The Single Mom and the Toothbrush

Camila had barely slept.

Her six-year-old son, Nico, was too excited. The hotel bed felt too soft. The air conditioning clicked all night. And now, somewhere between the chaos of packing their race day backpack and trying to brush her own teeth with one eye open, Nico had realized he’d forgotten his toothbrush.

Of course he had.

She stared at him, hair still in a messy bun, shirt half-tucked, and sighed. “We’ll get you a new one at the little hotel shop, okay?”

He nodded, wide-eyed and solemn, like this was the greatest tragedy of his young life.

The hotel lobby was buzzing, Grand Prix weekend always brought chaos, but the tiny convenience store off to the side was thankfully empty. She grabbed the cheapest kid toothbrush she could find, along with a juice box Nico didn’t need but would definitely beg for.

But at the counter, her card didn’t work.

The terminal blinked red once, then again. “Insufficient funds,” the screen said with embarrassing clarity.

Camila blinked. She knew her account was tight, but she'd transferred some money last night, hadn't she?

She was trying to figure it out when a soft voice said, “Add this too, please.”

Camila turned. The woman behind her held out a small box of soft gummy candies and a travel-sized pack of markers. She smiled and not the pitying kind, but the warm, understanding kind. “They’re good for the wait at the track. Long day ahead.”

Camila opened her mouth to protest.

“No, really,” the woman said. “I’ve been there. You’re doing great.”

And before Camila could even say thank you, the man beside her stepped in, handing over his black card like it was second nature. “Here,” he said quietly. “It’s fine.”

Camila blinked.

Wait.

The man’s profile was familiar. The voice, even more so. And the woman, soft curls tied back, oversized sunglasses, denim jacket thrown casually over leggings, she looked achingly familiar, too.

Carlos Sainz and Y/N L/N. In her hotel. At her register.

Her jaw didn’t drop. Not right away. She was too stunned for that.

Carlos handed Nico the juice box himself. “You excited for the race?” he asked, smiling.

Nico’s eyes widened. “You sound like the guy my tío watches on TV.”

Carlos chuckled. “I get that sometimes.”

Then he looked back at Camila, a little more serious, and said, “Enjoy the weekend. It goes by fast.”

They walked off without fanfare. No bodyguards. No posing. Just two people, hand-in-hand, blending into a world that expected them to stand out.

Camila stood there frozen until the cashier cleared her throat and handed over the bag.

Later that night, she posted a thank-you on Twitter, not tagging anyone, not trying to make it go viral. Just a simple message.

‘To the couple who bought a toothbrush, candy, and markers for my son this morning, thank you. You were kind when you didn’t have to be. I hope your weekend was as good as you made ours.’

It never went viral.

But some moments aren’t meant to.

——————————

The Couple at the Cliffside Café

Luca had never liked the idea of “taking a break.” Either you fought for something or you let it go. You didn’t put it in a storage box and hope it’d look better after a few weeks.

But Bianca had insisted.

They booked the trip to Mallorca because it was far enough to feel like somewhere else, but familiar enough that it wouldn’t feel like pretending. They hadn’t spoken much since arriving. Just shared coffee in silence, walked side by side like strangers in familiar shoes. There were things they wanted to say. But neither wanted to say them first.

On the third morning, they found a café built into the edge of a cliff, whitewashed walls, wildflowers in chipped pots, a breeze that smelled like salt and citrus.

It was nearly empty. Only one other table was occupied.

A couple, probably in their 30s, sat tucked in the corner beneath the archway where the morning sun broke through like honey. The woman had sunglasses pushed into her hair, curls loose around her shoulders. She was laughing, really laughing, head tilted back, hands over her mouth like she couldn’t help it.

The man across from her watched her with such softness it made Luca look away.

He looked at Bianca. She was stirring her coffee slowly, eyes distant.

“I miss this,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “This?”

“Us. You and me. Before we started planning our future like it was a tax form.”

She gave him a long, searching look.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “But then I saw them.”

He glanced toward the couple again.

The man was reaching across the table to tuck a napkin under her coffee cup before the breeze caught it. The kind of gesture you only learn after years of loving someone well.

It wasn’t showy. There were no phones out. No attention drawn. But it was… real.

And the woman? She leaned in just a little, her hand brushing his like it belonged there.

“I think they’ve been through things,” Bianca said, surprising him.

“You think so?”

“There’s a stillness in them,” she said. “Like they’re not trying to prove anything.”

Luca turned to look again, just as the man took off his sunglasses and leaned back.

Carlos Sainz.

Luca’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No way.”

Bianca tilted her head. “And her?”

“Y/N L/N,” he said. “She’s a designer. I think they’re married. Or… something.”

Bianca smiled a little. “That explains the dress. And the calm.”

They watched for a moment longer, just the two of them, quietly taking in a couple who existed like a secret garden in plain sight. One you didn’t know you needed until you stumbled across it.

When the waiter came, Luca ordered them another round of coffee.

“We’re not done yet,” he said.

“No,” Bianca agreed, reaching for his hand. “We’re not.”

By the time they left the café, Carlos and Y/N were gone. No photos. No autographs. Just a receipt left on the table, weighed down by a smooth, sea-polished stone.

And maybe, just maybe, two hearts stitched back together in their quiet wake.

----

The end.

Y/N steps into frame in a cream silk robe, the initials Y/N.H. embroidered on the pocket in tiny cursive gold. Her hair is loosely clipped back, and her skin, bare and dewy, catches the light like she’s already halfway through the glow-up. Her eyes are soft with excitement, her smile warm and playful.

“We’re here just outside Paris for Fashion Week,” she begins, her voice low and sweet, almost like a secret. “Lewis and I wanted to enjoy the week but still have some peace and quiet, so we booked a little hotel tucked into the countryside.”

She glances behind her, then back to the camera.

“And since Vogue reached out months ago about doing a Beauty Secrets, we figured, what better time?” She grins, cheeks dimpling. “It’s date night tonight, and more importantly, it’s our anniversary.”

As she walks toward the vanity, the camera follows her with a soft pan, giving a better look at the robe, custom clearly, and matching the one that appears a moment later when the bathroom door eases open with a soft creak.

In walks Lewis, hair freshly braided, skin clean and glowing from the post-shower steam. He’s barefoot, wearing a matching silk robe, L.H. stitched in identical golden script. And right behind him, tongue out and tail wagging, comes Roscoe, happily trotting into the room like he owns it.

“Hi,” Lewis says simply, blinking at the camera like it’s just another guest in the house.

Y/N snorts. “You weren’t supposed to be in here yet.”

“Roscoe didn’t get the memo,” Lewis murmurs, dropping a hand to his dog’s back as Roscoe pads over to sniff the cherry blossoms.

Y/N gives him a long look. “You might as well stay now. But no beard grooming in my segment.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow. “That’s half my routine.”

“I rest my case.”

He smiles, brushing a kiss against her shoulder as he passes behind her toward the second sink. Roscoe settles at Y/N’s feet, yawning, as she turns back to the camera.

“Okay. So. Skincare.”

She begins by dampening her face with warm water and talking through her cleanser, the bottle bearing a sleek white and silver logo: Hamilton Skin.

“We actually started our own skincare line a couple years ago,” she says, massaging the foam across her cheeks. “Lewis and I bonded over this stuff when we first met. He had better skin than me at the time and wouldn’t stop bragging.”

“I did not brag,” Lewis calls from behind his hand towel.

“You still brag,” she corrects, laughing.

The camera pans slightly to catch Lewis washing his face beside her. Their movements are mirror images, like a practiced dance. No bumps, no crowding. Just an unspoken rhythm, like they’ve done this a thousand times.

Y/N finishes rinsing and reaches for her toner, patting it gently into her skin.

“This one’s my favorite, hydrating but light. Smells kind of like cucumber and sunshine.”

She turns toward Lewis and nudges the bottle in his direction.

“You’re still getting used to toner, right?”

“I’ve used this one before,” he replies, already reaching for a cotton pad.

She grins. “Progress.”

He doesn’t say much more, doesn’t need to. He works quietly, respectfully, giving Y/N space to explain her serums, one by one, to the camera. But when she starts chatting about peptides and forgets to finish blending in her moisturizer, Lewis notices.

Without a word, he steps closer, fingers soft as he smooths the cream into her temple and under her jaw. She flutters her lashes once, not startled, just a little caught and smiles to herself as she continues speaking.

“You’ll notice I go for glow,” she says. “I like to look like I’ve been kissed by the golden hour.”

Beside her, Lewis taps on his own under-eye serum, then runs a comb through his beard with such focus that Y/N side-eyes him through the mirror.

“Told you. Beard takes longer than the rest of his face.”

“Precision,” he says again.

“You’re trimming invisible hairs.”

“Still counts.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. The camera lingers on them in the mirror, the intimacy of two people who are completely at ease with each other. Every glance is a conversation. Every silence is full.

She moves on to her makeup. Nothing heavy, just a radiant base, a little warmth on her cheeks, a soft brush of highlighter. Her voice lowers like she’s telling a secret.

“I always go a little minimal when it’s just us. Just enough to feel elegant. Lewis loves when I keep it simple.”

“I love everything,” he murmurs behind her.

She swats at him playfully with a makeup sponge.

As she reaches for her lip liner, Lewis leans against the counter, arms crossed, and watches her.

“Hey.”

“Mmhmm?”

“Do the red. From our first date.”

She pauses, looking up through the mirror. There’s a flicker of emotion that passes between them, quick but powerful.

“You remember that shade?”

“Of course I do,” he says, voice softer than before. “You wore it with that black dress. I couldn’t look away.”

Y/N bites her lip. Opens a drawer. Pulls out a small gold tube.

She applies it slowly, carefully, layering the red with precision. It’s bold, it’s timeless and somehow still manages to look like her.

“Happy anniversary,” she says, turning toward him.

Lewis steps forward, cupping her jaw as he looks down at her lips, then back into her eyes. “You look the same. Still got me weak.”

Off-camera, Roscoe gives a little sneeze, shaking his head like he’s had enough of the romance.

Y/N laughs, gently scratching his ears. “We’re almost done, buddy.”

A baby’s squeal echoes in the background, light and sudden.

Then the door opens again, and in crawls little Sofia, in a soft cream knit onesie, babbling happily as she finds Roscoe and grabs a handful of fur. Behind her is Lewis’s mum, smiling as she scoops the baby up with practiced ease.

“Perfect timing,” Y/N murmurs. She lifts her daughter into her lap, careful not to smudge her lipstick, and turns to the camera one last time.

“Well,” she says, “that’s the routine. Thanks for getting ready with me, Vogue.”

—————

CUT TO: A final clip, via Vogue's TikTok.

Y/N and Lewis, now fully dressed and standing in front of a wide hotel mirror. Her cream two-piece glimmers with subtle beadwork. His suit: black, structured, paired with a soft gray turtleneck and silver chain, matches perfectly.

“Outfit check!” Y/N announces, phone in hand as she records their reflection.

Lewis lifts a brow. “You’re still trying to make me do this?”

“Yes. And it’s working.”

He sighs but turns slowly. “Fine. One time. For the people.”

Roscoe trots into the frame and sits at their feet like a little prince.

Sofia giggles in the background.

The video ends not with a tagline or a pitch, but a final still: the Hamiltons in the mirror, laughing, glowing, wrapped in love and red lipstick and ready to go on their date.

————

🧼💄 Comment Section Under: “Y/N Hamilton’s Date Night Skincare & Makeup Routine | Vogue Beauty Secrets”

💬 @bby-lve

“lewis doing skincare in the background like a respectful king while also blending HER moisturizer for her… this is love in motion 😭”

💬 @devilacot

“the red lipstick story? him remembering the exact shade?? 10 years later??? i’m crying in single”

💬 @angelluv16

“roscoe casually strolling in like the family pet and the director of vibes”

💬 @angstynasty

“Y/N teasing him about beard grooming while he’s meticulously trimming invisible hairs… this is marriage content”

💬 @hisashifrey

“no but can we TALK about their skincare line actually being legit??? my skin has never looked better and i say that with my chest”

💬 @mynameisangeloflife

“me: crying at how gentle lewis was while fixing her moisturizer also me: crying harder when sofia crawled in with lewis’s mum at the end 🥹🥹🥹”

💬 @evalynkillgrave

“the matching robes… the mirrored routine… the lip color callback… this wasn’t a beauty video this was a LOVE STORY”

💬 @vogue

“Can we make a couple’s edition next time? 👀 asking for everyone”

💬 @veganluxegirl

“them plugging their vegan, cruelty-free skincare like it’s NBD when they’re literally changing the industry 💅”

💬 @lorena-mv33

“roscoe, the baby, the grandma, the robe embroidery, the mirror scene... they’re not real people they’re a soft fiction novel”

💬 @frenchtwistedd

“why did this video make me want to marry, have a baby, start a business, and wash my face twice a day… they’re too powerful”

💬 @baechugff

“i’m sorry but lewis saying ‘you made me late to my own event’ with the SOFTEST eyes???? no one is doing it like them”

------

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The Table Beside Us

London, Thursday NightTwo days before the British Grand Prix

“This is insane,” Matilda whispers, eyes wide as the hostess leads them through a softly lit room, jazz humming low in the background.

“Evelyn’s Table. We actually did it,” Camille murmurs back, smoothing down her dress like she still couldn’t believe they were here. “I might cry.”

“You better not,” Miranda warns, laughing, “We haven’t even gotten the bread basket.”

They’re seated at a cozy round table tucked in a corner, dim golden lights strung overhead, candles flickering. It’s intimate. Quiet. The kind of place where you whisper and lean in close to talk. A well-dressed waiter takes their coats and menus and brings them sparkling water without asking. They glance at each other with wide eyes and gleeful smirks. They were so not used to this kind of place.

Emma sits facing the rest of the girls, right on the edge of the room. She rests her chin in her hand, watching the three of them chatter excitedly about their appetizers, the upcoming weekend at Silverstone, and what outfits to wear each day. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling faintly.

She’s about to rejoin the conversation when movement to her left catches her eye.

The couple being seated at the table right beside them.

Her eyes flick over casually and then lock. Her heart skips.

She knows that jawline.

No way.

It’s him. Lewis Hamilton. The Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time World Champion, F1 legend, her literal childhood idol.

And he’s not alone.

The woman with him is stunning in a low-key, effortlessly cool way. She wears a soft black halter top, wide-leg trousers, a low bun with wispy pieces falling out, and she laughs like she knows him. Like, really knows him. She touches his arm like it’s second nature. He pulls out her chair. Her bag is already in his hand before she even reaches for it.

Emma’s brain stutters.

“Oh my God,” she mouths, barely breathing. She darts her eyes forward.

“Emma?” Camille says, pulling her back to the table. “What’s up?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just... this place is nicer than I expected.”

But now she’s listening. And little by little, so are the others.

They never stare. But they hear.

“—so I’m thinking we stay at the flat in Notting Hill after the race,” Lewis says in that smooth, low voice.

Y/N grins. “And what, turn it into our victory nest?”

Lewis chuckles. “Maybe. Depends how Silverstone goes.”

“It’ll go well,” she murmurs, nudging his foot with hers. “You always light up when it’s home turf.”

They hear bits and pieces. How they just got back from Greece. How Y/N’s fashion project is being featured in a pop-up soon. How nervous Lewis is about performing in front of his home crowd again, but how he feels better with her around.

It’s intimate. Sweet. Private.

And the girls all know without saying it, they’re not going to ruin this moment. Not for the world.

Instead, they giggle softly at their own table, stealing glances when Lewis feeds Y/N a bite of dessert, when she smiles at him like he hung the stars. When he grabs her coat for her. When she says, “Thank you, baby,” so soft it feels like a secret.

When they get up to leave, Lewis places his hand on the small of Y/N’s back. She leans in to whisper something in his ear. He laughs.

And then he glances back.

Briefly.

Right at them.

Just one look.

Just a little smile.

Just a little nod.

Almost like thank you.

The girls stay silent until the couple is fully out the door.

Then Camille lets out a whisper scream. “THAT WAS LEWIS. HAMILTON.”

“WITH A GIRLFRIEND?!”

“WHO WAS THAT?!”

“THEY WERE SO CUTE. OH MY GOD. HE FED HER DESSERT. HE FED HER DESSERT.”

Emma holds her hand to her chest. “We’re never telling anyone. That’s ours.”

They all nod, pinky-promising over espresso martinis. A night they’ll never forget.

Saturday – Silverstone Paddock

It’s FP1 and the girls are walking the paddock. They still can’t believe their passes worked. (Miranda’s dad had connections, apparently.) They’re mid-conversation about Carlos’s new helmet design when someone calls out softly...

“Cute outfits.”

They turn.

It’s her.

Y/N.

Wearing a sleek black jumpsuit, hair in a high ponytail, laminated paddock pass bouncing against her chest. She’s alone, sipping an iced matcha.

Emma swears her knees buckle.

“Oh... uh, thank you!” Camille blurts.

Y/N walks over slowly, smiling. “I remember you,” she says warmly. “From dinner.”

There’s a pause.

“You do?” Emma asks.

Y/N nods, her eyes soft. “You were the table next to us. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t take pictures. Thank you. Seriously.”

The girls all blink. Speechless.

“I know it might not seem like a big deal,” Y/N continues, “but privacy’s hard to come by. You gave us a little piece of it. So, thank you.”

She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out four small envelopes, each one sealed.

“These are for you. Don’t open them until tomorrow.”

Then she smiles, waves, and walks off like a dream.

They stand frozen for ten whole seconds.

Camille gasps. “Do we just wait until tomorrow?”

Emma opens hers that night.

Inside: a signed Lewis cap. And a note in looping handwriting.

“To the lovely ladies from Evelyn’s Table, thank you for keeping a good thing sacred. See you tomorrow for a proper picture? – Lewis :)”

Sunday – Post-Quali Meet-Up

It happens backstage in a quiet hallway behind the Mercedes hospitality unit (Lewis insisted it stay private). Y/N stands beside him, hand in his. He’s in his race suit, hair tied back, grinning as the girls approach.

“You made it,” Lewis says, all dimples. “I owe you one.”

They take a photo, one they never post publicly. Not fully. Just a corner of Lewis’s arm, the edge of his smile, their matching caps. The rest stays with them. Always.

Later, when the sun sets over the track and fans are filing out, the girls sit on a grassy hill near the fence, grinning like idiots.

“We’re taking this to the grave, right?” Miranda says.

“Duh,” Matilda says.

“But also,” Camille adds, “it’s gonna be the best story at our weddings.”

They all turn to Emma.

She smiles, looking out over the track, the smell of rubber and grass and something like magic still in the air.

“Our little secret,” she says. “Forever.”

----------

More Than Just Family

Jessie tugged at the hem of her blouse as they pulled off the M4 and into the quiet streets of West London. Her nerves twisted and fluttered like ribbons in her stomach, but Mike reached over and squeezed her hand on the gear shift.

“You’re going to love them,” he said. “And they’re going to adore you.”

She smiled, grateful, but her palms were still clammy. “I know, I know. I’m just… nervous. And excited. And terrified.”

Mike chuckled. “Babe, you flew to London from Lisbon to move in with me. You survived my flatmate’s cooking. You can handle Aunt Carmen’s garden party.”

Jessie laughed, finally. “Point made.”

They pulled up to a lovely two-story home with pale brick and ivy climbing up the sides. Dozens of cars lined the street. Jessie glanced out the window, wide-eyed.

“Wow. Full house?”

“Oh yeah,” Mike grinned. “Aunt Carmen doesn’t do anything small.”

They made their way to the door and were greeted with warmth and cheek kisses and drinks thrust into their hands before Jessie could say “Obrigada.” Carmen was hosting the family reunion of the decade: aunts, uncles, cousins, babies in little hats, dogs under the table.

Jessie found herself easing into the rhythm of it, the gentle thrum of family laughter, stories half-shouted over clinking cutlery, conversations about holidays and football and how tall everyone had gotten.

“They’re lovely,” she whispered to Mike as he passed her a paper plate.

“Told you.”

An hour in, Jessie was perched on a garden bench, sipping lemonade and watching two kids chase bubbles across the lawn, when the sliding glass door opened.

A little girl, about five years old with big curls and even bigger energy, burst outside.

“Grammy!”

Carmen opened her arms, and the little girl flew into them, legs wrapping tight around her waist.

Behind her came… well. A vision.

A woman with a floaty sundress, soft braids pinned back from her face, a warm smile and a backpack overflowing with what looked like tiny coloring books and plush toys. Jessie sat up straighter without meaning to.

“That’s Y/N,” Mike said, returning to her side with a napkin full of snacks. “She’s Lewis’s wife. You’ll love her.”

Jessie blinked. “Lewis? The cousin you were telling me about?”

“Yeah. I don’t think he’s here yet, must’ve dropped them off first.”

Jessie nodded, curious, but quickly distracted as Y/N came over and introduced herself.

“Hi! You must be Jessie,” Y/N said with a friendly smile, holding out a hand.

Jessie stood, wiping her palms discreetly on her jeans. “Yes! Hi. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Mike’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, I figured,” Y/N grinned. “He talks about you all the time. Portugal, right?”

Jessie lit up. “Yes! I’m from Lisbon.”

“I love Lisbon,” Y/N said. “That’s actually where Lewis and I met. We go back every year, even if just for a weekend.”

“You do?” Jessie blinked, already charmed.

“Yeah. We got engaged at this tiny rooftop bar overlooking Alfama,” Y/N said with a dreamy smile. “I was so sunburnt. Looked crazy tan in all the pictures.”

Jessie laughed, delighted. Y/N was easy to talk to. They sat together on the bench and talked about Lisbon cafés, dresses from local boutiques, and where to find the best pastéis de nata outside of Belém. Jessie found herself talking about her job as a translator, how she still struggled with confidence in English sometimes.

“I totally get that,” Y/N said, hand on her arm. “Meeting Lewis’s family for the first time? I was a nervous wreck. They’re so close. I thought I’d mess it up.”

Jessie softened. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. But Carmen’s an angel. You’ve already passed the biggest test.”

Jessie was mid-giggle when Y/N glanced up.

Her face shifted instantly lighter, brighter.

Jessie followed her gaze.

A man had stepped into the backyard, dressed simply in a polo and jeans, hair pulled back, sunglasses hooked onto his collar. Jessie could tell, immediately, that he was someone. He moved with the ease of a man who didn’t need to command attention to have it. He stopped every few feet to greet people, crouching to pick up a toddler’s toy, hugging Carmen from behind.

When his eyes landed on Y/N, the transformation was unmistakable. His whole body language shifted, shoulders relaxing, smile deepening, pace quickening.

Y/N’s face broke into something so full of love Jessie felt like she shouldn’t be looking.

“Speak of the devil,” Y/N murmured. “There’s my husband.”

Jessie blinked. “That’s… Lewis?”

Y/N stood to greet him. “That’s my Lewis.”

Jessie turned to watch, Lewis pulled Y/N into a full-body hug, one hand immediately resting on her stomach, thumb brushing gently over the swell of her baby bump.

“You okay?” he murmured, soft enough that only she could hear.

“Better now,” Y/N smiled.

Mike joined a moment later, clapping Lewis on the back, both men lighting up at the sight of each other. Jessie stood as Lewis turned to her.

“And this must be Jessie,” he said, warm and genuine, extending his hand.

“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you,” Jessie said, her voice a touch higher than usual.

“I’ve heard great things,” Lewis grinned.

The four of them stood chatting about the food, the weather, their favorite spots in London. Lewis was effortlessly kind, funny in a quiet, observant way. When Sofia ran up mid-conversation, he bent immediately to kiss her head.

“Been painting, bug?” he asked, noting the blue on her fingers.

“I made Grammy a picture,” Sofia said proudly, and Y/N smiled as Lewis wiped her hand gently with a napkin from his pocket.

Jessie couldn’t stop smiling. They were magnetic together. Easy. Solid.

Later, Jessie wandered through the house to help Carmen carry out dessert. She passed by the kitchen just as Lewis was tying Y/N’s sandal for her, one knee on the floor.

“Don’t bend too much,” he said quietly, “You’ll make me nervous.”

“I’m not fragile,” Y/N laughed.

“You’re carrying my whole world in there. I’m allowed to worry.”

Jessie looked away quickly, her heart warm.

That Night

Back in Mike’s flat, Jessie scrolled through the pictures she’d taken, smiling faces, warm sunlight, Sofia mid-cartwheel, the corner of a photo where Lewis and Y/N were seated under a tree.

She posted a boomerang to her close friends story:

“Survived the family reunion! Mike’s family is everything 🥹💛”

Within minutes, replies started rolling in:

“WAIT IS THAT LEWIS HAMILTON???” “Excuse me ma’am why didn’t you mention THE Lewis??” “JESSIE.” “Zooming in. ZOOMING IN. IS THAT HIS WIFE???” “YOU MET THEM CASUALLY?!?!”

Jessie blinked. “What?”

She opened Safari. Typed: “Lewis Hamilton.”

And froze.

The articles. The awards. The seven world championships. The red carpets. The activism. The fame.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, hand covering her mouth.

She stared at the screen. At the same man who’d carried Sofia’s stuffed bear across the lawn. The same one who’d made sure his pregnant wife had a chair in the shade.

She looked up at Mike, who was brushing his teeth.

“Babe?”

“Mmh?”

“Your cousin is like… famous famous.”

Mike grinned at her in the mirror. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

Jessie laughed, falling back on the bed.

She liked that. That she hadn’t known. That she’d met Lewis the cousin, the husband, the dad, before she knew about the rest.

And she liked knowing it would be their little story.

-------

Check-Out Line

Sunday Night – Trader Joe’s, Upper West Side

Emmy popped her gum slowly as she wiped down the checkout lane. The rain hadn’t stopped all day, turning the automatic doors into a squeaky mess of wet footprints and broken umbrellas. She glanced at the clock overhead: 7:46 PM.

Almost there.

She could already taste the sesame noodles she planned to inhale the second she got home.

“You’re an actual angel for covering this shift,” her manager Jenna said as she walked by with a stack of wet baskets. “How’s your studying going?”

“Ask me again after Wednesday,” Emmy muttered.

The truth was, she’d only agreed to swap shifts because Anna had begged. Her best friend and fellow cashier was currently camped out on the sidewalk by the Met Museum, wrapped in a waterproof poncho and vibrating with excitement to catch a glimpse of the Lewis and Y/N Hamilton at the Gala tomorrow night.

“I need to see her dress in person,” Anna had said, borderline manic. “She’s always best dressed. Always. And Lewis is co-chair this year. If I see them kiss on the carpet, I’ll cry.”

Emmy, being a decent human and in desperate need of Anna’s Friday shift to study, had taken the L and agreed to cover Sunday night.

It was fine. Normal. Boring, even.

Until the couple walked in.

At first, Emmy didn’t pay much attention, couples came in all the time. But this pair… something was different.

They weren’t like the usual grumpy Sunday shoppers who stormed in for eggs and got mad about the line. They were laughing. They looked happy. Playfully ducking under each other’s umbrellas, sharing a hood, giggling like teenagers.

She noticed the man first, tall, hoodie up, dimples showing. The woman beside him wore a long trench coat and clutched a damp tote bag to her chest. Her bump was visible beneath a ribbed cream sweater. Pregnant. Radiant.

And deeply, joyfully in love.

Tourists, probably. No real New Yorker smiled that much in the rain.

They wandered through the aisles, pausing to debate oat milk vs. almond milk near the back wall. Emmy only caught pieces as they passed:

“—it’s just better for baking, babe.”

“You say that like you bake.”

“I could bake.”

“With oat milk? Doubt it.”

Then they were gone.

Emmy blinked herself out of the moment.

“Hey, Em,” Jenna called from behind the dairy cooler. “Can you check the back for more cookie dough? Couple in aisle six is asking.”

“Copy.”

Emmy trotted to the stockroom, grateful for the moment of quiet. She found one lonely roll of chocolate chip cookie dough in the backup fridge and padded back into the store, water squeaking under her shoes.

She found them, same couple, now in a lighthearted argument about birthday cakes.

“I’m just saying, ice cream cake is clearly superior,” the woman was saying, loading a pint of Jeni’s into their basket.

“Because your bias is clouding your judgment,” the man teased. “Just because your childhood birthday cake was frozen doesn’t mean—”

“Hi,” Emmy interrupted gently. “You asked for this?”

She held out the cookie dough. The woman gasped.

“You found it?! Oh my god, thank you! You’re saving my whole night.”

The man snorted. “Told you someone would come through.”

“You have to settle something,” the woman said suddenly, turning to Emmy. “Cake or ice cream?”

Emmy blinked. “Like… in general?”

“Specifically, birthday dessert. What’s better?”

Emmy grinned. “Ice cream. Duh.”

The woman gasped and clutched her chest. “YES. Finally. Someone gets it. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to win this.”

The man grinned. “This is betrayal.”

“She’s objective,” the woman shot back, triumphant.

“I’m gonna remember this when I eat the whole cookie dough roll by myself,” he mumbled.

They all laughed.

Emmy handed over the cookie dough and returned to her register, cheeks warm.

A few minutes later, as the store was winding down and music from the speakers switched to the mellow end-of-day playlist, the couple made their way to checkout.

Emmy raised a brow at their basket.

“Strawberries, sparkling water, oat milk, cookie dough, and like… four pints of ice cream. That’s a dinner of champions.”

“We’re a classy household,” the man said seriously.

“She’s pregnant,” the woman added, rubbing her belly. “It’s legally required.”

The man handed over a credit card, still laughing about their almond milk debate. Emmy glanced at the name on the screen as the machine processed the transaction.

L. Hamilton.

Weird. That name sounded… familiar.

Really familiar.

But she couldn’t place it. Not while bagging organic strawberries and vanilla bean pints and trying not to get distracted by how utterly normal they were. They were the kind of couple you’d want to hang out with. Go to a trivia night with. Babysit their kid for free just because you liked them.

“Good luck with the cookie dough,” she said as they walked toward the exit.

“Thanks,” the man smiled, reaching back to grab his wife’s hand. “Have a good night.”

And then they were gone.

Friday – Back Room, Trader Joe’s

“You’re never going to believe this,” Anna said, nearly knocking over her coffee as she threw her phone on the breakroom table. “I SAW THEM. I saw them. And she waved at me.”

Emmy blinked. “Who?”

“Y/N. Hamilton. At the Met. They were perfection. She wore custom Harris Reed, Lewis was in this white suit with the cape, I’ll show you.”

She swiped through her camera roll and shoved her phone into Emmy’s hands.

There they were.

Lewis and Y/N Hamilton. Walking the Met steps. Stunning. Regal. Grinning at each other like the world wasn’t even watching.

Emmy’s stomach dropped.

She stared.

And then she blinked.

Twice.

No.

Wait.

“Wait,” Emmy whispered. “Wait, wait, What’s his name again?”

Anna narrowed her eyes. “Lewis Hamilton. Like… the Lewis Hamilton? F1 driver. Activist. Style god. Husband of my dreams. The moment. Why?”

Emmy’s face went pale. “They came into the store.”

Anna froze. “What?”

“Last Sunday. It was raining. I thought they were just, God, he was wearing a hoodie, she was buying cookie dough. Anna, they were arguing about oat milk. I sided with her.”

Anna looked like she was going to faint.

“You met them?”

“I checked them out. I gave them the last roll of cookie dough. She made me pick between cake and ice cream.”

Anna screamed. Like… actually screamed.

“You lived my dream, and you didn’t even know?!”

“I thought he looked familiar! I just didn’t think he would be at Trader Joe’s!”

Anna slid to the floor dramatically. “You talked to her. You agreed with her. You saw them hold hands in public.”

Emmy laughed helplessly, hands over her face. “I told her ice cream was better than cake. I think I helped her win an argument.”

Anna wheezed. “You changed history.”

Later That Night

Emmy posted a story of her Chinese takeout on Instagram. She captioned it:

“Thinking about that time I unknowingly sided with Y/N Hamilton in a dessert debate. @ the universe: thanks.”

The replies came in fast:

“WAIT YOU MET THEM?” “IS THIS THE COOKIE DOUGH STORY” “You’re basically part of the Met Gala lore now.” “Plot twist of the year.”

Emmy just smiled.

She wasn’t one for celebrity hype. But she had to admit…

That couple?

They were something special.

-------

Crayons and Confetti

Tuesday mornings were usually calm in Room 12.

The kids filed in, still half-asleep, clutching water bottles and teddy bears and the remains of toast handed off at the curb. Ms. Elise greeted each of them by name as they shuffled to their cubbies.

“Good morning, Callie. New sparkly shoes?”

“Hi, Mateo! Yes, your dinosaur shirt is very cool.”

And then came Sofia.

Tiny, wide-eyed, with two curly pigtails and a pink glittery backpack that was nearly the size of her. She always arrived a few minutes early, walking in hand-in-hand with her mom.

“Morning, Sofia,” Ms. Elise smiled.

“Hi Ms. E!” Sofia beamed, skipping to her cubby.

“Hi there,” her mom added, looking as effortlessly cool as always in black trousers and an oversized blazer, hair swept back into a low bun. She gave a warm nod. “She packed her own lunch today, so if there’s a yogurt explosion, we accept full responsibility.”

“I’ll prepare the paper towels,” Ms. Elise joked.

Y/N grinned and bent to kiss her daughter’s head. “Love you, bug.”

“Love you too, Mama!”

And just like that, she was out the door.

Later that morning, Ms. Elise led the class through their weekly "Family Portrait" activity, simple enough: draw your family however you see them. Stick figures welcome. Crayon chaos encouraged.

She walked through the room, pausing to admire the masterpieces.

Mateo drew himself and his abuela flying in a spaceship.

Callie drew four moms (which tracked with her impressive imagination and love of glitter).

Sofia was focused. Tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

“You working hard, Sof?” Ms. Elise asked gently, kneeling beside her.

Sofia looked up, eyes shining. “I’m drawing my family.”

“I can’t wait to see.”

Sofia smiled proudly, then went back to coloring.

It wasn’t until cleanup time that Ms. Elise picked up the drawing again.

At first glance, it was simple: five figures in crayon.

Two big ones, a man with dark curls, a woman with long lashes and earrings. Two small ones, one with pigtails, one clearly a baby (mid-scribble). And behind them…

A race car.

Red. With flames. And the word “GOOOOOO!” scribbled above it.

Ms. Elise smiled. “Tell me about this one.”

Sofia pointed at each figure. “That’s me, that’s my little brother Leo, that’s Mama, and that’s Daddy.”

“And what’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the car.

“That’s Daddy’s job,” Sofia said cheerfully.

Ms. Elise blinked. “Oh? He’s a race car driver?”

“Mhm! He goes really fast. But he always stops for us.”

There was something so proud in her voice. So sure.

Ms. Elise laughed softly. “That’s very sweet.”

Sofia leaned in like she was sharing a secret. “He always says we’re his best trophy. Even better than the shiny ones.”

That afternoon, Ms. Elise went to file Sofia’s drawing in the take-home folder.

As she double-checked the emergency contact forms (standard protocol), she paused.

Father: Lewis Hamilton.

Her eyes widened.

Oh.

She blinked again.

That Lewis Hamilton?

She picked up the crayon drawing again.

Two adults. A baby. A race car.

And a little girl who believed, no, knew that love came before speed.

The next day, Sofia brought in banana bread for the class (homemade, carefully labeled nut-free in gold handwriting). Her mom handed Ms. Elise the container, looking slightly flushed.

“Sorry it’s a bit uneven,” Y/N said. “She insisted on cutting the slices herself. And we may have sampled one.”

“They’ll love it,” Ms. Elise assured her.

“Oh, and Lewis is picking her up today,” Y/N added, checking her watch. “He has a late call tomorrow, so he swapped with me.”

Sure enough, at 3:04 PM, a matte black SUV pulled up in the car line.

The door opened.

And there he was.

In a hoodie, sunglasses, and sneakers, waving like any other dad.

When Sofia ran to him, he scooped her up with ease, kissing her cheek as she giggled.

“Did you eat all your lunch?”

“Yes! And Ms. E let us have extra story time!”

“Sounds like a great day, bug.”

Before he turned, he caught Ms. Elise’s eye and gave a warm nod.

“Thanks for taking care of her.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling softly.

And then they were gone.

That Friday, the kids’ drawings went home.

Ms. Elise slipped Sofia’s into her folder carefully, fingers lingering for a moment.

Some families wore matching shirts.

Some families yelled or whispered or forgot things at drop-off.

And some families moved at 200 miles per hour… …but always stopped, exactly where they were needed.

-------

The end.

Let me know what you guys think of this story :)

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Sophie was not emotionally prepared for what awaited her in the new Vogue Beauty Secrets video.

She had expected skincare tips and light glam. Maybe a glimpse of the Leclerc home in Monaco. What she got instead? Full-blown domestic intimacy and the softest glimpse into Charles Leclerc’s family life that had her immediately texting her group chat in all caps.

The video starts with a soft click of a camera. Then, a yawn.

“Hi, Vogue,” Y/N greets, bleary-eyed but smiling, her voice raspy from sleep. “I’m Y/N Leclerc. It’s 6:42 a.m., I haven’t had coffee, and I have approximately six minutes before someone needs me, so let’s go.”

She’s in a silky ivory robe, hair loosely twisted up, bare-faced but still radiant. The Monaco morning light spills in through tall windows, and behind her, their bathroom is sleek and softly lit, complete with pampas grass, glowy wall sconces, and a tiny pink toothbrush on the counter.

“So, I start my routine with cold water to fake looking awake,” she says, splashing her face. “This cleanser is my holy grail. Saved me from pregnancy acne, postpartum dry skin, and whatever hormonal situation is happening now.”

Just as she starts patting her face dry, a high-pitched wail breaks through the audio.

Y/N sighs, already smiling. “Hold on.”

The camera stays rolling as she walks out of frame. A minute later, she returns with a sleepy, whimpering baby girl snuggled into her chest and latched under her robe, suckling quietly.

“This is Amélie,” Y/N explains with a gentle bounce. “She woke up from a nightmare. Or gas. Or because the moon shifted slightly. Who knows.”

She reaches for her toner with one hand. “We multitask in this house.”

From the hallway, there’s the unmistakable sound of tiny feet running and then,

“MAMAN! Maxime threw the car in the toilet!”

Y/N freezes mid-serum. “Of course he did.”

Seconds later, Charles appears in the doorway in a plain white tee and black boxers, holding their son Maxime upside down like a sack of potatoes while their other son, Luca, trails behind looking scandalized.

“We’re resolving a Formula 1 incident in the bathroom,” Charles says, grinning at the camera. “Luca’s the steward. Maxime is currently being investigated for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

“Did you retrieve the car?” Y/N asks.

Charles shrugs. “No comment.”

He presses a kiss to her temple, checks on Amélie with soft eyes, then scoops up both boys with ease. “We’ll be back. Maybe.”

As he disappears, Y/N turns back to the camera with a laugh. “As you can tell, I live with four Leclercs. And none of them understand volume control.”

She continues her routine: moisturizer, under-eye cream, a little face oil, occasionally pausing to adjust Amélie’s head or sip coffee that mysteriously appears beside her.

Y/N narrows her eyes toward the door. “He always does this. Drops off coffee like a skincare fairy.”

There’s a beat.

Then Charles reappears with Leo, their dog, trailing behind him and immediately curling up at Y/N’s feet.

Charles grins, now shirtless and balancing Luca on one hip, Maxime hanging from his back like a little koala.

“Thought you needed a refill.”

Y/N lifts her brows. “You mean a refill of chaos?”

He kisses her cheek again. “Always.”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “I’m going to try to do mascara. Let’s see how this goes with a baby attached to me and a toddler kicking a soccer ball off the bidet.”

The camera captures her reflection in the mirror, her swiping mascara with practiced precision while Amélie dozes, Charles wrangling twins in the background, Leo curled up protectively beneath her. Somehow it feels… cinematic. Like watching a memory unfold.

She reaches for her blush and hears,

“Maman, I want the pink lips too!” Maxime shouts, bolting into the room again with one of her glosses in hand.

Charles walks in, sheepish. “He stole it. I tried.”

Y/N gestures to the camera. “Well. Raw and real, right Vogue?”

She lifts Maxime onto the counter, dabs a bit of gloss on his lips, and hands the wand to Charles with a teasing smirk. “Your turn.”

Charles blinks. “I thought this was your video.”

“Your lips are dry. Don’t embarrass the family.”

The camera catches Charles puckering obediently, Y/N laughing as she applies the gloss while holding Amélie in place.

Sophie can’t believe she’s witnessing this. Charles Leclerc in a lip gloss application tutorial. Shirtless. Surrounded by three kids and a dog. Whispering something soft in French to his daughter, whose little fist is tangled in his necklace.

“I swear by this nipple cream,” Y/N adds, completely unbothered. “For any of you breastfeeding, it’s a life saver. Charles applies it for me when I’m too tired.”

“I do?” he calls from the hallway.

“You do now,” she calls back.

She finishes her makeup with one hand, blush, a bit of highlighter, tinted lip oil.

“And that’s it,” she smiles. “That’s my five-minute face for school drop-offs, F1 events, or just chasing the dog through the garden while holding a crying baby.”

Charles reappears once more, now with Amélie peacefully burping over his shoulder, the twins playing with Lego on the rug behind him.

He leans into the frame. “She forgot the most important product.”

Y/N blinks. “I did?”

Charles kisses her cheek. “Confidence. And a little gloss.”

Sophie feels like her heart’s going to explode.

The screen fades just as Maxime announces, “Papa tooted,” and chaos erupts behind them.

Y/N blows a kiss to the camera.

“Thanks, Vogue. Come back when we’ve slept for more than three hours.”

Fade to black.

—

The end...

Taglist:

@devilacot @angelluv16 @angstynasty @hisashifrey @mynameisangeloflife @evalynkillgrave @lorena-mv33 @frenchtwistedd @baechugff

Azerbaijan

The streets of Baku are slick with heat. Everything’s close here. Tighter than most. No space to breathe. No space to run.

You’ve been riding high for weeks.

Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft, secret love you never thought you'd feel again.

He brings you coffee most mornings. You steal his socks when you stay the night. He never says anything, just smiles when he finds them tucked in your bag.

So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.

Maybe you forgot what it felt like to wonder where you stood.

-

Friday – Paddock Arrival

You’re walking toward the media center when you spot her.

Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. That curated, casual cool that only exes seem to perfect. A linen shirt just barelyunbuttoned, gold jewelry catching the sun like it knows exactly where the cameras are.

You know her name. Everyone does.

Élodie.

PR girl turned occasional model turned motorsport muse. A summer constant for Charles before you.

You saw her tagged in old photos. Monaco boat parties. Summer breaks before you existed in his world.

You don’t say anything.

Not at first.

You just watch from across the paddock.

And then you see it.

Her hand on his arm. His polite laugh. The way he doesn’t step back. The way he tilts his head like he’s listening to her.

And that?

That’s all it takes.

You don’t blow up.

You don’t flinch. You don’t storm over. You don’t start a scene.

You just take a breath that feels like fire and keep walking.

That night, when he texts, “Come over?”

You stare at the screen for ten full seconds.

Then type: “Think I’ll stay in tonight.”

He calls. You don’t answer.

You watch the phone ring until it stops, screen dimming like the end of a movie.

-

Saturday – Quali Day

You arrive early.

You’re all business. Head down. Hair up. Laps in. No smiles.

He arrives late.

Eyes tired. Jaw set. No music in his ears. No easy stride.

P1: You. P6: Him.

Your lap is perfect. Sharp. Controlled rage in the form of sector times.

His is messy. Missed braking. Flat-spotted tire. Distracted.

-

Ferrari Hospitality – Post-Quali

The room’s almost empty. Just you, your untouched pasta, and your laptop with your own lap overlay on replay.

He walks in, chest rising too fast, hands still stained from the gloves.

“You’re mad,” he says, not even sitting.

You stab at your food, not looking up. “I’m focused.”

“Focused, my ass,” he snaps, voice low but sharp. “You didn’t even look at me all morning.”

You drop the fork. “Fine. You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

He crosses his arms. “Please.”

You glare. “You smiled at her.”

“Who...Élodie?” He scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“She touched your arm.”

“She touches everyone’s arm.”

You stand. “And you let her.”

“She was saying hi.”

“She was testing you.”

His mouth parts. “Is that what this is about? Some harmless—”

You laugh once, bitter. “It’s never harmless. Not with her. Not when you used to love her. Not when the world saw it.”

He steps forward. “I didn’t want her then. I sure as hell don’t now.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you whisper.

He looks like he’s going to say something. Then stops.

It’s too quiet.

He exhales. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

You clench your jaw, still not convinced.

“And if I made you feel like that for even a second…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’m sorry.”

It lands.

But not all the way.

“I need time,” you say.

He nods. “Then I’ll wait.”

-

That Night

You don’t go to his room.

But you pass it.

And you pause.

Just long enough for him to hear your steps outside the door.

He doesn’t open it.

But he texts you: “Still yours. Always.”

-

Race Day – Sunday

The strategy plays out flawlessly.

You lead from the first corner. He holds P3. Defends hard when Oscar tries a divebomb on Lap 34.

When the checkered flag falls:

P1: You. P3: Charles.

The team explodes.

But you?

You don’t celebrate loudly.

You don’t scream into the radio.

You just exhale.

-

Charles’s Motorhome

You wait until the crowd dies down. Until the press rounds are over. Until the engineers stop knocking on doors and the sun starts bleeding into the Caspian Sea.

Then you go to him.

You don’t knock. You don’t have to.

The door is already unlocked.

He’s sitting on the edge of the small couch, race suit unzipped, hair still damp from the shower, head in his hands.

When he looks up and sees you, he doesn’t smile.

He just breathes.

Like he’s been holding it in for hours.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

The click of it sounds like a secret.

He doesn’t move. Not at first.

So you do.

You walk over, slow, measured, the buzz of the paddock a dull hum outside the thin walls.

When you stop in front of him, he looks up again, eyes flicking over your face like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time.

You sit on his lap. Swing your leg over. Straddle him without a word.

His hands find your hips, instinctively.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

You cup his face. Both hands. Thumb dragging over the stubble on his jaw.

“You’re still mine, right?” you whisper.

His brow furrows like he wants to cry. “Always.”

You lean your forehead against his. Eyes closed. Skin to skin.

“Next time,” you murmur, “don’t laugh at her jokes.”

“I wasn’t,” he breathes.

“You smiled.”

“I was thinking about you.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Liar.”

He nods. “Only sometimes.”

You smile. Soft. Real.

Then finally—finally—you kiss him.

Not frantic. Not possessive.

Just deep. Slow. Forgiving.

He pulls you closer until there’s no air between you.

And when you break apart, still pressed chest to chest, he murmurs:

“I thought I lost you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Then you rest your head on his shoulder, your fingers playing with the chain around his neck.

And for the first time since she showed up…

You feel steady again.

-----

Singapore

Ferrari Hospitality – Thursday Night

The air in Singapore wraps around you like syrup. Thick. Warm. Still.

Night race. City lights. Lanterns swaying over marina water. The paddock bathed in neon and humidity.

It should feel heavy.

But for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t.

Everyone’s out. PR dinner for the junior drivers. The grid scattered across rooftop bars and private clubs.

But not you.

You’re barefoot in Charles’s motorhome kitchen, wearing his old Monaco hoodie and slicing mango with a plastic knife while the air conditioner hums softly in the corner.

He’s lying on the couch behind you, one arm slung over his face, legs still in race shorts.

“You’re going to cut your hand,” he mumbles without moving.

You smirk. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You pop a slice in your mouth and lean your hip against the counter. “You want some?”

He peeks out from under his arm. “Only if you feed me.”

You walk over slowly, wedge of mango held between two fingers.

He opens his mouth lazily, but at the last second, you shove it into his cheek.

He chokes. You laugh so hard you drop another slice on the floor.

And when you lean down to clean it up, he grabs your wrist.

You freeze.

Not because he’s holding you. But because his touch is soft. Reverent.

You straighten slowly, eyes locking with his.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says.

You nod. “Trying to stay out of my own head.”

He shifts, makes room for you on the couch.

You settle into the space beside him, your legs tangling, your head falling naturally to his shoulder.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whisper after a long silence.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Then don’t.”

You look up. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he says.

You blink. “You really believe that?”

He shrugs. “I believe in you.”

And god, you want to cry. Because no one’s ever said that and meant it like he does.

You kiss him, slow and unhurried.

And when he carries you to bed later, he doesn’t take off your hoodie.

He just pulls you close, buries his face in your neck, and whispers:

“We’ve got this.”

-

Quali Day – Saturday

He goes P3. You go P2.

No games. No tension. Just clean driving and the sound of your names lighting up the timing board.

Afterwards, you share a quiet moment behind the garage. No one else around. No cameras. Just you and him, helmets still in hand, sweat cooling on your backs.

You fist the fabric of his fire suit lightly.

“Do you ever think about what it’s going to feel like?” you ask. “When it’s public?”

He nods. “All the time.”

“Are you scared?”

He shrugs. “Only if you are.”

“I’m not scared of loving you,” you say.

He smiles. “Then we’ve already won.”

You lean into him. Rest your forehead against his chest.

He sways you slightly. Like he can feel the victory coming too.

-

Race Day – Sunday

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

P2: Charles. P3: You.

On the podium, you stand beside him, champagne in hand, crown of misted sweat curling your hair.

You clink bottles.

He winks.

And when you’re walking off-stage, he brushes his pinky against yours.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

-------

USA, Circuit of the Americas (Austin, Texas)

Thursday – Media Day

Texas air is dry and wide. Big blue skies, a thumping country playlist in the background, and the kind of sunshine that makes even bad days feel golden.

You land in Austin late Wednesday night. Separate flights. Separate cars.

But by Thursday morning?

Your coffee is already waiting in Charles’s motorhome.

Soy milk, one sugar. Lid off, straw in. His doing.

It’s not hiding anymore. Not here.

The Ferrari press room is busy. You’ve got an interview block with F1TV. He’s paired with you, for chemistry, obviously.

The interview setup was painfully bright. Studio lights, clip-on mics, two white chairs, and a laminated segment title that read: "Finish Each Other’s Sentences."

You groaned when you saw it. “Isn’t this usually for rookies?”

Charles smiled without even looking up from his water. “Or married couples.”

You shot him a look. “We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back the grin already tugging at your lips.

They started recording almost immediately.

“We’re going to begin with something simple,” the producer explained from behind the camera. “I’ll start the sentence—you finish it. Each other’s, not your own.”

Charles leaned forward, chin propped lazily on his fist. “We’re professionals.”

You glanced at him sideways. “We’re disasters.”

“First one,” the producer called. “My teammate’s most annoying habit is...”

You both answered at the same time. “Overthinking.”

You blinked, turning sharply to him. “Wait, me?”

Charles shrugged, deadpan. “You take forever to pick a tire strategy.”

You jabbed your elbow into his ribs. “You take forever to pick a playlist.”

Next one: “If we weren’t racing, we’d be...”

You answered, “On a beach.”

Charles said, “At home.”

Your head turned to him, slowly.

He was already looking at you.

The producer let out a slow whistle behind the camera. “Okay. That was… intimate.”

-

Ten minutes later, you were standing near catering when you spotted Lando, arms folded across his chest like a disappointed older brother.

“So,” he started, leveling a look at the two of you. “Just to clarify, you’re not back together?”

You raised your eyebrows, reaching for a banana. “Why would you say that?”

Charles sipped from his water bottle like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Because we are not telling the world.”

Lando didn’t even blink. “I saw you feed her a grape in the hallway.”

You snorted. “It was a slice of apple.”

Carlos strolled in next, hands in the pockets of his Williams track pants. “You guys are dating again.”

Charles shrugged. “Maybe.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You live together again.”

You laughed. “No.”

He pointed with his chin. “You left the hotel this morning wearing his hoodie.”

You hesitated. “It’s… comfortable.”

Pierre wandered over, sunglasses perched too low on his nose. “Told you all. They’re back on.”

George chimed in with a smirk. “I give it two days before you soft launch on Instagram.”

You raised your hands dramatically. “There will be no launch. There will be no soft. There will be no nothing.”

And then, of course, Lewis walked by, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hiding his smirk.

“There’s a lot of something,” he said smoothly, not even breaking stride.

You and Charles looked at each other. And for once? Neither of you denied it.

-

You’re back in Charles’s motorhome, curled up with your feet in his lap. Your hair’s damp from a shower. He’s wearing your favorite grey hoodie, the one he tried to steal in Monaco.

Charles runs a thumb over your ankle. “You okay with everyone knowing?”

You pause.

“I think I am,” you say. “It feels… safe. With them.”

His voice is quieter now. “And the rest of the world?”

You turn toward him. “Not yet.”

“I can wait,” he says. “As long as I get to keep this.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “You’ve always had it.”

He kisses you.

Long. Deep. The kind of kiss that feels like a decision.

-

Friday – Practice

You arrive in the paddock separately.

But inside? You share a water bottle. He ties your wristband tighter when it’s too loose. You correct his helmet strap before FP1.

Carlos mutters: “Yeah, totally just friends.”

-

Saturday – Quali

You qualify P1. He’s P4. The paddock cheers for both of you, but it’s the way he looks at you after your final lap, like you hung the damn moon, that gives everything away.

Oscar, backstage: “They’re like… glowing.” Lando: “I hate how soft this is.” George: “I think I cried a little.”

-

Sunday – Race Day

He doesn’t win. You don’t either.

P2: You. P5: Charles.

But you finish, hand brushing his when you walk back to the garage, smiles lingering on your faces like the secret is still just yours.

That night, the grid goes out for dinner.

Lando raises a glass to “the worst-kept secret in the paddock.”

Lewis adds, “Protect it. Don’t let the noise ruin the real.”

And for the first time, you’re not scared.

Not of being seen. Not of being known.

Because the people who matter?

They already see you.

And they still chose to sit at your table.

-----

Mexico

Thursday – Media Pen

The air in Mexico City is thin. Not metaphorically, literally. High altitude. Short breath. Long days.

You’re used to pushing your limits, but this weekend? You feel every step.

Not because of the track.

Because of everything else.

The points gap is shrinking. The world is watching. The cameras are close. Too close. And you’re trying to pretend that your heart doesn’t skip every time Charles brushes your hand in the garage.

You answer the usual questions.

“Yes, the car feels good.”

“Yes, we’re confident going into quali.”

“No, there’s no extra pressure.”

You lie cleanly. Casually. Rehearsed.

But when someone asks, “You and Charles seem closer than ever. Has that helped the team dynamic?”

Your smile slips for half a second.

Then you recover. “We’ve always had chemistry,” you say. “Even when it wasn’t easy.”

Charles, in the pen next to you, glances over.

And smiles.

-

Friday – Practice Sessions

You’re fast.

He’s faster.

Not by much. Just enough to make it a game.

Every lap you close the gap, he finds another tenth. Every time he outbrakes you into Turn 4, you take it back in Sector 3.

It’s fun. It’s flirty. It’s frustratingly addictive.

And it’s starting to look a lot like foreplay.

Carlos says nothing. But he’s watching.

-

Friday Night – Private Dinner

It’s not a date. It can’t be. Not here.

But the restaurant is quiet. The table in the corner is yours. And when Charles reaches for your hand across the table halfway through your pasta…

You let him hold it.

No one’s looking.

Or so you think.

Until your waiter comes by with the dessert menu and smiles too knowingly.

Charles just shrugs. “We’ll take two spoons.”

-

You’re lying in bed, side by side, your legs tangled under the sheets and your fingers playing with the edge of his T-shirt.

He’s staring at the ceiling.

“I want you to win it,” you says quietly.

He turn to face you. “What?”

“The championship,” you says again. “If it’s between us… I want you to have it.”

His heart lurches.

“Don’t say that,” he whisper.

You look at him, eyes soft but serious. “You deserve it.”

“You do too.”

He kisses your forehead. “Not this year.”

You press your face into his chest and enjoy the silence.

Because the truth?

You’re not sure what it would feel like to win without him beside you.

-

Saturday – Quali

You go P2. He goes P1.

He beats you by two-hundredths of a second.

You watch his pole celebration from the garage, pretending to smile, even though your chest aches a little.

Later, he finds you sitting alone in the data room, sipping water and reviewing lap deltas.

“You’re pissed,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You look up. “You beat me.”

He steps closer. “By less than a blink.”

You nod slowly. “Still counts.”

He crouches in front of you, hands resting on your knees. “You’re still the better driver.”

You meet his eyes. “Not today.”

He lifts one hand and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“I don’t care what the numbers say,” he whispers. “I know who I’d put everything on.”

Your heart breaks a little. And heals all at once.

-

Sunday – Race Day

The race is chaotic.

Tyre degradation. Double yellows. A late safety car.

But in the end, you finish P1.

Charles, P3.

It’s the second-to-last race of the season.

You’re leading the WDC.

By five points.

-

Podium Room

You sit beside him, both of you drenched in champagne and sweat. He hands you a towel.

You wipe your face.

You lean into his side.

And when you think no one’s looking, he whisper:

“I don’t want to win without you.”

And you says,

“You won’t.”

--------

Las Vegas GP

Thursday – Welcome Night

Vegas is chaos disguised as celebration. A glittering distraction. A neon fever dream. And somehow, this city, loud and cracked at the seams, feels quieter than the storm building inside you.

You and Charles are tied. On points. On momentum. On the line between love and legacy.

And there are only two races left.

-

“Is this the airport or a catwalk?” Carmen mutters, squinting at the camera crew waiting outside.

You smirk. “Both. Welcome to Vegas.”

You’re flanked by Lily and Carmen, weaving your way through a sea of suitcases and fluorescent fan signs when you finally spot him. Charles, exiting a sleek black car like he’s in a Bond film. Hair perfectly tousled. Aviators too expensive. Strut annoyingly effective.

“You’re late,” you say as he falls in step beside you.

He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is warm. “You’re glowing.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

Still no glance. “Still worked.”

-

Thursday Night – Dinner at the Bellagio

The private dining room is perched on the 43rd floor, all glass and skyline. Your families are already seated when you arrive.

Your mom waves you over, cheeks flushed. “You missed the toast! Charles’s mom already tried to sneak in a wedding joke.”

“I did no such thing,” Pascale says, fake-offended. “I simply said you two make a perfect pair. That’s not a proposal.”

Charles slides a hand to the small of your back. “Please don’t encourage her.”

Your dad raises his wine. “You’ve got all of us here in Vegas. You sure you’re not eloping tomorrow?”

You laugh, cheeks hot. “We’re just racing, remember?”

Charles glances sideways. “Are we?”

You shoot him a look. He smiles like it’s nothing.

But your mom and his mom catch it.

And they say nothing.

But they see everything.

-

You’re wrapped in a blanket, Charles beside you, drinks in hand. The city is a blur of movement below.

“Abu Dhabi’s in two week,” you murmur.

“Don’t remind me,” he sighs.

You look at him. “Are we ready for that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, voice quiet. “My mom asked me tonight if I would be okay if you won.”

You freeze. “What did you say?”

He exhales. “I said yes. Because I would be.”

You blink, throat tight. “That’s a lie.”

“No,” he says softly. “It would hurt. But not like losing you would.”

Silence hangs between you.

“I love you,” you whisper. “More than I want to win.”

He leans in. Foreheads touching. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

-

Friday – WAG Suite, a.k.a The Real Paddock Power

You’re curled up on the couch of Lily’s suite with Carmen, Kika, and a few others, feet tucked under you, champagne in hand.

Lily passes you a snack. “So. Still pretending you’re single?”

You smirk. “I’m not pretending. I’m… filtering.”

Kika raises an eyebrow. “You told the media your ‘ideal weekend’ was pizza and a movie alone. Meanwhile, Charles posted a story of someone’s knee in his lap.”

You cough. “Could be anyone’s knee.”

“Sure,” Carmen drawls. “And my boyfriend never overshoots turn one.”

They all laugh.

Kika leans closer, smirking. “So what’s next? Secret marriage in Monaco?”

You roll your eyes. “No weddings. No announcements. Just us.”

“And the entire grid already knowing,” Lily grins.

You hide your face behind a pillow.

“God,” you groan. “I hate how obvious we are.”

“Sweetheart,” Carmen says gently, “you’re not obvious. You’re in love.”

-

Meanwhile

“You think they’ll make it through Abu Dhabi?” your dad asks, sipping from a lowball glass.

Arthur shrugs, glancing toward the table where you and Charles are laughing. “Depends who finishes ahead.”

“I don’t care who wins,” Lorenzo adds, more serious. “I just want them to get through it intact.”

“They’ve got fire. That’s the good news,” your dad says.

Arthur smirks. “And the bad news?”

“They’ve got fire.”

They all laugh.

A beat passes. Then your dad murmurs, “She really loves him, you know.”

Lorenzo nods. “He loves her too. He just… overthinks.”

Arthur leans back. “Then he better not mess it up this time.”

-

Friday Night

Charles runs his fingers down your arm. “I used to be scared of you.”

You look up from your pillow. “Me?”

“You were everything I didn’t know I needed.”

You smile. “And now?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now I’d rather lose to you than never feel this again.”

-

Saturday

Charles goes P1. You go P2. The front row is Ferrari red.

The moment you step off the track, you hear the cheer.

And then you feel it, his fingers brushing yours.

No one’s watching. You’re sure of it.

So you kiss him.

Just once. Soft. Quick.

Enough to feel real.

-

Sunday

The race is chaos. One red flag. Two safety cars. You nearly clip a barrier. Charles blocks Max like his life depends on it.

P2: You P3: Charles

But it’s not the podium that everyone talks about.

It’s you, gripping Charles’s face post-race in the cool-down room, whispering something that makes him laugh, truly laugh, for the first time all weekend.

No cameras catch it.

But the paddock knows.

-

Later that night, you’re sitting side by side on an overturned crate, suits still half-zipped, sharing a water bottle.

“We’re tied,” you say.

He nods. “I know.”

“Two races left.”

Another nod. “I know.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Are you scared?”

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “No. Because whatever happens, you’ll still be mine.”

You smile.

“You really believe that?”

“I know it.”

--------

Abu Dhabi

The desert is unforgiving.

It bleeds heat into your bones and tension into your chest.

Abu Dhabi has always been the jewel of the calendar, but this year, it isn’t a finale, it’s an execution. One race. One track. One title.

And two hearts on the line.

You and Charles.

Tied.

It couldn’t be scripted better. The season that started in ruins, heartbreak stitched under red Ferrari race suits, has come down to this: one last lap.

And no one, not the media, not the paddock, not the fans, knows what’s about to happen.

Not just on track.

But off it too.

-

Wednesday

The jet lands just past midnight, the tarmac shimmering from heat despite the late hour.

You step down with sunglasses already in place, because even if the sun isn’t up yet, the world is watching.

Charles descends behind you. For the first time in months, there’s no strategic delay, no quiet choreography to avoid suspicion. You walk side by side.

“You think anyone knows?” you whisper as you pass the cameras.

“I think everyone knows,” he says.

“Think anyone will ask?”

He glances sideways. “They won’t have to. Not after Sunday.”

-

Thursday

The paddock is buzzing. Cameras, journalists, influencers, all swarming like bees around a championship honeypot.

You’re seated beside Charles in the press conference. Ferrari PR didn’t even bother pretending this year.

Every question is barbed.

Every smile is rehearsed.

“Charles, you’ve never won a world title. Y/N’s leading on wins. Does that add pressure?”

“No,” he answers smoothly. “It adds fuel.”

“Y/N, can you separate your feelings for Charles from the race itself?”

You smile. “I’ve done it for twenty-two races. One more shouldn’t be hard.”

Charles snorts beside you.

You elbow him beneath the table.

The journalists catch the moment. And you know that picture will be everywhere before the end of the hour.

-

Ferrari has rented you both a secluded villa for focus and privacy.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, chopping vegetables with more aggression than needed.

Charles leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re going to lose a finger.”

“I’m going to lose my mind,” you mutter.

He walks over, gently taking the knife. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

You meet his eyes. “Don’t I?”

He tilts your chin. “No. Just fast.”

You laugh, a shaky, exhausted sound. “What if we crash? What if I ruin everything?”

Charles doesn’t flinch. “Then we rebuild. Like we always do.”

-

Friday

FP1: You top the charts. Charles trails by three-tenths.

FP2: He fights back. Finishes P1 by a margin so slim it takes the stewards five minutes to confirm it.

The garage is electric. The engineers speak faster. The fans chant louder.

But it’s the look Charles gives you across the paddock; calm, focused, and  tender that leaves you breathless.

It’s not rivalry anymore.

It’s reverence.

-

Saturday

The paddock is silent before Q3.

You sit in your car, hands on the wheel, Charles beside you in the next garage.

Through the comms, your engineer whispers, "You’ve got this."

You breathe in. Exhale. The lights flash green.

And you fly.

You set a blistering lap.

And then Charles goes one better.

The front row is red again, him on pole. You beside him.

It’s poetry. Tragic, beautiful poetry.

-

You’re both in race suits still, sitting on the balcony floor with takeout containers between you.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. “Me too.”

“But not of the race,” you clarify. “Of what comes after.”

Charles reaches for your hand. “Whatever happens tomorrow win, lose, crash, podium, I’m with you.”

Tears sting your eyes. “Even if I beat you?”

He smiles. “Especially then.”

You lean in. Forehead to forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

-

Sunday

The sun rises slow and unforgiving.

The grid is chaos. Drones. Celebrities. National anthems. Your heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t speak much. There’s nothing left to say.

Formation lap. Lights out.

And then: war.

You trade positions. He cuts you off in Turn 3. You slipstream past him in Lap 11. A safety car resets everything on Lap 29.

You pit first. He stays out. Then he pits. You regain the lead.

Then:

Lap 53 of 55.

Charles is behind you by four-tenths. DRS is open.

The fans are on their feet.

You hear his voice in your head: Whatever happens...I’m with you.

You defend into Turn 9. He tries to dive into Turn 11.

And on the final lap, he’s right there.

You don’t blink.

You don’t flinch.

You cross the line.

P1: Y/N Y/L/N – World Champion

-

The car stops. You scream into the radio. The team erupts.

You jump out. Charles is already there, helmet off.

And in front of the entire world, he wraps his arms around you.

Lifts you off the ground.

Kisses you.

A full, real, soul-shattering kiss.

The world gasps.

And you don’t care.

Because love was never supposed to survive Formula 1.

But yours did.

-

“Y/N, how does it feel?”

You laugh through tears. “Heavy. Fast. Beautiful.”

“Charles, you’ve been chasing this for years. How are you feeling?”

He smiles. “Like the right person won.”

“And… the kiss?”

You look at him. He shrugs.

You answer: “That was magic.”

-

Epilogue

You’re in Monaco. The season’s over. The sun is gentle again.

There’s a scrapbook on the coffee table.

Inside it: a photo of two Ferrari drivers kissing in Abu Dhabi.

And a note Charles left in the front pocket:

We didn’t just finish the race. We started everything.

He finds you in the kitchen, stirring tea with one hand, flipping through a magazine with the other.

“You know,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around your waist, “you’re still the fastest person I know.”

You smirk. “Faster than you?”

“Always.”

The laughter is easy now.

There are moments of stillness, sunsets over the harbor, dinner with family, Charles asleep with his head on your lap while you watch replays of the season.

One night, you’re on the balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the city sparkle.

“I used to be scared this wouldn’t last,” you whisper.

Charles turns to you. “And now?”

“Now I want forever.”

He pulls something from his hoodie pocket. A small, velvet box.

“I was going to wait until the gala next month,” he murmurs. “But maybe now’s better.”

You freeze.

The box stays closed. His thumb brushes over it like a promise not yet spoken.

“No pressure,” he says. “Just... someday?”

You nod, throat tight. “Someday.”

He kisses your knuckles. “One last lap, huh?”

You smile. “No. The first of many.”

TAGLIST:

The video opens with the click of a camera turning on, followed by a small laugh.

“Hi, Vogue,” Y/N greets warmly, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her skin is fresh, makeup-free, her voice still a bit husky from sleep. “I’m Y/N Verstappen and I’ve been asked to share my daily beauty routine… which honestly feels like a joke considering I’ve been up since 5 a.m. because my daughter thinks that’s an acceptable wake-up time.”

She shrugs playfully, leaning on the white marble bathroom counter. Behind her, viewers get a glimpse of their Amsterdam apartment, clean lines, cozy lighting, a plant in every corner.

“So let’s get into it,” she smiles. “I already cleansed off-camera because, well, my toddler smeared porridge on my face earlier and that wasn’t very Vogue.”

She lifts a bottle toward the camera. “This is what I used, super gentle, because hormones after breastfeeding are no joke. I used this religiously when Isa was still newborn and I felt like a walking zombie with acne.”

Just then, there’s a tiny knock on the bathroom door. Y/N pauses.

“Mama?” A small voice calls.

She bites back a smile. “Come in, schatje.”

Isa waddles into the room in her little bunny-print pajamas, hair a curly mess, one sock missing, holding her plush lion by the tail. Her eyes are wide with sleepy curiosity as she pads in and immediately reaches her arms up.

Y/N lifts her easily, balancing the toddler on one hip.

“This is Isa,” she chuckles. “My shadow. She doesn’t believe in personal space. Or sleep-ins.”

Isa rests her head against Y/N’s shoulder and waves lazily at the camera, mumbling, “Hi Vogue.”

“I’m gonna keep going while she hangs out,” Y/N explains. “Mom life doesn’t pause for skincare, right?”

She manages to tone with one hand, dotting serum on her cheeks while Isa fiddles with the collar of her robe.

And then, “Lieverd?” Max’s voice comes from somewhere off-camera. “Have you seen her other sock? She left it in the pantry again, I think.”

Y/N rolls her eyes fondly. “Check under the cereal boxes.”

There’s a pause.

“Got it.”

Max enters a moment later, barefoot in sweatpants and one of Y/N’s oversized hoodies, holding the missing sock like it’s a trophy.

“Victory,” he smirks, and steps into view to slide it onto Isa’s tiny foot as she babbles softly.

“Oh, and if I didn’t mention it... I’m married to that guy,” Y/N gestures at him, “who sometimes borrows my hoodies and always makes me tea while I do this.”

As if on cue, Max returns moments later with a steaming mug and a kiss to her temple. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives her a little smile and nods toward the camera like you’ve got this before disappearing again.

Y/N smiles after him.

“Okay, so next, I use this moisturizer. I keep it in the fridge because Max likes our house at ‘race car garage’ levels of cold and my skin can’t cope.”

She taps product on her face gently, still bouncing Isa in her arms.

“Lip balm,” she adds, reaching across the counter. “I don’t go anywhere without it. This one smells like mango. Isa always tries to eat it.”

“Mine,” Isa declares sleepily, snatching it from Y/N’s hand.

Y/N laughs. “Told you.”

There’s another interruption, this time the sound of a crash followed by Max’s startled “Alles goed?!” from the other room.

Y/N blinks at the camera, totally unbothered. “That’s our cat knocking over Max’s trophies again. She has a personal vendetta against the Monaco one.”

She finishes her makeup: light concealer, brow gel, tinted lip balm, all with Isa still perched on her hip.

“Oh, and when I do go to races, I do a bit more. Blush, mascara, maybe eyeliner if Isa hasn’t decided my makeup brush is her new toy.”

From the mirror, you can see Max re-entering, now carrying their cat under one arm and waving a toy toothbrush in the other.

“Does this belong to the tiny dictator?”

Isa perks up. “MINE!”

Max hands it over solemnly. “I thought so.”

He leans against the counter again, watching as Y/N wraps up her routine.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs under his breath.

Y/N smiles at the compliment but turns it into a tease. “Even without the mascara?”

Max grins. “Always.”

The camera catches Isa reaching over to swipe her fingers in the blush compact and smear it across Y/N’s cheek. Y/N gasps in mock horror while Max bursts into a quiet laugh.

“Raw and unfiltered,” Y/N tells the camera, dabbing at her cheek. “Exactly what Vogue asked for, right?”

She sets Isa down gently, and the little girl waddles over to Max, nestling herself into his arms like a koala.

“I don’t get a lot of ‘me’ time,” Y/N admits, tucking her hair behind her ears. “But I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. It’s messy. Loud. Exhausting. But also, really, really full of love.”

Max leans into the frame for a moment, his voice soft. “That’s because you’re the heart of it.”

Y/N blushes, swats him away gently, and turns back to the camera.

“Thank you for watching this chaos. And Vogue? If you ever want a dad edition of this, Max has a killer 7-step beard care routine he refuses to admit to.”

Max, now offscreen, calls out, “That’s classified information.”

Y/N grins. “Bye, Vogue.”

She reaches to turn off the camera just as Isa squeals from the other room: “DAAAADDY! Cat stole my toast!”

Fade to black.

------

Ferrari’s media team knew a goldmine when they saw one.

Two top-tier drivers. Former lovers. Now teammates.

It wasn’t just a headline—it was content. It was clicks. It was drama wrapped in designer race suits.

“From lovers to rivals: Leclerc and Y/L/N gear up for 2025.” “Scuderia's Spiciest Season Yet: Can Ferrari's new duo keep it professional?” “Breakups and Burnouts: How tension off track might fuel fire on it.”

Charles wanted to strangle someone every time he saw one of those headlines. But the PR team only leaned in harder.

The official campaign slogan?

"Two hearts. One team. One goal."

It made him sick.

They paired them for every promo shoot. Every sponsorship feature. Every “day in the life” segment.

You would smile like it meant nothing. Laugh politely when the hosts made jabs about “familiarity.” Maintain a neutral distance.

Meanwhile, Charles was unraveling.

They wouldn’t even let you use separate PR handlers.

“Unity,” they said. “Cohesion,” they insisted. “It sells,” they didn’t say—but didn’t have to.

One day, they were forced to film a bit where they stood back-to-back, arms crossed, smirking.

Charles hadn’t realized how intimate standing back-to-back could feel until you shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his just barely, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

You didn’t react. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it hadn’t meant everything once.

------

Australia

Melbourne was warm. Too warm for a black polo, but the Ferrari dress code didn’t care about comfort.

Charles adjusted his collar and checked his reflection in the mirror one last time before stepping into the media room.

Youwas already there.

Of course you was.

Hair pulled back. Aviators on. Red polo perfectly tucked. Smiling as you leaned over a table to sign posters for the fan zone.

He hated how effortlessly cool you looked. How unbothered.

The moment the press spotted you together, the room buzzed.

Click click click. Leclerc. Y/L/N. Ferrari’s power pairing. Exes on the grid. Tension or teamwork?

Charles forced a smile as you were called forward.

“Let’s get a joint shot for the socials,” the team rep chirped.

You stood next to him, closer than you’d been since that night in Monaco.

“Hi,” you said under your breath, not looking at him.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Click.

Click.

“Closer,” someone said.

Charles didn’t move. You didn’t either.

More clicks.

“Tell us,” a reporter grinned, “what’s it like sharing a garage with someone you used to share—”

You cut in, voice honey-sweet but razor sharp. “We share a team, not a past. And the only thing we’re focused on is winning.”

That shut them up. But the damage was done.

The soundbite was already being clipped, posted, quoted.

Back in the Ferrari hospitality tent, Charles found you alone by the espresso machine.

“I hate this,” he said quietly.

You turned, eyebrow raised. “The coffee?”

“This circus,” he gestured to the media tent. “The narrative. Us being—this.”

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have walked away.”

It wasn’t cruel. Just honest.

And it landed like a gut punch.

Before he could say anything else, the comms manager appeared.

“You two are up next for the Sky Sports segment. Smile, yeah?”

You walked off without another word.

Charles followed, knowing that for the next ten minutes, they’d have to pretend it didn’t still hurt.

------

The garage smelled like burnt rubber and nerves.

It always did on Saturdays, but this time it wasn’t just the usual pre-quali tension. It was you, three meters away, head bowed as a race engineer adjusted your headset, lips moving into the comms.

Charles wasn’t looking.

Except he was.

He always was.

“P2 and P3 look tight this weekend,” Fred Vasseur said, walking in with his clipboard. “If we want front row, we’ll need clean laps and clean heads.”

He looked directly at both of you when he said it.

Neither responded.

-

Q1 went smooth. Q2 went tense. Q3… was war.

Charles radioed in first. “Tell her not to back me into dirty air.”

His engineer’s voice crackled. “You’re two seconds behind her. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, and last week I was ‘fine’ and I hit traffic.”

“We’ll relay it.”

A beat later: “She says tell him to stay out of her mirrors and focus on his own damn lap.”

Charles snorted inside his helmet. “Copy.”

-

Back in the garage post-Q3, the timing screens lit up.

P2 – Y/L/N P3 – Leclerc

Silence.

A few claps. A few murmured congratulations.

You walked past him to grab a towel. “Nice lap.”

He grabbed his own. “Yeah. Yours was better.”

“Guess I still know how to deliver under pressure.”

There it was.

He turned, a bit too fast. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

You looked at him finally. Really looked.

Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat. Eyes fierce.

“You tell me, Charles.”

-

They finished P4 and P5.

Missed the podium by a few seconds.

Not a bad result, but not what Ferrari needed. Not what they needed.

The debrief room was cold, sterile. Screens flickered with sector data, lap comparisons, tire degradation stats.

Fred stood at the front, running through post-race notes.

Charles sat across from you.

You hadn’t spoken since the grid.

“Turn 11. Charles, you lost time on Lap 39. What happened?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to you. “Dirty air. Wasn’t willing to risk taking her out.”

Your jaw tightened. “I gave space.”

He laughed under his breath. “Sure.”

“Okay,” Fred cut in quickly. “Let’s keep it constructive.”

Silence again.

Until you spoke, clear and direct. “We need a cleaner release strategy. And if he wants space, tell him to earn it next time.”

Charles’s head snapped up.

Fred sighed.

“Got it,” the strategist muttered. “We’ll review.”

The debrief ended five minutes later.

Charles stood.

So did you.

Your eyes met again, tired, sharp, something dangerously close to familiar.

But you walked out first.

Again.

-----

Bahrain

The room was packed.

Media day in Bahrain always felt intense, but this year? It was a feeding frenzy.

Two Ferrari drivers. One very public breakup.

The FIA insisted you sit together. "Transparency," they said.

Charles on the far left. You beside him. Lando, Carlos, and Oscar completed the row—but all eyes were on red.

“So,” a reporter grinned. “Ferrari’s newest pairing—how’s the vibe in the garage? Awkward breakfasts? Shared playlists?”

Lando laughed into his mic. “They sit further apart than the hard and soft compounds.”

You smiled politely. “It’s been professional. We’re both here to drive, not to relive 2023.”

Charles nodded. “We communicate what we need to. That’s what matters.”

A second reporter jumped in. “Y/N, any lingering tension after qualifying in front of Charles last week?”

Your eyes flicked to Charles, then back to the mic. “Only the competitive kind.”

Someone in the back raised a hand. “What’s your biggest strength as a driver?”

“Focus,” yousaid quickly.

“Control,” Charles added.

Lando snorted. “That didn’t age well.”

Y/N cracked a small smile. “Didn’t know you were a relationship therapist now, Norris.”

Charles almost laughed.

Almost.

-

After the panel, they filed out in silence.

Until Charles caught up to you near the paddock entrance.

“You handled that well,” he said quietly.

You kept walking. “Didn’t stab anyone with a mic, so I’d say yes.”

He glanced at you. “Look, I know we’re not… whatever we were. But if you ever want to talk—really talk—”

“I’ll let you know,” you replied, then turned into the Ferrari hospitality tent.

But your steps slowed just slightly, like part of you wanted to look back.

Charles didn’t follow.

Not yet.

-----

The floodlights buzzed overhead, casting the Bahrain circuit in an artificial glow. The air was dry. The engines roared.

Ferrari lined up P3 and P4. Charles ahead. Y/N behind.

“Smooth launch,” the engineer said. “Respect the plan. Strategy window opens Lap 11.”

You both confirm over radio.

And for the first ten laps, it was calm.

Until the tire degradation started to hit.

“Box, box,” said your race engineer.

You dove into the pits first, fresh mediums. Charles stayed out, covering the undercut.

Lap 12, he came in. Rejoining nose to tail.

Lap 16. The chaos began.

You had better grip. Charles was still defending.

The paddock held its breath as you launched down the inside into Turn 4.

Too late. Too hot. Too close.

“Whoa! Y/N just dove on Leclerc—”

“Contact?”

“Nearly!”

Charles had seconds to react, jerking the wheel just enough to give you space without going off.

You held the line. You didn’t touch. Barely.

Over team radio, silence.

Then Charles’s voice: “Tell her next time, commit or back off. No half-measures.”

One lap later: “Tell him thank you for not wrecking us both.”

Ferrari pit wall didn’t breathe again until Lap 57.

Crossing the line in P4 and Charles P5.

Clean. Barely.

But something had changed.

-----

The debrief room was tense.

Fred stood at the front with his tablet. “Let’s talk about Lap 16.”

Neither spoke.

Fred looked at you. “Too aggressive.”

He looked at Charles. “Too stubborn.”

“I gave her space,” Charles said flatly.

“Barely,” you muttered.

Fred exhaled. “Look, I don’t care what happened last year. Right now, we need points. Not pride.”

More silence.

Until Charles glanced at you. “That move… it was good.”

You blinked. “You sure? I thought I nearly ruined your race.”

“You didn’t. I adjusted. Trusted you would finish it clean.”

Tilting your head. “You trusted me?”

He nodded once. “Didn’t want to. But I did.”

Something soft flickering inside.

Fred cleared his throat. “Great. Now bottle that energy for Saudi.”

-----

Saudi Arabia

Jeddah at night was pure adrenaline.

Fast. Narrow. Dangerous.

You had qualified P5, Charles in P3. Both knew this track didn’t forgive mistakes. But neither expected what happened on Lap 22.

Yellow flag. Then red.

Oscar Piastri had gone into the wall. Marshals flooded the track. Everyone filed into the pit lane.

And just like that, the race paused mid-chaos.

Yanking your helmet off, pacing near your car.

Charles was sitting on the halo of his own, elbows on knees, gloves still on.

Fred walked over with the strategy lead. “We’re flipping it. You two are going hard tire to the end. But we need to control the restart.”

With a raised a brow. “As in… team orders?”

“No,” Fred said. “As in teamwork. You box first. Charles follows. You go aggressive. Charles defends.”

Charles finally spoke. “That’s risky.”

Fred stared at you both. “Only if you don’t trust each other.”

A pause.

Charles looked at you. “You okay with that?”

You held his gaze. “Can you handle being rear guard?”

His mouth twitched. “Can you handle being first out?”

You smirked. “Try and keep up, Leclerc.”

They fist-bumped. Small. Wordless.

But it meant something.

-

Race restart. Lap 25.

You launched. Clean getaway. Charles slotted in behind you perfectly.

The next 15 laps were chaos.

McLarens attacking. Mercedes on alternate strategy. George on softs, trying to divebomb.

But Charles covered you like a shield. Blocked every move. Clean. Aggressive. Masterful.

And when you crossed the line P2, Charles P3—it felt like more than just a podium.

It felt like healing.

----

The media pen was buzzing.

Carlos was talking to Sky Sports. Lando had already thrown his cap into the crowd.

You slipped into the corner of the garage, helmet still in hand, flushed cheeks cooling off under the LED lights.

Charles found you there. Silent, soft-footed, holding two water bottles.

He passed you one without a word.

You took it. “Thanks.”

He sat beside you, not too close. Just enough.

“You raced beautifully,” he said after a beat.

You looked at him. “You covered for me. Better than anyone else could’ve.”

He smiled. “We were a good team today.”

You tilted your head. “Today?”

He met your eyes, quiet. “Let’s start with today.”

For once, you didn’t push.

Just nodded, capped your water, and whispered, “Okay.”

----

Japan

Charles hated qualifying at Suzuka.

He used to love it. The rhythm. The corners. The history. But today, nothing clicked.

His rear snapped loose in Sector 1 twice. Oversteer in the Esses. Lock-up into Degner 2.

Q2: Eliminated. P11.

He didn’t even wait for the interview. Just pulled off his helmet and stormed into the back of the Ferrari garage.

You managed P3. But you didn’t celebrate.

You saw him disappear, saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he didn’t even speak to his engineer.

So you followed.

You found him in the corner, still suited, gloves off, jaw clenched.

-

“You don’t have to say anything,” he mutters without looking up.

But you step closer anyway.

“I’m not here to lecture you,” you say gently. “I’m here because I’ve had days like this too.”

His head turns, but his eyes don’t meet yours yet. “It was the car. It was me. It was—everything.”

You sit beside him, close but not touching.

“Look at me,” you say.

He does. Slowly. Hesitantly.

“You’re not done. This was just Q2. You still have tomorrow. We’re a team, remember?”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then quietly: “We are now.”

You nod once. “Then let me help. Whatever you need.”

He exhales, like something in him unclenches for the first time all day.

“I’ll need a miracle start.”

You smirk. “Good thing I’m not using mine.”

He laughs, just barely.

But it’s real.

--

Charles made up four places in the first ten laps.

Another two by Lap 38.

Finished P5. You held onto P4 despite tire drop-off and a late push from Hamilton.

Not their strongest weekend. But they walked away with points.

In the post-race cooldown room, you nudged his elbow lightly.

“You still think you needed a miracle?”

Charles gave a tired grin. “Might’ve had one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From who?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t have to.

------

It started as a joke.

Some Sky Sports producer thought it would be hilarious: "Charles and Y/N, do a mock argument for a TikTok—act like you're squabbling over setup or who's the favorite child at Ferrari.”

You both agreed. Begrudgingly.

They set up two chairs. One mic. A ridiculous prompt: “Pretend you’re in a team meeting and the other person won’t stop interrupting.”

The cameras rolled.

-

You fold your arms and cock your head at him. “If you’d actually listen to the data for once—”

He cuts you off. “If you didn’t divebomb every corner like it owes you money—”

“Oh please,” you laugh, playing it up. “Just admit you hate being second best.”

“Only to Verstappen,” he fires back smoothly.

The crew laughs.

You don’t.

Not really.

You lean in slightly, voice lower now. “That supposed to be a dig?”

He doesn’t break character—but something shifts in his eyes.

“You tell me,” he says. Still smiling. But not really.

You glance at the producer. “You got what you needed?”

“Yeah, that was gold.”

You stand. Walk off.

He follows, slower.

Outside the garage, just far enough from the cameras, you spin on your heel.

“What the hell was that?”

He shrugs. “It was a joke.”

“No, that was you throwing a jab while we’re still smiling for the world.”

He frowns, crosses his arms. “You said play it up.”

“I didn’t say twist the knife.”

Silence.

You hate this part. The stillness after anger. The too-honest parts neither of you mean to say.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nod, jaw tight. “I know.”

You don’t talk the rest of the night.

But the next morning, there’s coffee on your table with your name scribbled on the cup.

And one word underneath it.

“Sorry.”

-

The race was messy.

Two safety cars. A virtual. DRS trains for half the grid. But somehow, you both came out of it ahead.

P3 for him. P4 for you.

Twenty-seven points for Ferrari.

In the hospitality tent after media rounds, you find him standing at the espresso bar, towel around his neck, half-buttoned race suit still clinging to his waist.

He turns when he hears your footsteps.

“You always drink coffee after a race?” you ask, grabbing a water.

He grins. “It’s tradition.”

“You qualified tenth and still made the podium. That deserves something stronger.”

He lifts his cup. “Double shot.”

You roll your eyes but smile. “WDC standings?”

He shrugs. “I’m third. You’re fourth. Two points between us.”

You raise your brows. “Still can’t believe I let you overcut me.”

“Let?” he repeats.

“I was being generous.”

He smirks. “Call it generosity when I’m leading after Austria.”

“You wish.”

Lando walks by and hears the tail end.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, dramatic. “Just snog already. The tension is exhausting.”

Carlos snorts behind him. “They’ve been like this for months.”

You and Charles glance at each other. Then look away.

You sip your water. He drinks his espresso.

Neither of you says what you're thinking.

But it's loud in the silence.

----

Miami

Miami was madness.

Neon everything. Celebs everywhere. Race suits clinging in the humidity. Cameras flashing like it was the Met Gala instead of a Grand Prix.

You’d qualified P4, Charles in P6 after a rough Q3. Grid penalties had bumped you both up a row.

Ferrari was flying under the radar. No drama this week. Just quiet consistency.

But the paddock? Loud.

“You know there’s a TikTok calling us ‘the parents of the grid’?” you ask, sliding into your seat for the drivers’ parade.

Charles adjusts his cap, smirks. “We’re barely speaking some weeks.”

You grin. “Exactly. Divorced parents.”

“Who share custody of Fred.”

You laugh, full and real, and it makes him pause for half a second. Just watch you.

“I like when you do that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“Laugh like you don’t hate me.”

“I never hated you.”

He nods slowly. “I know. I just made it easy to pretend.”

The truck jolts forward. You look ahead again.

But your smile doesn’t fade.

-

The race was brutal.

Hot track temps. Double-stacked pit stop. A late safety car.

Y/N crossed the line P2 after a perfectly timed overtake on Checo. Charles held off George for P4. Nearly lost it on the final lap.

Back in the paddock, the post-race buzz is everywhere.

Champagne. Sunglasses. Music thumping somewhere from a sponsor tent.

Carlos walks over holding two beers. Tosses one to you, hands the other to Charles.

“To the newlyweds,” he jokes. “Still pretending you don’t like each other. Cute.”

You clink bottles with Charles without even thinking. “We’re just co-parenting Ferrari, remember?”

Charles grins. “The healthiest toxic duo on the grid.”

Lando, passing by, yells, “Divorced but still sleeping together vibes!”

You almost choke on your beer.

Charles? Just smirks and takes a sip.

----

They barely talked in Imola. Just strategy meetings and quiet nods between corners. No drama. No fireworks. Just a solid P3 for Charles, P5 for Y/N. Business as usual.

But Monaco?

Monaco was different.

The tension in the air was tighter. The roads narrower. The stakes—personal.

It wasn’t just another race for Charles. It was his race. His home. His curse.

Everyone knew it.

-

Race Weekend – Saturday Quali

You watched from the monitors in the Ferrari garage, suited up but still, hands clenched at your sides.

Charles had gone purple in Sector 1.

“Come on,” you murmured under your breath. “Come on, Charles…”

The team radio crackled as he crossed the line.

P1.

Pole position.

He’d done it.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

When he came back into the garage, helmet off, jaw tight but eyes bright, you were one of the first to meet him.

“You did it,” you say, the corners of your mouth lifting before you can stop it. “Finally.”

He grins—really grins—and for once, doesn’t guard it.

“I did.”

You nod. “Go win the damn thing.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and says quietly, “I’ll try. But either way, thanks.”

You shrug, but your heart stumbles.

“Don’t thank me yet. It’s still Monaco.”

--

Sunday – Race Day

He leads from lights to flag.

No technical failure. No strategy blunder. No crash.

Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix.

The grandstands explode. The team jumps the pit wall. Red flags wave in the sea of blue.

He pulls into parc fermé and slams both fists on the halo of the car.

He’s yelling something, words swallowed by noise, but it’s pure release.

You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, tears stinging behind your visor.

-

Later, when he comes back to the garage, hair damp from champagne, cheeks still red from adrenaline, he finds you waiting with a towel in your hand.

“I knew this one meant everything to you,” you say, holding out the towel.

He takes it, breathless. “You cried?”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You definitely cried.”

You glance away. “It’s allergies.”

“Bullshit,” he says, laughing. Then quieter: “Thank you. Again.”

You tilt your head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did,” he says. “You believed in me.”

You don’t answer that. You don’t have to.

Because it’s written all over your face.

-

Later That Night – Ferrari Hospitality

The party is in full swing. Champagne, laughter, blurry sponsor reps trying to dance.

You sit off to the side with your engineer, nerves humming low in your gut.

“You ready for Spain?” he asks.

You force a smile. “Sure. First home GP with Ferrari? No pressure.”

“Cameras will love it. Fans too.”

“Yeah. Just hope I don’t crash it into Turn 5 and cry on national TV.”

He laughs, but you don’t.

That’s when Charles walks by. Slows down when he catches the look on your face.

He waits until your engineer steps away, then slides into the seat beside you.

“You nervous?” he asks.

You nod. “Terrified.”

He sips from his drink. “Good. That means you care.”

You let out a breath. “This is the first time I’m going back to Barcelona and not just racing, but representing Ferrari. It’s not just about me anymore.”

He leans back. “You know how many times I’ve tried to win Monaco? How many times I choked on it?”

You nod slowly.

“This year, I stopped racing it for everyone else. I drove it for myself.”

You look at him.

“You should do the same,” he says. “You don’t owe anyone perfection. Just honesty.”

You blink. “What if I mess it up anyway?”

He shrugs. “Then you mess it up. But it’s yours to mess up. You don’t have to earn your seat. You already did.”

You smile. Really smile this time.

“Was that… support?” you tease.

He grins. “Don’t get used to it.”

You clink your plastic cup against his glass bottle.

“To not crashing.”

“To not crashing.”

-----

Barcelona

Barcelona was hot.

Not just the weather, but the noise, the chaos, the sheer pressure of it. The home crowd roared every time Y/N’s face flashed on a screen. Every time she passed pit lane. Every time she stepped into frame beside a red car with her name printed on it.

It was her first Spanish Grand Prix as a Ferrari driver.

And everyone expected magic.

Quali – Saturday

P1: Y/N P2: Charles P3: Lando

You’d nailed it. Sector after sector, perfect lines, clean exit out of Turn 10, a final push in Sector 3 that put you on provisional pole.

Then the radio crackled: “P1, Y/N. That’s P1. You’re on pole.”

The team cheered.

Charles clapped from parc fermé. Genuinely. Unreservedly.

“You good?” he asks later, bumping your shoulder lightly in the garage.

You shake your head. “No. I’m gonna puke.”

He laughs. “That’s how you know you’re about to win.”

You glance sideways. “So you’re rooting for me?”

He leans closer, voice low and calm. “I’ve always rooted for you.”

You freeze just a second too long. But he doesn’t push.

Just walks away, leaving you with your heart in your throat and butterflies in your stomach.

Sunday – Race Day

The stands were a blur of red and yellow. Spanish flags waved alongside Ferrari ones. Your name echoed down every straight.

Charles held P2 the entire race. Defended like hell when Checo threatened. Managed tires. Covered DRS zones.

But the focus was on you.

Lap after lap, you pulled ahead. Clean. Precise. Brilliant.

And when you crossed the finish line...

P1. Home race. Home win.

The crowd erupted.

You screamed into your radio. Your engineer cried. The Ferrari garage lost its mind.

And somewhere just behind you, Charles smiled the way only someone truly proud could.

-

The room is ice cold. But your skin is still burning.

You’ve barely sat down when the water bottle is shoved into your hand and the towel lands in your lap.

Charles is the one who passed them to you. He’s standing across the room now, sipping his own water like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just defend for half the race so you could run free.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumble, still breathless.

He leans against the wall. “I’m pretty sure the Spanish anthem gave me goosebumps.”

You laugh softly. “My parents were in the grandstand.”

“I saw them on the big screen,” he says. “Your mum looked like she was crying.”

“She probably was,” you reply, squeezing the towel. “She always said if I won in Barcelona, she’d throw a shoe at someone out of joy.”

He chuckles. “Tell her to aim for Zak Brown next time.”

You snort. Then pause. Then say, quieter now, real. “Thanks. For racing clean. For not pushing too hard.”

His gaze softens.

“You earned it,” he says. “I just stayed out of your way.”

You look at him, and for once it doesn’t hurt. It just feels right.

Like you’re finally starting again. Not as what you were, but something new. Something steadier.

The door opens. A staff member calls you both out to the podium room.

He offers you a hand to stand.

You take it without hesitation.

-

In parc fermé, after the cooldown room, after the media, you found each other again.

“I didn’t puke,” you tell him, dazed, half-laughing.

He steps forward, curls messy under his cap, cheeks still pink from the sun and emotion.

“You won.”

“I won.”

His arms open without a word. And you fall into them.

For a second, the noise fades. The cameras disappear. It’s just him. Just you.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, so quiet no one else could hear it.

You squeeze him tighter. “Thank you.”

Then you pull away, wipe your eyes, and grin. “Next up: Austria. You better keep up.”

He smirks. “I’ll try. La Reine rouge.” (The red queen)

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “You’ll get it translated later.”

-----

Austria

Austria was supposed to be serious.

Sprint weekend. Short, brutal track. No room for error.

But somewhere between the mountain air, the pasta night in the Ferrari motorhome, and Charles finally wearing that stupid team polo with one too many buttons undone…

Things started to feel fun again.

-

Driver Dinner – Friday Night

It’s the kind of night that doesn’t feel like work.

The sun’s dipping behind the mountains. The restaurants terrace is strung with soft lights and red napkins folded into fancy shapes none of you can pronounce. Someone from the kitchen is overcooking garlic bread. Carlos is already on his second glass of wine. And you?

You’re trying to act normal.

Trying really hard not to notice how Charles looks across the table with his sleeves pushed up and that laugh that used to be yours echoing across the space like it never stopped.

“So,” Carlos says, swirling his glass like he’s in a telenovela. “Be honest. Which one of you is better at keeping secrets?”

You blink. “Why?”

He gestures between you and Charles with a dramatic flair. “Because there is clearly something going on here, and I refuse to be the last to know.”

You raise a brow. “Carlos.”

He leans forward. “Y/N.”

Across the table, Charles is fighting a smile. “Maybe we just communicate better now.”

Lando chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, like when you told her over radio today to stay off your rear wing?”

You toss a piece of bread at him.

“I was racing,” you say. “It’s called banter. Learn it.”

Carlos winks. “Banter is foreplay.”

You nearly snort water through your nose.

Charles? Doesn’t deny it.

He just shrugs, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been all season.

“And besides,” he adds casually, “If we were secretly back together, you’d think we’d be dumb enough to flirt in front of you lot?”

Silence.

Then Giuliano: “Honestly, yes.”

The entire table erupts.

You laugh so hard you actually slap Charles’s shoulder.

He looks at you with that damn twinkle in his eye.

And for a second.

Just a second,

It feels like it used to. Like before Monaco. Before the silence. Before the pretending.

You’re quiet again by dessert.

Carlos is now deep in a debate with an engineer about which gelato flavor is elite. The others are trading sim rig horror stories.

You sip your drink and feel someone watching you.

When you glance up, Charles is already looking away.

But you caught it.

And that smile you’ve been holding back?

It finally escapes.

-

Sprint – Saturday

Short, sweet, chaotic. Charles finishes P3, you take P5 after getting squeezed wide by Oscar.

But it’s Sunday that really sets the paddock buzzing.

-

Race Day – Sunday

Lap 18. Team radio.

Engineer: “Charles, pace is good. Y/N behind on same strategy.”

Charles: “Tell her to stay off my rear wing. It’s not a date.”

A beat of silence.

Y/N (radio): “Could’ve fooled me, Leclerc. You’re blushing.”

The Ferrari garage loses it.

PR rep facepalms. Fred mutters something about needing holy water.

Post-race: P2 (Charles), P4 (Y/N).

Lando tweets: “Y/N and Charles flirting over radio like it’s Love Island.” Carlos reposts with: “Soft launch confirmed? I need mom and dad back together..."

-

Later That Night – Back at the Hotel

You get a message.

Charles: “Nice overtake today. Also, you’re the one who was blushing.”

You reply: “Shut up. Go to sleep.”

But you smile the entire time you type it.

---

Silverstone

Silverstone was grey. Not raining. Not sunny. Just stuck in that British limbo where the air feels like it might cry at any moment.

You arrived early. Charles didn’t.

And that -that- was unusual.

He was always early. Always first in the sim room. First at track walk. First in the debrief seat with his notebook and highlighter like some overachieving student.

But this weekend, he was quieter.

And you noticed.

-

Thursday – Media Day

The questions were more pointed than usual. You’d placed P1 in FP1. Charles, P6.

You kept getting asked about “momentum,” “confidence,” “beating your teammate.”

He kept getting asked about pressure.

And still, you sat side by side for the press conference.

“You good?” you whisper before it starts.

He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

You nudge his knee under the table. “That’s not an answer.”

He looks at you. Really looks.

And that’s when you realize how tired he is.

Not physically. Emotionally.

You nudge again, gentler. “Hey.”

He exhales. “I’m okay. Just… not here yet.”

“Then where are you?”

He doesn’t say it right away.

Then he murmurs, “August. In a quiet place. Without cameras.”

You blink.

“Summer break?” you ask.

He nods.

You pause. “Where?”

“Southern Italy. Friend’s place near the coast.”

Your stomach dips.

“…You’re kidding.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“I-” you bite your lip. “Booked an Airbnb ten minutes from there. Like. Two days ago.”

You stare at each other.

Then he chuckles. “Of course you did.”

“Pure coincidence,” you insist, suddenly hot in your race suit.

“Sure.”

You glare. “I didn’t even know where you were going.”

“I never said you did,” he says, that stupid smug grin appearing.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make this a thing.”

“Too late,” Carlos says from three seats over.

--

Saturday – Quali Day

It’s wet. Classic Silverstone.

Charles struggles in Q2, nearly bins it at Stowe. You hold pole for a heartbeat before George snatches it in the dying seconds.

You’ll start P2. Charles, P6.

Back in the garage, he rips off his gloves a little too sharply.

You wait.

And then...

“You’re allowed to be frustrated,” you say, stepping in quietly.

“I’m not frustrated,” he mutters.

“Charles.”

He looks up. Wet curls flattened to his forehead, eyes sharp and tired.

You lower your voice. “It’s not a weakness to feel disappointed.”

He laughs, short and bitter. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re hard on yourself,” you say. “I think you punish yourself for things the car can’t even control.”

You step closer.

“And I think I hate seeing you like this.”

That stops him cold.

You watch him swallow hard, jaw clenching like he wants to say something but won’t let himself.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “For… whatever that was.”

“Support,” you say.

“Feels dangerous coming from you.”

You smile. “Only if you let it be.”

-

Sunday – Race Day

The track dried up. The race was electric.

George retired early. You led for half the race. Charles clawed back place after place, hungry like he hadn’t been since Monaco.

Lap 48: You were running P1. He was P3, chasing Lando.

Lap 51: He took P2.

Final lap: Both Ferraris on the podium.

P1: Y/N. P2: Charles. P3: Max.

Ferrari drowned in red smoke and champagne.

-

Post-Race – Cooldown Room

“You’re two for two,” he says, walking in still half out of breath.

You blink up at him from the bench. “And you’re creeping up on me in points.”

He tosses you a towel. “Scared?”

“Not of you.”

You grin. He does too.

You take a sip of water. “That thing you said the other day.”

“What thing?”

“About August. About being somewhere quiet.”

He nods.

“You still want that?”

He tilts his head. “You offering company?”

You pretend to think about it.

Then shrug. “Pure coincidence, remember?”

He grins. “Sure.”

----

Hungary

Hungary was a slow burner.

Tight corners. Technical turns. Strategy-focused. No chaos unless the weather invited it.

And the weather?

Was knocking.

The forecast kept flipping. Every five minutes a new update. Cloud cover, yes. Rain? Maybe. Thunder? Possible.

You were P3. Charles, P4. Both cars strong. Steady. Waiting for the right storm.

-

Saturday – Night Before the Race

Dinner was quiet. Everyone focused. No wine this time. No Carlos antics. Just calm.

You sat beside Charles by accident.

Or maybe not.

You didn’t speak much. But your knees brushed under the table.

And this time?

Neither of you moved.

-

Race Day – Sunday

Lap 28.

The rain hit.

Just as soft as it started, it threw the whole race into chaos.

Slippery pit entries. Unplanned stops. Everyone scrambling.

You both pitted perfectly.

And for fifteen laps—you led.

Charles ran P2. Again. Right behind you. Shadowing you. Protecting you.

Team radio stayed mostly silent.

Because neither of you needed words anymore.

Final Result: P1 – Y/N. P2 – Charles. Ferrari 1-2.

Three in a row for you.

And for the first time all season, it felt like you could breathe.

-

Post-Race – The Rain Comes Back

The cooldown room was a blur.

Then the podium.

Then the interviews.

Then the chaos.

And finally, finally, you were alone.

Or at least, you thought you were.

You step outside the back of the hospitality tent, just for a minute. The air is wet. The rain’s light but steady, misting your hair, cooling your face.

You close your eyes.

“You always do this?” a voice says behind you.

You open them. He’s there. Leaning on the wall. Drenched.

You exhale. “Needed a minute.”

He walks over. No umbrella. No jacket. Just him.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod slowly. “I think I am.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.

But he wants to.

You pull in a breath. “Feels like everything’s moving so fast. Like one minute I’m terrified and the next I’m winning. Again. And people keep looking at me like I’ve already become the person I’m supposed to be and I’m just—”

You stop.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to be her all the time,” he says softly.

You blink.

“You can just be you. With me.”

The silence after that stretches. Soft. Real.

Then you say, “You ever think about us?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

You’re not sure who moves first.

Maybe him. Maybe you.

But suddenly, his forehead is pressed to yours, the rain dripping from his lashes, and it’s like the entire world slows down.

No cameras. No team. No finish line.

Just you and him and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you never stopped being something.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes.

“I never stopped.”

And that?

That’s the moment.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just true.

--

Summer Break Begins

The coast of Southern Italy was slow. Lazy waves. Salty air. Golden light. The kind of place where the world paused and no one expected anything from you.

You both booked different villas.

Ten minutes apart.

You told the team it was coincidence. You told yourselves it was, too.

But the second night, you were at his place. And neither of you left much after that.

-

Day 1

The sand is cool beneath your feet as the sun dips low on the horizon. The sky’s turning pink. He’s walking beside you, barefoot, jeans rolled, one hand swinging lazily between you like he wants to reach for you but won’t unless you do.

“I hated seeing you win,” he says, so suddenly you stop.

You look at him.

“Not because you don’t deserve it,” he adds. “But because I wasn’t beside you when you got there. Not really.”

Your throat tightens. “That was your choice.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

You walk in silence for a while.

Then he says, “I missed you. As a person. As my person.”

You don’t answer with words.

You just take his hand.

And this time?

He doesn’t let go.

-

Day 3

He says he has a plan. You say you don’t do boats. He says you’ll survive.

You show up in a linen dress and sunglasses. He’s already shirtless, smirking.

The water is impossibly blue. The sky cloudless. It’s just the two of you, a bottle of wine, and playlists you didn’t know he still remembered.

He drops anchor somewhere secluded, switches the engine off, and the only sound left is the sea.

You both lie on the sunpad, close but not touching.

Until he shifts.

And suddenly he’s above you, eyes searching yours, hand gently pushing your hair back.

“You’re staring,” you whisper.

“I’m allowed,” he says. “I used to wake up next to you.”

You reach up. Let your fingers graze his jaw.

“What are we doing?” you ask.

He swallows. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.”

When his mouth finds yours—it’s slow. Familiar. Desperate in a quiet way. Like both of you are afraid you’ll vanish again if you rush it.

You don’t sleep with him that day.

But you fall asleep beside him on the boat, curled under a towel, head on his chest.

And when you wake up, his hand is still in yours.

-

Day 5

It’s after dinner. Wine-soaked. Candle-lit. You’re sitting on the terrace of your villa, legs in his lap, playlist humming low in the background.

He hasn’t kissed you yet today.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

But because he needs to say it first.

“I want this,” he says. “You. Us.”

You stop playing with the hem of his sleeve.

“But I want it right,” he adds. “No hiding. No fear. No thinking you’ll disappear again.”

You nod slowly. “I want that too.”

“But not yet?” he guesses.

“Not yet,” you whisper. “Let’s keep this just ours a little longer.”

He leans in. “You’re already mine.”

You pull him into a kiss before you can cry.

And when he carries you inside that night, it’s not hurried. It’s reverent.

You undress each other like unwrapping something fragile.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s not lust. It’s homecoming.

Slow. Deep. Whispered names. Fingers tangled. Lips pressed to shoulders.

You don’t speak much.

You don’t have to.

You’ve already said everything.

-

Day 8

You come back from the beach to find fairy lights strung across your villa’s patio.

A record player spinning something French. A small table set for two.

He walks out from the kitchen barefoot with a dish he clearly didn’t cook.

“Let’s pretend we’re normal for one night,” he says.

You laugh. “We’re not even pretending we’re not dating.”

He grins. “No cameras. No PR. Just you. And me.”

Dinner turns into dancing.

Dancing turns into kissing.

Kissing turns into bodies pressed against the wall, then the bed, then every surface you can reach.

He makes you come twice before the words even leave his mouth.

“I love you.”

It’s breathless. Honest. Like he’s been holding it for months.

You look at him, sweaty, wrecked, completely yours and say it back.

“I love you too.”

---

When the break ends, you pack separate bags.

Fly separate flights.

Walk into the paddock for Race 12 side by side but not touching.

Just friends.

But at night?

You take the long way back to your motorhome.

And sometimes, when you knock?

He’s already opening the door.

------

Netherlands

The sky over Zandvoort is cloudy. The ocean breeze rolls in from the dunes. The grandstands are orange. Loud. Buzzing. Everyone’s talking about Max.

But the paddock?

The paddock is talking about you.

You arrive with sunglasses on, hoodie up, hair slightly wind-swept from the private car ride you didn’t take with Charles. Definitely not. You walked in separately. Your PR manager made sure of it.

But your lips are a little too pink. Your smile a little too soft.

And when Charles walks in ten minutes later with the same sunglasses, same wind-swept hair, and that ridiculous barely-there smirk?

Yeah.

People notice.

“You think they know?” you murmur beside him as you both wait at the Pirelli media wall.

“I think they’ve always known,” he replies. “We just stopped giving them a reason to guess.”

You lean closer. “You remember the rules?”

He recites, low: “No lingering touches. No inside jokes. No heart-eyes.”

You grin. “And?”

He shrugs. “No fucking in the simulator room.”

You elbow him so hard he coughs.

-

Free Practice – FP2

He follows you out of the garage. Your helmets tap as you pass in the pit lane. Subtle. Routine.

Except he looks at you just before you pull away, and the cameras catch it.

Reddit explodes: "That was not a 'just friends' glance."

-

Quali – Saturday

You’re faster. He knows it.

Your engineer radios in, tells you your Sector 2 is purple.

Charles’s voice cracks through your earpiece: “Beautiful lap. Go get pole.”

You do.

And later, when he finds you in the back of the motorhome, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp, he doesn’t touch you. Just smiles.

“You’re glowing,” he murmurs.

“So are you,” you say back, even though he didn’t win a thing.

-

Race Day – Sunday

It’s wet. Again. Light drizzle, slick tires.

You start P1. Charles P3.

Lap 28, you're both leading a Ferrari 1-2.

No drama. No fighting. Just clean, perfect coordination.

P1: Y/N. P2: Charles.

Three wins in a row. Four total. The championship is no longer a dream...it’s real.

-

Post-Race – Press Room

“So,” a journalist starts, “what’s it like racing alongside your friend Charles Leclerc, week after week?”

You smile.

He smiles.

You glance at him, just for a second too long.

And when you answer-

“He’s… steady,” you say. “He’s where I look when I’m overwhelmed. And when I cross the line first, the only person I want to see waiting is him.”

He turns his head. Slowly.

His eyes are soft.

His voice even softer.

“I feel the same.”

Your PR rep nearly faints.

Back in the motorhome

You shut the door behind you.

His hands are in your hair before you even breathe.

Lips locked. Breathless.

He breaks the kiss to whisper:

“Friends don’t do this.”

You grin against his mouth.

“They do now.”

-----

Monza

Monza isn’t just a race.

It’s home.

Not your home. But his. And by now, it feels like yours, too.

The Tifosi line the track like a sea of worship. Flags wave from balconies. Flares smoke up the sky. Every face wears red.

The pressure? It’s unbearable.

The love? Unmatched.

-

Friday – Media Day

The questions are nonstop.

“Can Ferrari win at home?”

“Can Y/N hold her WDC lead?”

“Can Charles challenge for a win without team drama?”

No one asks about your friendship. Not directly.

But when a Sky Sports reporter jokes that you and Charles are "dangerously in sync lately," Charles just smirks.

You?

You sip your water and smile.

The same smile you gave him this morning in bed.

-

Saturday – Quali

Pole goes to Max. You qualify P2. Charles nails P3.

But the radio moment during Q3?

That’s what stirs the internet.

“Let him know I’m pushing,” you tell the team.

A beat.

Then his voice: “You’re always pushing. That’s what I love about you.”

Silence.

Then a clumsy, “I mean. On track.”

You say nothing.

But you’re laughing inside your helmet.

And so is he.

Reddit is on fire within five minutes.

“That’s what I love about you”? HELLO? TELL ME THEY’RE NOT DATING AGAIN I DARE YOU

-

Sunday – Race Day

It’s chaos. DRS trains. Tire degradation. Early pit stops.

But somehow, it’s still a Ferrari 2-3.

P2: Y/N. P3: Charles.

Max wins. Again.

But the crowd doesn’t care.

Because Ferrari is on the podium.

Because you’re on the podium.

Because when the national anthem plays, and Charles looks at you, not like a teammate, not like an ex, but like everything. The whole world sees it.

-

Post-Race – Parc Fermé

You throw your arms around him before anyone else can.

You don’t kiss him. Not quite.

But your face is so close that the cameraman actually gasps.

His lips brush your cheek. His hands grip your waist. And when you pull back, flushed and breathless, he whispers:

“A couple more races.”

You nod.

“Then we stop pretending.”

-

Garage – 45 minutes later

Carlos finds you both tucked in a back corner.

“You two are so bad at hiding things,” he mutters, peeling a banana.

“We’re not hiding anything,” you say.

Charles nods, deadpan. “We’re just teammates.”

Carlos raises a brow. “Teammates don’t leave lipstick on each other’s necks.”

You slap Charles with a towel.

He just smiles.

-----

Azerbaijan

The streets of Baku are slick with heat. Everything’s close here. No space to breathe. No space to run.

You’ve been riding high for weeks.

Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft love you’d forgotten how to feel.

So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.

-

Friday – Paddock Arrival

You spot her before he does.

Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. One of those PR-model hybrids who floats between teams and beds with the same trained smile.

You know her name. Everyone does.

Élodie.

TAGLIST:

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RESERVATION RUN-IN

— Nina, 24, new Ferrari junior marketing coordinator, still figuring out the cafeteria coffee machine, and definitely not ready for what she saw at dinner.

It was supposed to be a celebratory night.

Nina had survived her first week at Ferrari. Five whirlwind days of press releases, brand decks, and learning how to properly pronounce Scuderia. Her small onboarding cohort decided to treat themselves to dinner at a little tucked-away restaurant in Modena. A place so charming it made pasta feel sacred.

They had just started on their second round of drinks when Marco, the guy from media partnerships, nearly choked on his Aperol.

“Holy shit. Don’t look now. Or actually, look. Just not all at once.”

Too late.

Every head turned toward the restaurant entrance, where a man in soft navy trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt was stepping in with casual ease. Tousled brown curls, sun-kissed skin, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Charles Leclerc.

But it wasn’t the sighting itself that stunned them. It was the fact that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was tucked into his side, hand interlaced with his. Her long, sundress swayed slightly as they walked. She looked relaxed. Happy. Gorgeous.

Charles pulled out her chair for her, kissed her cheek before sitting down. Then, like it was habit, reached halfway across the table with an open palm. She placed hers on top without hesitation. Their wedding bands sparkled subtly in the candlelight.

“Is that his wife?” someone whispered.

“He’s married?!”

“I thought she was a model.”

“She looks…normal. Like us.”

But she didn’t look ordinary. Not to Charles. Not by the way he watched her talk, leaning in like every word was the only one worth hearing. Not by the way he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it was muscle memory.

Nina tried to focus on her gnocchi. Failed.

At one point, Y/N laughed, head tilted back, nose scrunched, full-body kind of joy. Charles mirrored it instantly, a low laugh that sounded nothing like the polite one he used in press conferences. This one was real. Unfiltered. Like he hadn’t laughed that way in weeks.

Their food arrived. They shared everything. He offered her a bite, raised an eyebrow when she took too much, then immediately forked over another taste. She stole his drink. He didn’t mind.

When she got up to use the restroom, a waiter tried to clear her plate.

Charles stopped him with a soft, “Non ancora. She’s coming back.”

A few minutes later, Nina herself bumped into Y/N by the sink.

“Oh! Sorry,” Y/N said immediately. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. You okay?”

Nina nodded, starstruck. “Yeah. You just…you look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled warmly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. I’m still getting used to wearing heels again.”

She complimented Nina’s dress before ducking into a stall. Completely normal. Completely kind.

Back at the table, the mood between Charles and Y/N had shifted. Softer. Closer.

Her fingers trailed along the stem of her wine glass. His hand rested low on the back of her chair. She leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his eyes darken instantly.

A beat later, he flagged down the server, dropped a stack of bills with zero ceremony, and stood to help her into her coat.

Their exit was quiet, but Nina caught it all—the way Charles held her hand like it was something sacred. The way he looked at her like no one else in the room mattered. The way her laugh floated back toward them as they disappeared through the door.

The table sat in stunned silence for a moment.

Then Marco muttered, “Forget TikTok edits. That was the real thing.”

And Nina, with stars in her eyes and a stupid grin on her face, finally took a sip of her now-warm wine and whispered, “I think I just witnessed a rom-com in real life.”

THE RAINY TRAIN RIDE TO MONACO

— Henri, 72, retired art teacher, hobbyist painter, and lifelong romantic with a sketchbook full of strangers.

The train rocked gently as rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm. Henri sat by the window, sketchpad in hand, capturing the silhouettes of the passengers around him.

He wasn’t looking for anything special. Just shapes. Light and shadow. Faces in thought.

But then he saw them.

A young couple seated across the aisle. The man in a navy sweater and loafers, his arm draped casually over the shoulders of the woman tucked into his side. She had her knees drawn up, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her head rested against his chest, eyes closed, their fingers lazily intertwined.

Henri watched them for a long while.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t scroll on phones. They just... were.

So he sketched. Quietly. Carefully. The tilt of her head, the curve of his hand on her hip, the ease in their closeness. Love looked different in every face he drew, but this one, it felt familiar.

When the conductor called out Monaco as the next stop, the man gently nudged the woman awake with a kiss to her temple. She stirred, blinking herself back into the world, then smiled up at him with a look that could warm marble.

Henri stood and approached them slowly, sketchbook in hand.

“Excuse me,” he said in accented English.

They looked up, surprised.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he continued, turning the book around to reveal the drawing. “You two... you reminded me of me and my wife. Many, many years ago. On this same train.”

Y/N blinked at the portrait. “Oh. Oh wow… this is beautiful.”

Charles smiled, touched. “Merci. That’s incredibly kind.”

Henri smiled back. “Hold on to each other. Make time to listen more than you speak. Kiss even when you’re tired. And never, ever stop choosing each other, even on the hard days.”

He handed them the sketch, carefully torn from the spiral binding. “You look like you’re just beginning something worth everything.”

They thanked him quietly as he returned to his seat.

When the train stopped, Charles tucked the drawing carefully into his bag. As they stepped onto the platform, the rain still gentle, Y/N looped her arm through his.

“That was lovely,” she said.

Charles nodded, a little quiet. “It was. I think I want to grow old like that.”

She looked up at him. “With me?”

He gave her a look so full of affection it made her chest ache. “Only with you.”

They walked on, the smell of rain in the air, hearts warm beneath their coats, a paper memory folded between them.

MEDIA DAY MADNESS

— Gianna, 31, freelance makeup artist, first Ferrari gig, not mentally prepared to witness Charles Leclerc in husband mode.

The media room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras, lights, clipboards, producers pacing like the fate of the universe rested on the exact timing of a five-second promo shot. Gianna was on her third espresso and her second emergency beauty blender, and it was only 9:12 a.m.

She wasn’t new to chaos. She’d done shoots for footballers, actors, even a royal once. But this, Formula 1 pre-season media day, was its own monster.

Her assignment: keep Charles Leclerc looking like he hadn’t just stepped off a red-eye from Monaco.

He was scheduled for his final touch-up after a round of interviews, but when the call sheet hit a ten-minute delay, Gianna found herself camped near the back hallway, grateful for the silence.

That’s when she heard laughter.

Not the stiff PR kind. The kind that made you want to smile even if you didn’t know the joke.

She glanced up just in time to see him.

Charles. Not in front of a camera. Not in fireproofs. Just… Charles. Hoodie pulled over his curls. One hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup, the other linked tightly with a woman walking beside him.

She was half-laughing, half-whispering something into his shoulder, and he was clearly trying (and failing) not to laugh back. It was the kind of laugh that made him bite his lip. Crinkle his eyes. Lean in like her words were gravity.

Y/N.

Gianna had heard her name floating around all morning. She wasn’t crew, but everyone knew she was coming.

The wife.

She didn’t expect her to be so… casual. In jeans and white sneakers, with her hair loosely tied and the kind of face that made natural look like magic.

They disappeared around the corner for a moment. When they reemerged, they were each holding a croissant, whispering like kids playing hooky.

Charles was smiling at her like there weren’t fifty cameras waiting. Like he didn’t have the weight of an entire nation on his back. Like nothing else existed.

When they passed by, Gianna tried not to stare.

Charles nodded politely. Y/N caught her gaze and smiled warmly.

“Sorry,” Y/N said, motioning toward the pastries. “We were on a very serious mission.”

“Vital carbs,” Charles added solemnly.

Gianna laughed. “Well, you look a lot more relaxed than everyone else here.”

Charles shrugged. “That’s her fault.”

He looked at Y/N like he meant it. Like that ten-minute delay had been a gift.

Back in the makeup chair minutes later, Gianna set to work while Charles scrolled through his phone.

“Can you hold still for just a sec?” she asked.

He nodded, put the phone down.

Gianna caught a glimpse of the screen as he locked it.

It was a photo.

Of Y/N. Wearing his hoodie. Holding the coffee she clearly didn’t want to share. Smiling at the camera like he was the only person who’d ever made her laugh that hard.

She didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

“You really love her.”

Charles blinked, surprised, then nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Gianna stepped back, brush in hand, heart weirdly full.

She’d done hundreds of faces. Watched hundreds of men step into their public personas. But in that quiet ten-minute window, she’d seen something else entirely.

Not Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari driver.

Just Charles. Someone’s husband. Someone who looked at his wife like she was the only peace he’d ever known.

Gianna made a mental note to text her sister:

You wouldn’t believe who I saw today. But more than that… you wouldn’t believe how he looked at her.

RAIN DELAY AT SILVERSTONE

— Freya, 22, student photographer, soaked to the bone, and emotionally unprepared for the Leclercs in the rain.

The sky had opened up over Silverstone in biblical proportions.

Freya was soaked, her camera strap sticking to her neck, her waterproof jacket failing miserably, and her feet dangerously close to pruning in her boots. The race had been delayed indefinitely, the grandstands were buzzing with energy and impatience, and umbrellas popped up like mushrooms across the paddock.

She was huddled under the eave of the Ferrari hospitality tent, trying to dry her lens, when she spotted them.

Charles Leclerc and his wife, walking hand in hand through the paddock like the rain had been invited.

No umbrella. No sprinting for cover. Just strolling.

Y/N was wearing an oversized Ferrari rain jacket—clearly his, if the way it swallowed her was anything to go by—and she kept tugging the hood back so she could look up at the sky.

Charles said something, and she laughed. Head thrown back, cheeks flushed, soaking wet and absolutely glowing.

Freya raised her camera instinctively. Not to shoot, not professionally. Just to remember.

Charles glanced up, spotted her, and offered a small smile. Not the PR smile. Not the podium smile.

Just… soft.

Y/N nudged him and whispered something.

He grinned. Turned toward her. Tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her.

Slow. Steady. Rain clinging to their lashes. The kind of kiss that looked like a thank you. Like a promise.

Freya’s heart thudded.

Later, she spotted them again near the garages. Y/N stood on the edge of the pit lane, arms wrapped around herself, watching the water pool across the tarmac.

Charles came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest.

“I always liked the rain,” he said quietly.

She leaned back. “Why?”

“Because it slows everything down. Even racing.”

She turned in his arms, pressed her forehead to his. “You hate slowing down.”

“Except for you,” he said.

Freya snapped the photo before she could second guess it.

Back home, she kept the shot for herself—framed it even. Because no one else needed to see it.

Not the fans. Not the sponsors. Not the media.

It wasn’t for them.

It was for the kind of love that didn’t need a checkered flag. Just a rain delay and the right person to walk slow with.

THE PLAYGROUND SURPRISE

— Clara, 27, nanny with a mild caffeine addiction and a wild 3-year-old charge, not expecting to make a new mom friend.

“Hi! Is this seat taken?”

Clara looked up from her iced coffee, blinking in the midday Monaco sun. A woman about her age was standing beside the park bench, a toddler on her hip and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Nope, you’re good!” Clara scooted over, wiping condensation from the bench.

“Thank you. I’m Y/N, and this little troublemaker is Colette.”

The toddler flashed a big grin, curls bouncing as she waved. “Hi!”

“I’m Clara. That chaos gremlin over there on the slide is Matteo. I nanny for his family.”

Y/N smiled wide, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. “God bless you. Seriously.”

“Right back at you,” Clara replied, amused.

As their kids played, they fell into easy conversation. Clara found herself surprised by how down-to-earth Y/N was. She swore like a sailor, offered Clara half her granola bar without asking, and immediately launched into a rant about the judgmental moms at the other park by the marina.

“Swear to God, if one more woman side-eyes Colette’s snacks or asks me if I’ve considered yoga for ‘postpartum toning,’ I’m going to fake my own death,” Y/N muttered.

Clara barked out a laugh. “Okay, where were you two months ago when I was trying to survive toddler teething alone?”

“Probably crying over a lost pacifier under the fridge,” Y/N replied without hesitation.

It was easy. Uncomplicated. Until Clara noticed the tote bag.

“Wait—is that the limited edition Gucci monogram tote?” she asked, eyes wide.

Y/N looked down, rolled her eyes fondly. “Unfortunately. My husband got it for me on ‘International Stay-at-Home Parent Day,’ which is fake, by the way. He just knows I yell if he buys me expensive stuff for no reason.”

Clara laughed but clocked the massive ring on Y/N’s finger next. It was gorgeous. Eye-watering.

Before she could say anything, Y/N’s phone buzzed. She picked it up without looking. “Hi, baby. Yeah. The park near the bakery. She’s on the slide in the pink overalls.”

Y/N hung up and looked at Clara. “My husband’s coming by. He has meetings later and wanted to see Colette before bedtime.”

“That’s really sweet,” Clara said, thinking of her own boss—who couldn’t be bothered to FaceTime.

Y/N just smiled, a bit dreamy. “Yeah. He’s really good to us.”

A few minutes later, Clara heard the soft rumble of a high-end engine pulling into the lot. She turned just in time to see a sleek Ferrari park like it belonged there.

Out stepped Charles Leclerc.

Clara froze.

Hair tousled, sunglasses on, casual hoodie and joggers like it wasn’t Monaco’s golden boy striding toward them. The man her employers followed like religion. The one with posters in every other shop window.

He didn’t glance at the bench. His eyes were on Colette.

“Hi, mon ange,” he called out. Colette squealed and sprinted toward him, launching into his arms. Charles lifted her with ease, doting and soft.

Y/N stood to greet him with a kiss. He tucked her into his side immediately, one hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to rub her back like it was second nature.

“Oh—Charles, this is Clara. We’ve been bonding over snack packs and judgmental moms.”

Clara tried not to choke. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Charles gave her a kind smile and nodded. “You’ve got the good bench spot. Shade always disappears by 4.”

They chatted a few minutes more. Colette returned to the jungle gym, this time with Charles trailing behind like her personal security.

Clara turned to Y/N, eyebrows high. “So… you’re married to Charles Leclerc?”

Y/N snorted. “I know. Doesn’t fit the vibe, right?”

“Honestly, you’re way cooler than I expected a Formula 1 wife to be.”

Y/N winked. “Don’t tell the other ones. They still think I know what a diffuser does.”

Clara would end up texting her sister that night: Met the love of Charles Leclerc’s life today. Spoiler alert: it’s not F1. It’s her.

THE STADIUM GLANCE

— Lina, 25, team hospitality staffer at Ferrari, trying to keep her head down… until she catches sight of the man who once changed her life.

Lina didn’t mind her job. She liked the behind-the-scenes chaos, the espresso machines, the rush of getting everything just right. What she didn’t like was how invisible it sometimes made her feel.

Except once.

One night after a long debrief, she’d been hiding in a tucked-away hallway outside the paddock garage, trying to stop herself from crying after her student loan payment failed to go through again.

“What’s wrong?” came a voice—calm, accented, quiet.

She looked up to find Charles Leclerc.

She was horrified. Embarrassed. Tried to brush it off.

But he stayed.

Asked again.

She broke. Told him everything in a flood of panicked breath: about school, money, her brother she helped support.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out his phone, typed for a moment, and told her to check her email.

There was a Ferrari scholarship grant in her name. Paid. Approved.

When she looked up, he was already walking away.

He never mentioned it again.

Lina never told a soul. She didn’t want to cheapen it by turning it into gossip.

----

Months later, Lina was at a Monaco football match with her cousin, box seats, courtesy of a friend of a friend. She wasn’t expecting much.

Until she saw the Ferrari suite next door.

Just two people inside.

Charles.

And a woman.

Y/N.

She’d never seen him like that.

Not on a podium. Not in the garage. Not in full sponsor-mode.

Just… soft.

Y/N was visibly pregnant, cradling her bump in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Charles had his arm slung over the back of her chair, pressed so close it looked like he’d never moved.

They laughed at something together. Y/N nudged him with her shoulder and leaned back against his chest. Charles responded by wrapping both arms around her middle and dropping his head onto her shoulder.

For a full five minutes, he didn’t move.

Just rubbed small circles over the fabric stretched across her belly. Pressed a kiss to her temple. Let her feed him bites of cotton candy like it was a Michelin-star meal.

Lina watched, heart caught in her throat.

At one point, Charles pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Y/N mid-laugh. He looked at it, smiled to himself, and locked the screen like it was something private. Sacred.

Lina had to blink back tears.

Toward the end of the match, Y/N looked sleepy. Charles helped her put on his jacket, held her hand while she stood, and tucked a hand under her belly with almost reverence as they exited the suite.

They never saw her watching.

But Lina never forgot.

She still has that grant email in her inbox. Still opens it on hard days. Not for the money.

But for what it meant:

Charles stood across from her in the tiny Monaco flat they used to call “theirs,” eyes hollow and voice eerily steady as he said the words she hadn’t seen coming.

“I don’t think we’re meant to do this anymore.”

It was quiet. No yelling, no accusations. Just that awful, painful calm, the kind that made her want to scream.

Y/N blinked, confused. “What… what do you mean?”

“I mean…” Charles sighed and looked down at the floor like it held answers. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. About us. About how we always seem to miss each other. Maybe it’s the timing. Or maybe it’s just who we are.”

She took a step forward. “Charles, we’ve been doing long distance for two years. Through back-to-back seasons. Through two team changes. And now—” Her throat caught. “Now that we’re finally going to be in the same place—”

He shook his head before she could finish. “That’s the thing. I don’t think being in the same place will fix what we couldn’t make work apart.”

She stared at him, stunned silent.

She didn’t tell him.

Couldn’t.

Not when he looked like that—like he’d already left.

So instead of pulling out the envelope, instead of saying “I just signed with Ferrari,” instead of telling him that next season they’d be side-by-side in red, she just stood there and let him walk out the door.

Let him walk away from her. From them.

--------

Charles was halfway through his morning espresso when he saw it.

It was a headline. On his phone. In all caps. With her name.

“Y/N Y/L/N SIGNS WITH FERRARI FOR 2025 SEASON”

He blinked, then blinked again.

No. No, that had to be wrong. A leak. A rumor. A fake.

He clicked the article.

There was a picture, her in the Ferrari garage, shaking hands with Fred Vasseur, the faintest of smiles on her face. She looked radiant. Calm. Like she belonged there.

And suddenly, it all clicked.

The way she hesitated that night. The way her eyes shimmered like they wanted to say something. The bag she clutched a little too tightly. The silence that fell between “I don’t think we’re meant to do this” and the door closing behind him.

She hadn’t told him.

And now, she didn’t have to.

The entire world already knew.

-----------

Charles hadn’t meant to break her. He’d only wanted to protect himself.

But now, staring at her face on his screen, Ferrari logo above her name, the team’s official welcome post already past a million likes—he felt like the biggest fucking idiot in the world.

She had signed with Ferrari.

She had signed to be his teammate.

And she hadn’t told him.

His espresso sat forgotten, going cold. He rubbed his jaw, then his temple, then grabbed his phone and pressed call.

It rang twice before his mother answered.

“Charles?” her voice was sleepy but warm. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” he said, blunt. Then ran a hand down his face. “I mean… yes. I’m fine. It’s not urgent. I just…” He sighed. “I need to talk to someone who isn’t paid to agree with me.”

She chuckled lightly, waking up fast now. “That bad?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“She signed with Ferrari,” he said finally.

There was a pause. “Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t know?”

“No,” he murmured. “I broke up with her before she told me. She was going to. I think. I—” he swallowed. “I think she was about to when I… when I ended it.”

“Oh, Charles.”

His chest clenched. “What the hell do I do now?”

His mother was quiet for a long moment before she said gently, “You do your job. You show up. You treat her with respect. And if there’s something still left between you… you don’t run from it this time.”

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall. “I don’t even know if she’ll talk to me.”

“Then listen,” she said. “That’s where you start.”

---------

The conference room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras. PR people. Team principals. Engineers. Two seats up front with name placards.

Leclerc Y/L/N

Charles arrived early. Hair perfect, suit sharp, pretending to scroll through briefing notes while every part of him tensed like a wire ready to snap.

She walked in exactly five minutes late.

Poised. Confident. Dressed in Ferrari red like she was born in it.

And she didn’t look at him.

Not once.

Not even when she sat down right beside him.

The murmurs in the room shifted. Charles caught the whispers.

“Weren’t they—?” “Thought they were dating…” “Guess not anymore.” “Yikes.”

He kept his face unreadable. Professional. Cold, even.

But inside, it was chaos.

They hadn’t spoken in over two months. Not a single text. Not a single call.

And now she was here. Acting like they were strangers.

The press conference began. Someone asked about their dynamic. About working together.

Y/N smiled, polished and polite. “Charles and I have known each other for years. I’m excited to be working alongside him.”

He forced a nod. “The car comes first. We’re both here to win.”

After, when the cameras clicked off, she turned to him finally.

Not warm. Not cold. Just… distant.

“Hi,” she said. “Guess we’re doing this.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then offered a weak, “Hi.”

She nodded once and turned away again, already talking to an engineer.

Just like that.

Like nothing had ever happened between them.

-------

Barcelona. Bahrain. Silverstone. The preseason carousel began.

And with every media day, every team photo, every launch party—they had to stand next to each other. Smile for the cameras. Sit through interviews that always ended with the same question:

“What’s it like being exes and teammates?”

She always deflected gracefully. Charles wanted to punch something every time.

But the worst was the paddock.

When the paddock learned they weren’t together anymore, it spread like wildfire.

Whispers. Pit wall gossip. Old friends turning sympathetic.

And Y/N… she just kept going. Kept performing. Kept posting her sim sessions and race suit fittings like nothing had ever shattered her.

The worst part?

She looked happy.

Or at least better at pretending than he was.

---------