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Pairing: Leoglas x Reader Ft. (platonic) Aragorn & Gimli
Warnings: Mentions of blood, mentions of torture.
Summary: The Fellowship was broken. You were stolen amidst a battle and held captive by Saruman within the walls of the Second Tower of Isengard. Now, that you’ve escaped, you finally make it to Helms Deep.
Blood trailed your footsteps onto the grey stone as you walked deeper into the realm of men. You didn’t know them. All you wanted was to find someone you trusted, someone who cared.
Your ragged and ghostly state drew the attention of many and soon, the whispers grew. You didn’t know what you would find at Helms Deep. You heard Saruman speak of destroying it and that Aragorn was present which quickly became the hope that you clung on to.
You didn’t realise that your thoughts had brought your legs to the Keep of the mountain fort. You half-expected the doors to fly open, but you did not look like yourself and were questioned by the guards.
“What business do you have with the King?”
Looking at the men, you stared at the one who spoke, almost forgetting that you had a voice.
“(Y/n).” You whispered, feeling the painful scratch from your dried-up throat. “Gandalf’s apprentice.”
The men’s eyes widened and they clamoured over one another, rushing to open the door and let you pass.
Warmth from the room hit your exposed skin like a furnace, the step onto the smooth ground pricked your bare and sensitive feet. You felt more pain in your body in the King’s hold than you did running through the forest.
Today is the most important day of Nanami's life. Today, he finally marries the love of his life.
Everything went perfectly. There were no complications, and everyone seemed happy. Most importantly, you were overjoyed, too, looking as divine as ever in your white dress. Nanami knew he would cherish this day for the rest of his life.
Well, everything except right now, maybe.
Currently, it's his wedding reception. It's warm with fairy lights and the sound of glasses clinking.
But this also means it's also time for his best man speech. Unfortunately, the best man just so happens to be Gojo.
The man in question grins widely. A little too widely.
"Today, we are all gathered here to witness the miracle of someone marrying Nanami Kento, a guy who once tried to resign from life because his favorite bakery ran out of his beloved bread."
People laugh. Nanami's eye twitches. He tries to take the mic from him. "Okay, that's enough."
Gojo waves him off. "Let me finish, Nanamin! You should be proud! After all, it takes real charisma to seduce someone via Google Calendar invites!"
You're nearly crying from laughter. Betrayal at it's finest.
"It's true!" Gojo, much to Nanami's dread, continues. "Their third date was titled "Possible Romantic Engagement (Trial 3)" and color-coded beige. The only spice was the footnote, which said 'hand-holding permitted always'."
Nanami, gracefully, lunges for the mic, but Gojo side steps as if he were professionally trained.
"Anyways, let's not forget his wild days. Remember, Thailand, Nanami?"
He narrows his eyes. "Don't you dare–"
"He was offered a lap dance. And he said, and I quote, 'No thanks, I'm saving for a rice cooker.'"
Before Nanami can get the chance to strangle Gojo to death, Yuji appears, with cue cards in hand.
"My turn! My turn!" The boy beams. "I just wanna say, I look up to Nanamin a lot. He's the dad I never had. The emotionally repressed dad who once broke his arm trying to iron his shirt while wearing it cuz he was getting late to a sorcerer meeting."
Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.
"That was one time. I was sleep deprived."
"Let's not forget the PowerPoint proposal!" Gojo jumps back in. Where did he get the mic? Who knows.
"Title slide:- 'Statistical Reasons to Marry Me'. Slide three was a pro and con list. The only con? He won't tolerate mixing the whites with the darks when doing laundry."
You are now full on wheezing.
Nanami turns to you and deadpans. "I was being honest."
Gojo raises his glass. "In all seriousness... Nanami is a great guy. A little stiff. Deeply tragic. Probably haunted. But the most loyal and caring man I've ever known. Full of love, too, even if it's expressed through dry sarcasm and firm handshakes."
Yuji wipes a tear. "Yeah, we love you, Nanamin."
He exhales. Peace. Finally.
But then, Gojo adds, "Also, he cried during Finding Nemo, but not when Nemo got lost. But when the dad filed taxes."
A/N: projecting myself into reader cuz i’ve always wanted to be a ballerina :p enjoy my lovvvveeeee 🫶🫶🫶
⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘
8 & 13
the monsters don’t wait for the closet door to creak open or the thunder to roll in.
they crawl out from behind his eyelids—sharp-toothed and angry—chasing him down a hallway that doesn’t end, his legs heavy and too slow. his voice doesn’t work. he’s trying to scream but it’s like all the air in the world is gone.
then suddenly, he’s awake.
his chest is tight. his throat hurts. he’s not sure if he screamed or if it only happened in the dream. the shadows in his room don’t look right, even though he knows they’re just his race car poster and the chair with his hoodie on it. still, his heart’s thudding and his eyes are hot and—
he climbs out of bed.
his feet are cold on the wooden floor, but he tiptoes anyway. carefully. quietly. his door creaks when he opens it, and he pauses, breath caught. no one stirs.
reader’s room is at the end of the hall. he knows the number of steps by heart. twelve small ones. he doesn’t knock—he never knocks—and instead just presses the door open a crack and peeks in.
she’s still awake. the warm, soft yellow of her lamp is still on, and she’s lying on her stomach, writing in the little purple notebook she always keeps beside her bed. her hair’s up in a bun, messy and half-falling apart.
he hesitates in the doorway, and she looks up like she already knew he was coming.
“nightmare?” she asks, voice low and gentle.
he nods.
she doesn’t say anything else. just shifts over and lifts the blanket.
he scrambles up onto her bed, dragging his pillow with him. he lies on his side, facing the wall, and she presses her chest against his back. her arm comes around his middle, warm and steady.
for a while, it’s just the quiet hum of her lamp and the soft rhythm of her breathing.
“what happened this time?” she asks, fingers brushing his hair.
he shrugs. “dunno. running. screaming. couldn’t move.”
“was i there?”
“no.”
“should i have been?”
he nods.
she hugs him tighter, her hand finding his and squeezing it once.
“next time,” she whispers, “i’ll be there.”
it’s the kind of promise he’ll remember forever. not because she says it like it’s big, but because she says it like it’s already true. like she would’ve fought every monster with her bare hands if she’d known he needed her.
he breathes in slowly, and everything starts to settle. the shadows look softer now. smaller. quieter.
and eventually, with her heartbeat behind him and her arm wrapped around his middle, he falls back asleep.
10 & 15
oscar hates hospitals.
he hates the beeping, the weird smell, the dull grey walls that make it feel like everyone’s holding their breath. he especially hates the food—the tray they gave her yesterday had some green mush on it that looked like it belonged in a science lab, not a lunch.
but he hates seeing her here even more.
she’s in a private room, one with big windows and soft blankets their mum brought from home, but it still feels cold. she’s lying back against her pillows, leg in a cast and propped up, her eyes half-glazed from the pain meds.
she doesn’t smile much these days.
so he comes armed.
he knocks once before coming in, even though she tells him every time that he doesn’t have to. her head turns slowly when he enters, and he sees that flicker in her expression—the one that means she’s trying to look okay even when she’s not.
“hey,” she says softly, voice a little hoarse.
he doesn’t say anything back. just climbs up into the chair next to her bed, backpack thumping onto the floor. he unzips it carefully, glancing toward the hallway like he’s expecting a nurse to barge in and arrest him.
“you didn’t,” she murmurs, already smiling.
he grins and pulls out a crinkly packet of oreos. “of course i did.”
she lets out the tiniest laugh. “you’re gonna get in so much trouble.”
“worth it,” he says, and then pulls out the second thing—a tiny ziplock bag of gummy bears, the good ones, not the off-brand kind.
her eyes go soft. it’s the most he’s seen her smile all week.
“gourmet,” she teases, reaching out with both hands like it’s the most sacred offering.
“only the best,” he says, but his voice drops a little at the end.
she eats slowly, more from the exhaustion than anything else, but he stays quiet while she chews, kicking his heels against the chair legs. he keeps glancing at her cast. it’s so big. it looks heavy. and even though she hasn’t said it out loud, he knows—knows she’s scared. knows something’s different this time.
she finishes her oreo and leans her head back, turning to look at him. “thanks, oz.”
he shrugs, suddenly shy. “s’not a big deal.”
“it is to me.”
her voice wobbles just slightly at the end, and that’s what breaks him.
he scoots the chair closer and leans his head gently on the edge of her bed, near her hand. she brushes her fingers through his hair, soft and rhythmic, and he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask why her eyes are glassy or why her hand trembled when she reached for the snack.
he just stays there.
because she’s always been the strong one—the dancer, the graceful one, the calm in his chaos. and now she needs someone to be that for her.
so he’s going to be. even if it just means sneaking in gummy bears and sitting beside her until she falls asleep again.
when he leaves later, he hides the empty wrappers at the bottom of the bin, like a secret only the two of them will ever know.
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Mad Max (angry kind of frustrated max verstappen) like barging through the paddock mad - when he sees her (reader) his anger falls and he gets teary and turns into clingy breakdown maxie
… just a cutesy idea i had
thx byeee💗💗
Max is having an awful weekend. The car is shit, and everyone is asking him why he didn’t participate in the run for Senna that Seb organized, and he is just so tired of repeating the same thing over and over again because, apparently, everyone wants to hate on him this weekend.
He just finished with an interview, very abruptly after the reporter acted unprofessional. He really doesn’t care that everyone is going to be talking about that for the rest of the weekend too.
“Max,” His PR officer says, touching his shoulder to make him stop walking. “the reporter wants to talk.”
Max scoffs, rolling his eyes. “About what? If he isn’t going to apologize, then I don’t have anything to say.” He walks away when from the corner of his eye sees a few reporters and cameras pointing his way. Max knows that he should apologize to her later, for leaving like that, but now he just wants to get the fuck out of the paddock and hope for the best for qualifying tomorrow.
He’s walking fast, very fast, avoiding eye contact and every fan that tries to make their way towards him. He doesn’t care about being disrespectful now, they need to respect him and his time too.
But then someone is grabbing him by his arm and he just can’t take it anymore. Max turns around, only to find his favorite person looking at him with a worried expression on her face.
“Maxie?” You ask, leaning a little closer and cupping his cheek. “Gemma told me what happened, you want to talk about it?”
And suddenly he is at a loss of words, the urge to cry making it hard to think straight.
Max can only shake his head, eyes filling with tears in just a couple of seconds. And, knowing him like the palm of your hand, you see right through him.
“You want to leave? Back to the hotel?”
Max nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I just need,” He bites his lower lip, noticing a few people around that can’t stop looking at you two. “to grab a few things from my drivers room.”
You hold his hand, squeezing slightly. “We can ask Gemma to do that.”
Max feels relieved because he really doesn’t have the strength to stay a second longer in this place.
The car is already waiting for you when you walk out of the paddock. You let Max get in first before climbing inside and sitting by his side.
No one says anything for the first half of the way, but then Max is turning around and looking at you with a pout on his lips. And you can only open your arms.
Max rests his head on your lap for the rest of the way, your fingers massaging his scalp as you patiently wait for him to start talking.
“I’m having a bad weekend.” He says after what feels like hours. “I don’t want to think. I just want to sleep.”
“You can sleep, baby. I’ll wake you up when we get there.” You lean down to place a kiss on the top of his head. “You need to rest.”
It all started with an innocent idea: a game night at the Red Bull hospitality. Something chill, no drama, no racing. Spoiler: it was a mistake.
"Who brought the One Card Game?" Charles asked with a dangerous smile.
"I did," you said, unaware of the monster you were unleashing.
"Excellent," said Max, already shuffling the cards like he was preparing for battle.
Five minutes in, Oscar had already hit George with a +4. George countered with another +4 and passed it to Yuki, who simply stood up and said:
"I'm not playing anymore. This is abuse."
"Welcome to Formula 1!" Lando shouted, throwing a card with way too much enthusiasm.
Kimi and Ollie were in their own corner, "improving the rules" of Uno. Basically, they’d invented a version with physical penalties. Every time someone lost, they had to do five squats or sing their national anthem.
"Charles, time to sing La Marseillaise!" Ollie shouted.
"This can’t be legal," Charles said, already standing up like a true showman.
Meanwhile, Checo and Fernando were whispering about whether making alliances counted as cheating. Lewis just watched from the couch, eating popcorn like it was a telenovela.
"Max, you're very quiet," you commented.
"I'm waiting for the perfect moment to play my red card…" he replied with a dark smile, like the villain in an action saga.
"He's sick," Carlos muttered, clutching his cards like they were gold bars.
Suddenly, Oscar stood up.
"Proposal: next time, we play Jenga. Less aggressive."
"Not if Kimi plays!" George yelled.
"Hey!" Kimi called from the back. "It wasn’t my fault the table fell!"
"You pushed the table, Kimi!" you shouted, having completely lost all moral authority.
The night ended with everyone yelling, Ollie trying to choreograph a dance, Yuki eating snacks on the floor, and Max saying:
Yuji roamed around the room, as his sea- urchin haired friend, packed the last of his belongings.
“is this really your room?” he asks megumi, pointing all the drawings on the wall.
“yeah...not anymore.” megumi kept packing, his head fixed downwards. He knew he would tear up if he takes one look. One look on the drawings, he was so annoyed, gojo drew on the wall. A Lil megumi holding hands with gojo, a bright smile drawn on his face, in contrast to his entire personality. On the other side, he was holding hands with his sister tsumiki, who was holding your hands. Several similar drawings were scribbled by gojo, saying it will be nostalgic to remember and bring him happiness. However Megumi only felt remorse.
If only he smiled a bit more at gojo.
If only he stayed a bit long to eat your cookies.
If only he nodded a bit more after listening tsumiki venting out her little crush.
If only.....he had spent more time with them.
If only.
“sad, are you?” Yuji crouches down to megumi, wrapping a hand across his shoulder, “come on its not your fault.”
Megumi didn't quite understand how it's not his fault. He killed his sister, his only father figure, and you. It was sukuna, who did all this, but the hands which were tainted in the blood of his found family were still his...his owns.
He can't imagine, how you must have felt, to see gojo's body devoid of life. He couldn't imagine he was still unconscious while you passed away in grief. He wanted to comfort you, but by the time he woke up, your body was cold beside him.
“let’s go, I'm done packing.” he said to Yuji, closing the zips of his suitcase and standing up, brushing the dust off his knees.
“is it really okay for you to sell this apartment?”
“yeah, sensei and y/n san won't be happy if I just keep grieving, I can't move on without this step.” Megumi let out a single tear, his thumb brushing the wood carvings you carved on the door frame, marking his height. You did the same for tsumiki.
With a last look, Megumi left the apartment where he first saw you, where gojo annoyed him, where he fought with tsumiki and where he felt he was at home.
He wished, if possible in another universe, he would live the same life, though he would be a little less grumpy, a little kind to his sister, a little less of a rebel to you, a little sweet to gojo. He would eat your homemade cookies and let his sister braid his hair and laugh on gojo's dad jokes.
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Percy: I don't get it. Why can't my dad just pick up a phone and call me?
Poseidon: *creates a fountain, gives Percy drachma to make Iris Messages and waits for Percy's call*
Percy: Oh. Thanks for the fountain! Dad's reminding me to stay in contact with my family. Should I call him..?
Percy:
Percy: Nah, the call probably wouldn't get through his spam filters. Do gods even get spam calls? They might. On that incredibly flimsy excuse, I'm gonna call Tyson instead.
Poseidon:
Poseidon, frustrated: This child- he asks for a phone call, and I give him the means to contact me in Atlantis and he doesn't even call me!!
Tyson, barging in: Daddy!! Percy called me from camp half blood! Isn't that great!
Poseidon, eye twitching: Yeah that's great for you Tyson!
Percy: *fights Ares's godly son, wins and scares him*
Percy: *fights Hades in his own domain, destroys his army and sends Hades fleeing*
Percy: *calls the Olympians out on their bullshit and forces them into an oath on the styx*
Percy: *falls into Tartarus and strangles Akhkys with her own poison*
Poseidon, cheering from the sidelines: I love him so much!! That's my favorite son!!
Poseidon, looking at Athena & Zeus: And if you even think of touching a hair on his head I'll show you who he gets those powers and fighting skills from.
Summary: Charles makes the worst mistake of his life, leaving him to watch from the sidelines as you move on to bigger and better things (and people)
Warnings: cheating, only one of you gets a happy ending (hint: it’s not Charles)
Based on this request
Charles enters the bedroom he shares with you, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows he has to finally come clean about his infidelity. The guilt has been eating away at him for weeks.
You’re sitting up in bed, reading a book. You look up with a warm smile as Charles approaches. “Hey, you’re home early.”
Charles takes a deep breath. “Yeah … we need to talk.” His voice is heavy with regret.
You mark your page and set the book aside, giving him your full attention. “What’s going on?”
Charles sits down on the edge of the bed, unable to meet your trusting gaze. “I ...” The words get caught in his throat. How can he tell you? How can he shatter the life you’ve built together?
After a long pause, you prompt gently, “Charles? You’re worrying me ...”
He forces himself to look at you. Your beautiful face, your eyes full of love and concern for him. It breaks his heart anew.
“I’ve done something unforgivable,” he confesses in a pained murmur. “I … I cheated on you.”
For a moment, the room is silent. You stare at him, eyes widening in shock and hurt. Then, almost robotically, you slide out of bed and walk over to the closet. You pull out a suitcase and start methodically packing clothes.
“What? No, please, don’t do that!” Charles jumps up, panic and desperation gripping him. “I’m so sorry, it was a mistake! It meant nothing to me, I swear!”
You don’t respond, continuing to pack with eerie calm.
“Aren’t you going to yell at me? Throw things? Please, just … show some emotion!”
You pause and look at him impassively. “Why should I waste my energy? You’ve clearly checked out of our relationship already.”
Charles feels like he’s been slapped. “No! No, that’s not true at all! I love you, I want to make this work!”
Shoving the last shirt into the suitcase, you move over to the vanity and begin unclasping your jewelry — pieces he gave you on holidays or your anniversary or just because. You stack the earrings, necklaces, and bracelets on the surface, finally pulling off your engagement ring and adding it to the pile with a soft clink.
“Please ...” Charles begs, tears filling his eyes. “Please don’t leave me. We can get through this, I promise!”
You zip up the suitcase and turn to him, your expression unreadable. “Let me go, Charles.” You roll the suitcase toward the door.
Charles follows you through the apartment, desperation clawing at his insides. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m so, so sorry. Please, just give me another chance!”
You stop at the front door, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes are dry, but there is a deep sadness etched onto your features. “Why should I give you another chance when you didn’t give me or our relationship a second thought?”
“No, wait!” He rushes after you, grabbing your arm. You shrug him off easily, pausing with your hand on the knob to look back at him one last time.
“I used to think you were my soulmate,” you say quietly. “But you’ve shown me who you really are. I can’t keep loving a lie.”
“Don’t do this!” he pleads, desperation clawing at his throat. “Don’t just give up on us, on everything we had!”
You pause at the front door, finally turning to face him fully. “You gave up first, Charles. Not me.”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Because you’re right — he’s the one who destroyed this, who sacrificed your life together for one selfish moment.
Your jaw tightens slightly, the first flicker of emotion he’s seen. “Goodbye, Charles.”
You turn and walk out the door, pulling it shut behind you with a final click.
Charles is left staring at the closed door, the deafening silence around him. He’s not sure how long he stands there, frozen, replaying your parting words in his mind. Goodbye, you’d said, without any anger or tears.
Just … goodbye.
***
Months later, Charles is seated in the front row at Milan Fashion Week, watching the Ferrari Style runway show with a tight smile plastered on his face. He’s here for publicity, to keep up appearances, even though the last thing he wants is to be thrust into the spotlight tonight.
Not when you are walking in the show.
He tries not to hold his breath as each new model struts down the sleek crimson catwalk. He’s successful at keeping his cool, nodding occasionally at a particularly striking outfit, until suddenly … there you are.
You emerge from the backstage wings, a vision in deep Ferrari red from head to toe. But it’s not just a dress or evening gown. No, the Spanish flag and bold 55 displayed proudly on the front of the outfit leave no doubt — you’re wearing a feminine version of his teammate’s race suit.
Charles’ jaw goes slack as you move with confidence, head held high, every inch the picture of poise and strength. Of a woman who has moved on, left him and their broken relationship in the rearview mirror.
His hands clench in his lap as you pivot at the end of the runway. Even from here, he can see that characteristic glint in your eyes, the spark that had drawn him to you in the first place. The same spark that had been extinguished in those final moments at your shared apartment.
As the show wraps up and the other models join you, Charles rises shakily. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he has no right. But the masochistic urge to see you up close, to try and speak to you for the first time in months, is overpowering.
He makes his way backstage, flashing his credentials to bypass security. A deafening mix of cheers and laughter guides him towards the dressing area, where he finds a cluster of models still in their runway looks, giddily celebrating.
And there you are in the center, radiant and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in so long. A tall, broad-shouldered man he doesn’t recognize moves towards you, a massive bouquet of red roses in his hand.
Something dark and ugly rears up in Charles’ chest as the man leans down, offering you the flowers with a brilliant smile. Your returning grin is equally bright as you accept them, lifting the vibrant blooms to inhale their sweet scent.
Of course you have suitors lining up, Charles thinks bitterly. Look at you — confident, successful, leaving him and your painful history together far behind. Who wouldn’t want to give their entire heart to someone like you?
The irrational flare of jealousy is like acid in his veins as you turn to the man, mouth opening to undoubtedly offer your gratitude. But then, shockingly, the man simply pivots towards a nearby male model, gripping his lapels and pulling him into a searing kiss.
Charles blinks dumbly as the pair continue their heated embrace, seemingly oblivious to the raucous cheers and whoops from the other models, you included.
Even as the tight knot of jealousy in Charles’ chest loosens, it’s replaced by something worse — a sinking feeling of regret as he watches you from his hidden vantage point.
You look … happy.
Vibrant.
Surrounded by friends and uplifted by your success, without him holding you back with his selfish mistakes.
Why did he ever think confronting you backstage was a good idea? You’ve clearly moved on to an exciting new chapter, one he has no place in. Not after how much he broke you, shattered the loving core you’d shared.
You throw your head back in a full-bellied laugh at something one of the other models says. Even from here, even with the distance he forced between you, the uninhibited joy on your face in that moment cuts straight to Charles’ heart.
“Hey, you lost back here?” A rough voice breaks into his thoughts. Charles turns to find a burly security guard eyeing him suspiciously.
“I … no. No, I was just leaving.” Charles forces his feet into motion, turning on his heel to all but flee from the scene of your happiness.
As painful as it is seeing how beautifully you’re thriving without him, he has no one to blame but himself. He’s the one who threw away the greatest thing he ever had. You owe him nothing, certainly not delaying your healing by dredging up the past.
Even if watching you move on cuts deeper than any physical wound.
***
The salty Sardinian breeze ruffles Charles’ hair as he leans back on the plush deck lounger, soaking in the warm August sun. For the first few days of their annual family yacht trip, he’d felt the knots of tension slowly unraveling from his shoulders as the clear blue waters and simple routines of life at sea worked their magic.
His mother’s gentle humming as she read nearby, the sounds of his brothers horsing around and doing cannonballs off the stern, the nights spent under a blanket of stars — it had almost been enough to fully distract him from thoughts of you.
Almost.
But of course, nothing can ever be that simple.
“What the hell is that!” Arthur’s annoyed shout breaks the tranquil silence.
Charles squints against the glare over the water to see what his brother is griping about. At first, it’s just a speck on the horizon. But as it draws nearer, he can make out the sleek, gleaming white lines of another yacht — one nearly triple the size of his own comparatively modest vessel.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charles mutters under his breath as the ostentatious floating palace drops anchor mere yards from their private little cove. So much for the serenity they’d been enjoying.
He rises, moving to the railing with narrowed eyes as the other yacht’s passengers begin to emerge on the decks above them, raucous cheers and laughter cutting through the previously still air. The sound is abrasive, grating on Charles’ very last nerve.
Until a very specific, very familiar laugh rings out.
It can’t be … can it?
Charles freezes, his heart jackrabbiting as your unmistakable voice and bright, bubbling giggle reach him across the waters. He watches, feeling like he’s been doused in ice water, as you come into view alongside a group of equally vibrant, beautiful people.
Of course it’s you. Who else could it possibly be, here to upend his few days of hard-won peace?
You lean over the railing, your sunglasses sliding down your nose as you peer down at the crystal clear waters. Even from here, even with the distance separating you, Charles is struck by your radiant, carefree smile. When was the last time he saw you look so … effortlessly happy?
Before he can spiral too far down that winding road, you whip off your sunglasses and straighten, pulling the flowing fabric of your cover-up over your head in one smooth motion. You toss it aside carelessly, revealing the deep navy string bikini underneath as you take a few steps back from the railing.
Charles’ mouth goes dry as he tracks the sway of your hips, the confident, easy way you carry yourself in just that tiny scrap of swimwear. And then, with a bright peal of laughter, you’re sprinting forward and sailing over the railing, tucking into a flawless backflip before slicing into the glittering waves below.
A chorus of cheers and whoops erupts from your friends as they follow your graceful leap, one by one pelting into the water in your wake like a stream of sleek dolphin dancers. Charles watches, his earlier frustration morphing into something darker and much more complicated, as your head breaks the surface, tendrils of your soaked hair clinging to the graceful curves of your neck and shoulders.
You toss your head back, slicking the dripping strands away from your face as you tread water easily, that brilliant, freed smile never slipping. How long has it been since Charles saw you look so radiant, so at peace, so … alive?
“Mon ami, close your mouth before you start drooling all over the deck.”
Joris’ voice startles Charles from his reverie. He blinks, only then realizing his hands are clenched tightly around the cool metal railing, knuckles straining white. His best friend arches an expectant brow as Charles quickly averts his eyes, flushing hotly.
“I wasn’t ...” he starts weakly, but Joris simply scoffs.
“Yeah, okay mate. Keep telling yourself that.” Joris settles in beside him, bare feet kicked up on the railing as his eyes track over to your group, now engaged in an intense game of chicken fight among the gentle waves. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”
The resentful scowl that tugs at Charles’ mouth is automatic, instinctive. “I couldn’t care less how she looks,” he lies through gritted teeth.
Even to his own ears, the petulant deflection sounds pathetic. Joris raises an unimpressed brow. “Could’ve fooled me, with how you were eye-fucking her from over here just now.”
Charles’ flush deepens as your bright, delighted laughter rings out again, echoing across the waters. “It’s not like that,” he insists, even as his gaze traitorously tracks after the source of that sound. “I was just … surprised to see her here, that’s all.”
“Sure, yeah. And I’m the Prince of Monaco.” Joris snorts, shaking his head. “Listen, man, I get it-”
“You don’t get anything,” Charles bites out, rounding on his friend as frustration boils over. “You have no idea what it’s like seeing her like … like that, after everything. She’s just moved on like our entire relationship meant nothing!”
The ugly admission hangs between them in the still air, Charles panting slightly from the force of the outburst. Joris watches him cautiously for a long moment before speaking. “That’s not fair, Charles. You’re the one who-”
“I know!” Charles cuts him off sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know what I did, alright? You don’t have to remind me.”
He sinks back against the railing, suddenly exhausted down to his very bones. Out across the waves, you’re perched atop one of your friend’s shoulders, engaged in an epic battle against another pair that’s quickly devolving into a fit of violent splashing.
“I know I screwed everything up. I have to live with that every single day.” Charles’ throat feels tight, watched. “I just … I never thought I’d have to watch her being so happy without me too.”
The fight seems to leave Joris as he takes in Charles’ miserable, broken expression. The other man sighs, squeezing Charles’ shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry. That’s … that’s got to be tough as hell to see. But you can’t blame her for moving on and being happy again, you know? What you did … well, you really broke her heart.”
Charles doesn’t respond, letting the words hang heavy between them as your melodic laugh continues to drift towards them. He knows Joris is right — he has no one to blame for this gut-wrenching situation but himself. But that doesn’t make watching your vibrant, beautiful soul shine so bright without him there any easier.
***
Charles guides his Ferrari up to the valet stand outside one of his favorite restaurants in Monaco, the engine purring like a contented cat. He throws the car into park and kills the ignition, savoring that last potent growl of the powerful motor.
There’s just something different about a Ferrari, something quintessentially Italian and bred for speed. He runs an appreciative hand along the sleek black curve of the door as he waits for the valet. This is a beast made for the racetrack, for pushing past limits. Not like those garish, overcompensating-
The loud rumble of another engine cuts into his thoughts. Charles looks up in disdain as a blinding yellow Lamborghini pulls up.
“Trying too hard, as always,” Charles mutters to himself as he watches the valet park the ostentatious machine. Could a car be any more desperate for attention? Absolutely zero class or restraint.
He climbs out, already half-dismissing it from his mind, when a familiar figure emerges from the restaurant entrance. The valet is hastening to assist, offering a hand as she descends the front steps in a form-fitting crimson dress. Even from here, even with the perfectly curled hair and smokey makeup, Charles would know the line of those shoulders, the elegant curve of her neck anywhere.
You.
His breath catches as you smile warmly at the young valet, sliding him what looks like a generous tip before slipping into the driver’s seat of the garish yellow Lamborghini and roaring off without a backwards glance.
Charles is still gaping after you, mouth slightly ajar, when the second valet appears at his side.
“Good evening, monsieur. Shall I park your car for you?”
He blinks dumbly for a moment before recovering. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
Sliding the young man his own tip, Charles pivots on his heel and strides into the elegant dining room, mind whirling. Of all the cars in the world, he never would have pegged you for a Lamborghini person.
Then again, he clearly doesn’t know you like he thought he did. Not the new you, the version free of him and his betrayals.
He takes his usual table in the back corner, ordering an expensive Chianti before he can even glance at the menu. Tonight calls for relying on old vices. As he swirls the deep burgundy liquid, he finds himself drifting back to your matching crimson dress, how it clung to your curves in such a delicious way.
Even when you were furious with him, you could never quite hide the passion that smoldered underneath. Charles had spent many blissful nights stoking those flames, coaxing them into an all-consuming wildfire of want and need. He misses the scorching heat of your desire, your clever hands and wicked mouth setting his body ablaze.
He closes his eyes, letting the memory of your bare skin flush against his wash over him. Those nights of tangled limbs and breathy gasps, when nothing else mattered but struggling to get impossibly closer, as if your very beings could meld into one.
With a frustrated groan, Charles slams back the rest of his wine. What is he doing, torturing himself with memories of your lovemaking? You’ve clearly moved on to new chapters, new … cars. New everything, really.
And yet he can’t quite extinguish the gnawing sense of dissonance. A Lamborghini? Something so utterly over-the-top and desperate for attention just doesn’t seem like your style. You were always more understated … more elegant.
Not that it matters, he reminds himself firmly. Whatever choices you make now are no longer any of his business. He systematically strips away the judgements, the fragile sense of still knowing you intimately. After what he did, he sacrificed that right completely.
The waiter reappears with a fresh glass of wine and Charles takes it gratefully. He’s determined to focus on learning to untangle you from his thoughts and simply enjoy his evening. He came here for the ambiance, the food, the escape.
But no matter how he tries, your image keeps invading his mind’s eye — sliding into that sunshine yellow machine, stunning in that slinky red number and your lips curved in a contented smile. Content without him still lingering in the shadowed corners of your life.
And then it hits him like a slap across the face — you in that screaming yellow Lamborghini wasn’t about attention at all. It was the opposite — a declaration of fierce independence. Of staking your own claim, making your own flagrantly joyful choices without a care for his opinions or approval. Free from his reputation, his expectations, his name.
The realization is like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. You’ve remade yourself so thoroughly, forging a vibrant path that has absolutely nothing to do with him. While he’s been stuck in neutral, spinning his wheels and passively watching you soar out of reach.
A strange sense of loss washes over Charles. As badly as he’d wanted you to find your way again after his unforgivable betrayal, he can’t deny how disorienting it is to realize you’re not the same woman he fell in love with all those years ago.
You’re a new version, one he isn’t familiar with at all. One who makes choices and carries herself in a way he doubts he’ll ever fully understand, no matter how much he wishes he could go back and undo every selfish mistake that set these changes into motion.
Charles blinks against the unexpected sting in his eyes as he stares at the table. On some deeper level, he knows this remolding of your identity, this blossoming into someone both thrillingly unfamiliar yet unmistakably you, should be cause for celebration. It means you’re healing, leaving his mistakes in the past and coming into your own again in spite of his ugliest failures.
He just wishes he didn’t have to watch the entire metamorphosis from a distance.
***
Charles squints against the bright morning sunlight as he strides through the paddock towards his garage. A slight chill still clings to the air, promising another sweltering afternoon session once the sun reaches its peak. He adjusts his cap lower over his eyes, trying not to dwell too much on the practice times from yesterday. There’s still so much fine-tuning needed to find those crucial extra tenths of a second.
Passing by the Red Bull motorhome, a flash of familiar flowing hair catches his eye. Charles freezes mid-step, his heart stuttering. It couldn’t be … could it?
But then the figure moves fully into view and there’s no mistaking the delicate slope of your jaw and those cheekbones he knows as well as his own reflection. It’s definitely you, slipping inside the sleek facade of the Red Bull motorhome with an easy smile.
Charles blinks dumbly, certain his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Why in the world would you be going into the Red Bull motorhome? You never had any connection to their team or drivers before, back when ...
When you were still together.
Charles swallows hard, dragging his gaze away. He must have imagined it. Sometimes his subconscious still gets carried away, superimposing your presence into random moments or places like an echo of a life he can never return to. Seeing you here, intertwined with his racing world in some way, is just too improbable.
Shaking off the strange moment, he refocuses on the day ahead. But over the next two days, he can’t seem to avoid catching glimpses of you around the Red Bull garage and hospitality areas. There you are chatting with one of their engineers just outside their motorhome entrance. Then sharing a hushed conversation off to the side with their chief strategist.
Finally, on Sunday just before the race, he watches with raised eyebrows as you throw your head back laughing at something Max Verstappen says, the Red Bull driver’s own grin wide and appreciative.
Some sort of friendship surely couldn’t explain this level of access and familiarity could it? A sour knot of suspicion begins twisting in Charles’ gut. There’s no way … no way Max would ...
But he has to know.
As the Formula 1 circus begins packing up after the race, Charles spots you slipping away from the Red Bull group once more, clearly headed back to their closed-off sanctuary. He watches Max linger outside, fiddling idly with his cap as he waits.
It’s the perfect opportunity. Charles doesn’t even think, just lets his feet carry him across the crowded paddock until he’s standing across from his fellow driver.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The accusation comes out half-snarl before he can stop himself.
Max turns, eyebrows shooting up. “... Charles? What are you on about?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Charles jabs a finger back towards the motorhome you disappeared into. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been with her all weekend. How you two can’t seem to get enough of each other’s company.”
Realization dawns and Max actually has the audacity to laugh. “Wait … is this about Y/N? You jealous she’s been hanging around our team?”
White-hot fury lances through Charles and he has to grit his teeth against the heated words that want to come spilling out. “You think this is funny? Cozying up to my ex-fianceé less than a year after I lost her? What, you couldn’t find someone else so you had to go after her?”
Max shakes his head slowly, clearly fighting to keep his expression neutral. “Damn … I didn’t realize the great Charles Leclerc makes the rules on who Y/N can associate with these days.”
The blatant dismissal in his tone is like a physical slap. Charles recoils slightly before squaring his shoulders. “Don’t turn this around on me. I know what I saw, how cozy you two were-”
“Easy there, tiger.” Max cuts him off, holding up one hand placatingly. “First of all, Y/N and I are just friends. I happen to have my own gorgeous girlfriend, but thanks for looking out.”
He pauses, letting the implication that Charles is being irrational and out-of-line sink in. When Charles doesn’t immediately retort, Max continues.
“Second … you seem to have conveniently forgotten that you’re the one who threw away your life with Y/N. The one who cheated and broke her heart. You don’t get to dictate a damn thing about who she spends time with or how she chooses to live her life now.”
The words slam into Charles with brutal force, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because Max is right — he has no claim here, no right to make assumptions or demands. Not after what he did.
Seeming to sense he’s scored a direct hit, Max shakes his head again. “Look, I get it’s probably hard watching her move on fully, start over without you. But that’s on you, not her. You’re going to have to learn to deal with the consequences of your own actions.”
The quiet truth in his voice is like a white-hot brand. Charles swallows hard, suddenly incapable of meeting Max’s level gaze.
“Then … then why has she been around your team so much?” It comes out sounding more petulant than he intended, a desperate scramble to regain some levity. “If she’s not … you know ...”
Max huffs out a soft laugh, stooping to retrieve his discarded cap. “That answer isn’t mine to give.” He slides it back on, fixing Charles with one last searching look. “But if I had to guess? She’s putting herself first now. Pursuing her own path, one that has nothing to do with you anymore.”
He turns towards the Red Bull motorhome, tossing his final phrase over his shoulder. “I’d get used to it, if I were you.”
Charles watches him disappear inside, leaving him rooted in place and feeling completely lost. The crowd continues to disperse around him, teams and personnel breaking down equipment and packing things away.
Yet Max’s words keep ricocheting through his mind on an endless loop.
She’s pursuing her own path now. One that has nothing to do with you anymore.
It makes perfect sense of course — the laughter, the camaraderie, the ease of her presence in Red Bull’s inner sanctum. The seamless way she navigated their ecosystem all weekend long while Charles remained oblivious.
Because you’ve fully remade your entire existence into one that no longer intersects with his whatsoever.
As the paddock slowly empties around him, Charles finally forces one foot in front of the other, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Part of him wants to stick around until you reemerge, to demand that you explain this bold new reality you’ve carved out.
But what would be the point? You don’t owe him any explanations, any part of your life now. Those days are over, gone forever thanks to his own bone-deep failings.
So he keeps walking, leaving you and your mystery behind. After all, hadn’t you made it crystal clear from the very beginning?
This was your path to reclaim now, a future that was yours and yours alone to chase.
***
Charles frowns down at the envelope in his hand as he pushes open the door to his apartment, his mind still half-focused on the looming Austrian Grand Prix. The return address is from some high-end clothing boutique in Paris, but it’s the name neatly printed below that makes his heart stutter.
Y/N Y/L/N.
For a long moment, he simply stands there in the entryway, turning the innocent envelope over and over in his hands. How did this slip through the cracks and wind up here, at what used to be your shared home before everything combusted?
He traces the graceful swoop of your name with one finger, memories flickering through his mind’s eye. Coming home from races to find you curled up on the sofa with the latest fashion magazines scattered around you, making notes in the margins. Or catching you in the huge walk-in closet the two of you designed together, carefully hanging up some new couture purchase with a reverent touch.
You always did have impeccable taste. Charles can’t even find it in himself to judge the fancy Parisian boutique’s stationary now clutched in his hands.
Making a split-second decision, he spins on his heel and heads right back out the door, letter in hand. If this innocuous slip of mail made its way here by some shipping error, it’s the perfect excuse to … what? See you again? Try to explain himself one more time?
He’s not sure, but either way, the pull to seek you out is utterly irresistible now that this connection has fallen into his lap. Charles makes it two blocks before realizing with a start that he has absolutely no idea where you’re living these days.
The logical side of his brain reminds him he could simply call or text to get your new address and make arrangements to pass the letter along. But the thought of such mundane formalities after all this time, after the way things were upended so brutally, is laughable.
So instead he lets his feet guide him towards the upscale apartment building you lived in before moving into his place. There’s a chance the leasing office might have a forwarding address on file he can use. A small voice whispers that this is almost certainly a futile quest, that you’ve no doubt successfully untangled every last thread of your life from his.
But he has to try.
The lobby is blessedly quiet, devoid of the usual bustle and foot traffic he remembers from past visits. Charles straightens his shoulders and approaches the front desk, where a youngish woman with a bright smile greets him.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”
“Hi, yes, I’m actually trying to track down the new address for a former tenant — Y/N Y/L/N?” He carefully pencils in the last name, watching as the woman’s face scrunches in thought for a beat before her eyes widen in recognition.
“Of course, Mademoiselle Y/L/N. One moment.”
She taps efficiently at her computer, scanning whatever information has popped up on the screen. Just watching her work makes Charles’ heart kick up its rhythm in nervous anticipation.
“Ah, yes, here we are. It seems Mademoiselle Y/L/N moved out around three months ago. She actually left instructions for any further mail that slips through to be forwarded to ...”
She pauses, glancing up at Charles with newfound curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Are you a relative, sir? Mademoiselle Y/L/N requested her new address only be released to family.”
“I’m … an old friend,” he answers carefully, unsure if that bends the truth too far or not. “We used to be very close.”
The woman’s polite smile dims ever-so-slightly at his choice of words, like she can read the subtext loud and clear. Used to be very close … until he completely obliterated that closeness.
“I see,” she says neutrally. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I can’t provide her new contact details without explicit permission. But the residents currently leasing her old unit have been directly forwarding any mail to her, if that would help?”
It’s not ideal, but a frustratingly belated realization stops Charles from arguing further — you clearly requested your whereabouts be kept private now, at least from him. Probably a wise decision, all things considered.
“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”
She rattles off the apartment number and Charles commits it to memory with a polite nod before turning to leave. As he crosses the airy lobby once more, he can’t resist glancing up towards the corner unit he knows was yours, absently wondering if someone else’s belongings line those shelves now, if there are new photos or mementos dotting the surfaces where yours once stood.
He shakes off the melancholy pang — you’ve forged an entirely new existence somewhere far away. Of course your old place has been repopulated, just like all the love you breathed into it has dissipated like smoke.
The apartment door opens after the third solid knock, revealing a twenty-something woman with a confused furrow in her brow. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m actually here about a piece of mail for the previous tenant? The front desk said to bring it here.” Charles quickly proffers the letter before she can raise further objections or shut the door in his face completely.
“Oh.” She accepts it hesitantly, turning it over in her hands just like Charles had done earlier. “Yeah, the last tenant did leave instructions for stuff like this, now that you mention it ...”
She trails off, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him more intently. He knows that look, can pinpoint the exact moment realization blossoms.
“Wait … you’re not Charles Leclerc, are you?”
So much for anonymity. He opens his mouth, fully prepared to deny and deflect as the tension stretches between them-
“Oh my god, you are!” The young woman actually gasps, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes go saucer-wide. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. I mean, sorry about … you know. That entire situation with Y/N. My boyfriend is such a fan of yours though, I can’t even-”
“It’s alright,” Charles cuts her off on pure instinct, the words rushing out in a bid to stem the conversational swerve that’s clearly brewing. “I actually stopped by to pass that letter along, but also see if there’s a current address where I could reach Y/N? Perhaps send her things directly from now on.”
His polite inquiry has the desired effect — the woman’s starry-eyed expression shutters again as she refocuses. “Ah, well, about that … Y/N asked for anything like this to be forwarded to an address in Austria once she moved there. Let me grab that for you.”
Charles waits in silence as she ducks back inside, busying herself with finding the details. Austria? Of all places, why would you have relocated to-
“Got it.” She reappears, a small slip of paper in her outstretched hand. “This is where you can send anything for Y/N. Though I obviously don’t know all the details about … you know. Your situation.”
He takes the slip without comment, just a curt nod of acknowledgement. The woman rocks back on her heels, worrying her lower lip slightly.
“For what it’s worth … I think it’s really cool you’ve tried to stay in contact, you know? Even after everything. That’s commitment.”
Her sincere tone grates against the ugly truth they’re both tap-dancing around — that he’s the one who torched your commitment beyond repair with his selfish actions.
“Thanks,” is all he can muster, already turning away and pocketing the slip of paper with your new Austrian address before she can say anything further.
As he retraces his steps to the ground floor, Charles finds himself clutching the envelope even tighter, knuckles going white. So you’ve fled all the way to Austria now, put an entire nation’s length between your old life and whatever rising present you’re building. No wonder you didn’t want your location breathed to just anyone, let alone the man who detonated your world.
Well, he got what he came for in more ways than one. He has your new address now, the roadmap to whatever path you’ve started down without him sketched out in his hands. Part of him longs to deviate from his own schedule and just … show up, uninvited, on your new doorstep. To try and explain himself, or at least attempt to understand what grander journey you’ve embarked on.
But the same voice that cautioned him earlier rings out once more — you’ve made it perfectly clear you want to sever any remaining ties or connections to him, no matter how tenuous. Perhaps out of necessity to fully heal or simply because you’re done having any part of Charles Leclerc tarnish your horizons any longer.
Either way, you’ve spoken through your silence and distance. Chasing you down now, while perhaps gratifying a selfish impulse of his own, would only disrespect the boundaries you’ve erected.
As Charles reaches his car and slides in behind the wheel, he can’t resist rereading the brief string of characters and numbers that make up your new address. He commits them to memory, sketching out a crude map in his mind’s eye of where exactly this secluded town lies in the looping alpine valleys and mountain peaks.
Part of him longs to program the coordinates into his GPS immediately, to seek you out while this connection still blazes hot and bright between you. But harsh realities keep crashing in — the Austrian Grand Prix is only days away, his own commitments and schedule unforgiving.
No, the wise choice would be to simply send the wayward letter on to its intended destination. To let you live in peace, unburdened by his disruptive presence any longer.
As Charles fires up the engine and eases out onto the main street, he catches one last glimpse of your old apartment building shrinking in the rearview mirror. He thinks of the wide-eyed woman’s parting comment about “commitment” and has to laugh bitterly.
Commitment is precisely what he failed to uphold, the whispered promises he shattered into pieces with his own calloused hands. You owe him no further explanations, no more fragments of yourself after he decimated the love you shared.
The seconds will stretch on towards the next race, the next city, the next routine of focused preparation. But part of Charles’ mind will linger in that small Austrian town, caught in the mystery of the new life you’ve built.
A life he has no right to reinsert himself into, not anymore. All he can do is wish you well from a distance and keep putting kilometers between you with every spin of his tires.
Kilometers and kilometers of regret.
***
Charles stares down at the navigation screen, his thumb hovering over the go button. This is ridiculous — completely irrational and just begging for disaster. He has no business showing up unannounced like this, disrupting whatever new life you’ve so carefully constructed.
And yet … the Austrian address you have been forwarding mail to is already programmed in, glowing softly with the swipe of his finger. He could be there in just over nine hours, barring any major delays on the route into Salzburg province.
His mind races, cycling through every logical argument for abandoning this reckless idea immediately. You’re entitled to your privacy, your fresh start far away from the wreckage he created. Anything more would be him selfishly barging back into your existence, the one place he swore to never intrude again.
Against his better judgement, Charles swipes the go button. Almost instantly, the robotic voice begins spouting turn-by-turn directions, the path to your doorstep stretching out in vivid digital detail.
What’s done is done. He’ll simply … take it one step at a time.
The winding Alpine roads are a marvel of feats in civil engineering, the roadways expertly carved into the towering rock faces in sweeping vistas. Even Charles, who has logged countless miles of serpentine racetracks and courses around the globe, can’t help admiring the impossible scenery whipping past.
Evergreen forests give way to snow-capped peaks reaching into the crisp blue sky. ancient castles and towering church spires alike keep popping into view around each new switchback turn. He can’t shake the nagging sense that this entire region is something ripped from the pages of a storybook, a landscape too perfectly picturesque to be real.
Which is perhaps why the sight of the enormous wrought-iron gates materializing up ahead doesn’t immediately faze him at all.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS chirps pleasantly as Charles slows the Ferrari, trying to comprehend the sprawling estate now stretching out before him. This can’t possibly be right, can it?
Lush gardens and perfectly manicured shrubbery serpentine around the perimeter in intricate geometric patterns, eventually yielding to an emerald green meadow dotted with ancient growth trees. A gravel path splits the sweeping lawns up ahead, clearly carving a wide berth around … is that an actual lakehouse?
Charles blinks in stunned stupor, instinctively searching for some sort of address marker or sign as he creeps up the main drive towards the gates. Instead, his eyes are drawn to the imposing manor itself, all honey-colored stone and arched windows that wouldn’t look out of place in a Renaissance fresco. Turrets and spires spiral upwards towards the cloudless sky, practically winking in the summer sunshine.
This has to be some colossal mistake.
He’s fully prepared to simply turn around and peel back out of this fairytale estate when the crackle of a speaker breaks the silence.
“Hallo? This is a private residence. Please identify yourself and state your business.” The clipped, accented words carry an undeniable tone of authority.
Shit. Charles swallows hard against his suddenly dry throat, throwing the car into park as he leans towards the callbox mounted on the ivy-laced exterior wall.
“Ah, yes, hello … my name is Charles Leclerc. I’m actually here to-” He breaks off, fresh uncertainty bubbling up. He’s here to what, exactly? Catch a glimpse of the new life you’ve created? Throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness once more?
“One moment, please,” the disembodied voice instructs crisply before the line goes dead silent once more.
Charles sits back, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. He should go, right now before this reaches the point of no return. He could simply turn around, act like this was all some misguided joke and leave you undisturbed. It’s the mature, sensible choice.
Instead, his pulse kicks up into a furious gallop as the massive front gates begin slowly grinding open with a metal groan, clear invitation to proceed. Charles doesn’t move for a long beat, waiting for the second half of the intercom to bark out a warning, for security to appear and politely hustle him off the premises.
But nothing. The gates yawn open further, revealing the full splendor of the estate lying in wait beyond.
Before he can think better of it, Charles eases the Ferrari forward. The crunch of the pale gravel beneath his tires seems to echo off the looming stone walls as he winds deeper into the property, the boundaries blurring between reality and a dreamscape more suited for the silver screen.
Finally, he rounds the last curve and the manor in its full glory stretches out before him. Every inch of the sprawling facade is a carved, architectural marvel — from the polished lintels to the intricate mouldings encircling each enormous window and doorway.
He kills the engine and simply sits there, once again grappling with unprecedented uncertainty. What was he thinking, assuming he could just brazenly roll up and … what? Vent months worth of grievances and miscommunications in a casual chat? As if the life you’ve so clearly cultivated here could ever intersect with his own beaten path again?
Charles climbs out of the car on legs that seem determined to wobble out from under him. He’s vaguely aware of the thunder of footsteps on stone before one of the massive oak front doors swings wide and a figure fills the entryway.
“Charles Leclerc, I presume?” The man’s sharp tone instantly catches Charles off guard. He’s younger than expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with an athletic build and carefully groomed dark hair. Despite the informal lounge pants and linen shirt, an unmistakable air of assurance rolls off him in waves.
“Er … yes. Hello.” Charles hears the uncertainty edging into his own greeting, quickly scrambling to fill the conversational pause. “I didn’t realize Y/N had … household staff now.”
The words are out before he can fully snatch them back. The man’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker, but there’s suddenly a tension charging the space between them that has Charles’ palms prickling with sweat.
“I’ll inform her you’ve arrived,” the man says at last, his intense gaze scanning over Charles slowly from head to toe.
Is that judgment blending into the appraisal? Regardless, Charles feels abruptly self-conscious — he hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of such frank scrutiny today. But then again, he’s the one who inserted himself into unknown territory here.
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the receiving hall?” The open doorway and subtle tilt of the man’s head is clear invitation, one Charles has no choice but to mutely accept.
He climbs the three stairs to the arched entrance, pausing just before the threshold to turn back with furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your-”
“Mark.” The reply is clipped but courteous enough, at least. “Y/N should be down shortly.”
And with that, he turns on his heel and disappears through the foyer, leaving Charles to hover there alone for a beat too long before finally stepping across the threshold. Each footfall on the gleaming marble seems to ricochet off the domed ceiling above, bouncing back in mocking echoes.
As his gaze travels around the cavernous space, roving over the hanging art and intricate tilework, Charles can’t quite bite back the breathless huff of amazement.
Where in the actual hell are you living, Y/N?
***
Charles follows a step behind Mark as the other man leads them deeper into the estate. He can’t resist craning his neck, taking in every jaw-dropping detail — the soaring archways, the intricate brickwork, the Venetian plaster and artworks adorning the walls.
It’s the art itself that begins nagging at him first. Charles frowns slightly as they pass yet another larger-than-life canvas, this one emblazoned with the distinctive Red Bull logo and colors. Then a series of framed photographs, all seeming to depict different angles and events tied to the racing team.
“You must be quite a fan of Red Bull,” he finds himself commenting as they round a corner.
Mark half-turns, one eyebrow quirked. “You could say that.”
There’s an undercurrent to his tone that Charles can’t quite put his finger on. Before he can pry further, they emerge into some sort of sitting room or receiving area, the walls giving way to a bright, airy ambiance.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Mark gestures towards one of the plush sofas arranged in the center of the space. “I’ll have the staff inform Y/N you’re here.”
Charles nods, still trying to absorb the sheer opulence around him as he takes a seat. How in the world did you find yourself situated in a place like this? The nagging questions about Mark’s potential connection to the Red Bull team continue to swirl.
He’s pulled from his ruminations by the sound of your voice filtering down the hallway, breezing and melodic as ever.
“Babe? You down here?”
Charles stiffens instinctively at the endearment, his eyes snapping over to where Mark is casually lounging back against the opposite sofa. There’s no missing the tender smile playing across the other man’s lips.
“In the sitting room, liebling. We have a guest.”
The teasing lilt in his response has Charles’ skin prickling with something he can’t quite identify. He rises halfway as your footsteps grow nearer, not wanting to seem rude by remaining fully seated.
“Oh, a guest! Who-”
You sweep into the room still chattering away cheerfully, entirely oblivious until your gaze finally lands squarely on Charles. The breath punches out of you in a surprised rush, your entire body going rigid as the words die on your lips.
For an endless heartbeat, you simply stare at Charles, motionless but for the slight part of your lips. He watches as a faint flush blossoms high on your cheekbones, long lashes fluttering rapidly.
“... Charles? What are you doing here?”
He blinks dumbly at the sound of your voice, hushed with disbelief yet still so familiar after all this time. “I … you got a letter. From Paris, I think. It arrived at our — at my old place by mistake.”
Cursing his stammering, Charles reaches automatically for his inner jacket pocket, fumbling until he can produce the crumpled envelope bearing your name. “I didn’t know if other things might keep getting sent there, so I thought ...”
He trails off lamely, unable to properly articulate the impulse that propelled him all this way. To deliver one measly piece of mail? To re-establish some connection, no matter how fragile? He realizes with a start that you’ve moved closer, extending one hand to gently accept the letter from him.
“Thank you,” you murmur, eyes momentarily skittering away from his probing gaze. “That was very considerate.”
The moment stretches out, silence expanding in the cavernous space. Charles watches as your free hand flutters unconsciously upwards to fiddle with the collar of your shirt, struggling to find his voice once more.
“I didn’t realize you had, ah … you had a place like this now.” His attempt at nonchalance is so piss-poor he wants to cringe. “And … company, I suppose?”
A delicate snort from the other side of the room reminds Charles he’s not alone with you. His gaze snaps over to find Mark watching the exchange with an inquisitive smirk, arms crossed casually over his chest.
“Company?” He echoes the word airily, igniting a fresh bloom of color in your cheeks. “This must be terribly confusing for you.”
In one seamless motion, Mark unfolds himself from the sofa and crosses the short distance to your side, slipping one possessive arm around your waist. The intimacy of the gesture has Charles’ mouth going dry.
“Allow me to clarify — I’m Mark. Mark Mateschitz.” The subtle emphasis on the surname hits Charles like a bucket of ice water, comprehension crashing over him in waves.
“Mateschitz?” He hears himself repeating dumbly. “As in … Dietrich Mateschitz? The founder of Red Bull?”
Mark’s grin stretches into something wolfishly triumphant at Charles’ stunned expression. “The very same. My father.”
He lets the implication expand in the silence barreling down on them from all sides. Charles numbly finds the nearest armchair and sinks into it, struggling to fully process the revelation.
Of course. All the Red Bull imagery and iconography made so much more sense now. This sprawling, palatial estate clearly belonged to the family behind the team and brand, the multinational empire. Which meant … you weren’t simply a friendly acquaintance chumming around the Red Bull garages.
No, you were with the actual Mateschitz heir, the current co-owner of the goddamn company himself.
The sound of you softly clearing your throat breaks through his whirling thoughts. When Charles glances up, the vision that greets him is like a vise around his heart — you and Mark cuddled close together on the loveseat, his arm still looped possessively around your waist as you toy absently with the ends of his dark hair. Two people radiating intimacy and comfort, completely at home in one another’s embrace.
“We met during a Wings for Life charity run, actually,” you offer at last, almost as an olive branch. “We just … hit it off, I suppose. One thing led to another and … well, here we are.”
Mark’s fingers trail in a barely-there caress up and down your arm as you speak, his gaze locked adoringly on your profile. The look is so tender, so inescapably fond that it makes Charles’ chest constrict painfully.
“She’s a force of nature,” Mark says simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet mirth. “What else could I do but get caught up in her orbit?”
A flush blossoms high on your cheeks, but you don’t turn away, holding Mark’s fond gaze steadily. In that moment, the love you two share is almost a tangible force, shimmering and alive in the air between you. It’s beautiful and devastating all at once.
“I, uh, I should go.” The words leave Charles in a dazed mumble before he can reconsider. He rises abruptly, needing to create space between himself and the intimacies unfolding so easily in front of him.
As if snapping out of a reverie, you look up sharply. “Charles, wait-”
“No, really, it’s fine.” He tries valiantly to paste on a casual smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Thank you again for … well, you know. I’m sure I can see myself out.”
Turning on his heel, Charles makes it no more than two strides before your voice stops him once more, tinged with gentle exasperation.
“That’s the library you’re heading for. Here, let me ...”
You gently disentangle yourself from Mark’s embrace and cross the room towards a different set of double doors. Charles watches in silence as you lead the way through winding hallway after hallway with an effortless grace. Of course you know the layout of this palatial mansion like the back of your hand — this is your home now, your life.
The thought churns bitterly in his gut even as you both finally reach the arched front entrance. You turn back to face him, mouth twisting in that familiar apologetic quirk he knows so well.
“Listen, I know this was … unexpected. And maybe not the easiest thing to process.” You huff out a soft laugh, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear almost shyly. “But I’m glad you stopped by, despite everything. It was … nice to see you again.”
He blinks dumbly, at a loss for words in the face of your warm sincerity. This entire interaction has been an avalanche of emotions — the shock of discovering your romantic entanglement with the Mateschitz heir, the painful pang of watching you two’s intimacy on display, and now the remnants of affection in your tone as you bid him farewell.
It’s simply … too much. Too many conflicting feelings to deal with when his heart still bears the scar tissue of your break up.
“You too,” is all he can manage in return, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “I, uh … I should get going if I want to make it to Spielberg before media day.”
You nod, seeming to understand his unspoken need to retreat and regroup. “Of course. Well, safe travels then.”
“We’ll see you at the Red Bull Ring,” Mark pipes up from behind you, his voice cutting through the tension with surprising joviality. “It is our home race this weekend, after all. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The reminder that you’ll be perpetually woven into the fabric of his racing life from now on hits Charles with the force of a gut punch. He swallows hard, bobbing his head in acknowledgement as you open the front door for him.
“Looking forward to it,” he lies through his teeth before turning on his heel and all but fleeing down the front steps.
He’s vaguely aware of you calling out something about having someone escort him through the grounds and to the main gate. But Charles doesn’t pause, can’t stop until he’s directed the powerful Ferrari back out onto the main roads and open air.
Only then does he finally let out the shuddering breath he’d been holding, the sweet Alpine breezes sweeping over him. He floors the accelerator, putting as much distance between himself and that fairytale estate as possible.
But no matter how fast or far he drives, he can’t outrun the image searing into his mind’s eye — you nestled so contentedly in Mark’s arms, so visibly adored and cherished. Just as you’d once been cradled in Charles’ own embrace, before he burned everything to ashes.
Blinking hard against the hot sting in his eyes, Charles white-knuckles the steering wheel and lets the endless stretches of winding road unfurl before him. There’s only one direction now — forward.
Always forward.
No looking back, no wistful what-ifs allowed. You’ve found the life and love you deserve after he shattered your world.
All he can do is wish you nothing but joy from a distance, even as his own heart disintegrates inside his chest with every step further away from you.
***
The bass line thrums through Charles’ body like a living thing as he signals for another round at the club’s private VIP bar. He can barely make out the sound of his own thoughts over the pulsating music, but that’s rather the point tonight. To drown out the ceaseless reel of memories and fragmented realizations in a haze of liquor and pounding rhythms.
“You sure about that?” The bartender has to shout to be heard, one sculpted eyebrow arching upwards as she eyes the growing collection of empty glasses. “I think you’ve had quite enough, sir.”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” Charles snaps back, the words slurring slightly as he slaps his platinum card down with more force than intended. “Just keep them coming.”
The woman’s dubious gaze flickers briefly to somewhere over his shoulder before she simply shrugs and moves to fill his latest order. Charles slumps forward with a harsh exhale, fingers digging into his sweat-dampened curls as the relentless bassline reverberates through his bones.
“Easy there, calamar.”
The familiar voice cuts through the noise as a firm hand clasps his shoulder. Pierre slides into the open stool beside him with a concerned furrow in his brow.
“I’m starting to think my invite for a fun night out may have been a mistake.” His eyes rove over the staggering collection of empty glasses and bottles before lifting to meet Charles’ glazed stare.
“Or more like a cry for help,” he mutters, pitching his voice to be heard clearly. “Want to talk about what’s got you in such a mood?”
Charles opens his mouth but all that comes out is a bitter bark of laughter. He reaches for his newly-arrived glass, downing half the amber liquid in one go as it burns all the way to his core.
“What’s there to talk about?” The words are thick and unwieldy on his tongue. “She’s gone. Moved on better than I ever could have with some … some rich prick who treats her like his personal princess.”
He waves a sloppy hand in the air, gesturing vaguely. “Guy is richer than God, probably spoils her rotten with jewels and furs and … and billion dollar villas overlooking the Alps.”
His voice cracks slightly on the last word and he has to blink rapidly against the unwelcome sting in his eyes. Pierre’s forehead creases further as he watches Charles raggedly drain the rest of his glass.
“I take it your little meeting with Y/N didn’t go well?” He pitches it as a careful question, one Charles shrugs listlessly at before reaching for the nearest full glass. Pierre’s hand shoots out, closing around Charles’ wrist to impede his progress.
“I think you’ve had quite enough of that for one night,” he declares firmly. “Unless you want security dragging your drunk ass out of here, that is.”
Charles tries feebly to tug his arm free but Pierre’s grip remains vise-like. His traitorous thoughts drift back to the image of Mark’s arm so casually looped around your waist, confident in his place at your side.
“What’s he got that I don’t?” The plaintive question slips out before he can bite it back. Charles swivels glassy eyes towards his friend and teammate. “Seriously, Pierre … what can Mateschitz offer her that I couldn’t?”
A heavy silence stretches out between them, punctuated only by the thunderous pulse of the music. Pierre holds his stare steadily, clearly weighing how much harsh truth Charles can handle in his current condition.
“Well … thirty-seven billion dollars is a decent start, I would guess.”
The matter-of-fact words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Charles flinches as if physically struck, mouth falling open in a small ‘o’ of shock.
“Jesus, have some tact,” Pierre continues crisply. “Forget the money for a second — mate, he didn’t cheat on her. He has the basic decency to stay faithful. You know … the bare minimum requirement for a relationship?”
The dig bites deep, sparking a fresh flare of white-hot shame and regret in Charles’ core. He twists his captured wrist futilely once more before giving up and dropping his head to thunk dully against the bartop.
“I thought we were past rubbing salt in the wound,” he mumbles towards the gleaming wood surface.
Pierre sighs, his grip softening enough to pull his arm free at last. “We are, we are … mostly. But you can’t honestly expect me to sit here and help you feel sorry for yourself about another man treating Y/N right after you treated her so abysmally.”
Charles squeezes his eyes shut as your face swims into focus. The light in your eyes when Mark gazed at you, the simple intimacy you radiated together ...
“I miss her,” he whispers, each word carved from shards of anguish and loss. “I miss her so damn much. And now every time I have to see her at a race or schmoozing at an event, I’ll know exactly what I threw away for one night of selfishness.”
Fat tears leak from the corners of his screwed-shut eyes, tracing hot pathways down his cheeks as Pierre watches silently. After a long stretch, Charles finally cracks one eye open to peer blearily at his friend once more.
“I need to win her back,” he declares with as much conviction as he can muster through the alcoholic fog seeping into his brain. “I’m not over her, I’ll never be over her. There has to be a way to … to make things right again, don’t you think?”
Pierre regards him steadily, arms folded across his chest. “I think … you’re drunk off your ass and in no state to be making grand romantic gestures tonight.”
Charles waves a clumsy hand, nearly toppling his remaining drink in the process. “Not tonight. But … soon. Yeah, soon I’ll figure out what her new favorite flower is or some shit. Maybe a nice bottle of whatever top-shelf champagne she likes these days. Or … or I can dedicate a race win to her! Girls go gaga over that romantic shit, right?”
He watches Pierre’s expression morph into one of pure incredulity before his friend pinches the bridge of his nose hard, eyes screwing shut with a shake of his head.
“You’re not even hearing yourself right now, are you?” Pierre asks at last, infusing as much patience into his words as possible. “This isn’t about some flowers or a bottle of bubbly or delusionally thinking you have a chance to beat Red Bull this season. You completely decimated her trust in you and demolished the entire foundation of your relationship.”
Charles squirms uncomfortably at the brutal truth. Part of him wants to get up and stalk away in a final burst of tipsy petulance.
But the rest of him knows Pierre is simply being the voice of reason — the harsh reality check he so desperately needs right now, despite how it slices into his wounded pride.
“Look ...” Pierre seems to sense he’s veering into dangerous territory and softens his tone slightly. “I’m not trying to kick you while you’re down, I swear. But any chance of reconciling with Y/N will require so much more than a thoughtless grand gesture or gift.”
Slowly, Charles lifts his bleary gaze and locks eyes with his friend. Pierre holds the stare steadily, mouth set in a solemn line.
“It’ll take rebuilding the bedrock of your foundation — time, effort, and trust. Things you can’t buy or speed along, no matter how much you try.” A heavy pause settles between them before Pierre speaks again, more gently this time. “Maybe reconnecting with her is possible one day … or maybe not. But you owe it to her and yourself to give space for those open wounds to heal first.”
It’s not at all what Charles wants to hear right now. His instinct is still to barrel forward, to blaze a path of extravagant overtures until you melt back into his arms. But deep down, he knows Pierre is speaking the truth — he systematically torched something sacred and attempting to simply spackle over that devastation would be spitting in the face of your shared past.
Nodding slowly, Charles reaches up to swipe clumsily at the dampness on his cheeks. Pierre places a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
“Come on, idiot. Let’s get you home before you really embarrass yourself out here.”
Charles doesn’t protest as Pierre slips off his stool and hauls him upright, looping one arm securely around his waist for support. As they navigate the pulsing crowd, he steals one last glimpse over his shoulder at the bar now shrinking away in the distance.
Perhaps this part of his story with you might be over, the final embers snuffed out. But somehow, some way, Charles vows to rekindle that spark again — even if it takes immeasurable time and effort to nurture it back from the smoldering ashes of his own making.
One thing is certain, though — any path forward will require him to douse these wallowing flames of self-pity first.
The pounding bass fades into a dull throb as Pierre guides them out into the cool night air. Charles blinks rapidly, the city’s twinkling lights swimming dizzily before his bleary eyes as his friend bundles him into the backseat of a waiting car.
“Just let me sleep it off,” he slurs as the plush leather seats engulf him. “I’ll be good as new in the morning.”
Pierre huffs out a wry chuckle as he slides in beside Charles, rapping his knuckles on the privacy partition to signal the driver. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. Once you’re properly re-hydrated and that tequila has run its course.”
The motion of the town car pulling away from the curb has Charles’ head lolling back against the headrest. He cracks one eye open to peer at his friend through his disheveled curls.
“I really do love her, you know?” The confession emerges soft and subdued, loaded with naked yearning. “Like … the love of my entire whole damn life, probably. How fucking stupid is that?”
He’s not sure if the dampness blurring his vision is from a fresh wave of moisture or simply the alcohol still sloshing through his system. Either way, Pierre’s gaze softens imperceptibly as he reaches out to give Charles’ knee a reassuring squeeze.
“We’ve all been certifiably stupid in the name of love before, believe me. The key is learning from those mistakes before moving forward.” A beat passes before he adds, “And for the record — I know you did love Y/N with everything you had, even when you monumentally fucked things up.”
Charles lets his eyes slip shut once more with a slow nod. “Then you know why I can’t just … let her go completely. Why I need to find a way to get back to her, even if takes years of making things right first.”
The words hang heavy between them, a tangled thicket of resolution and remorse. Finally, Pierre exhales a soft sigh.
“I know. But that’s a bridge to cross another day, when you’re sober and can actually string two coherent thoughts together.” He gives Charles’ shoulder a light shove. “For now, focus on putting one foot in front of the other and staying hydrated, yeah?”
Despite himself, the corners of Charles’ lips quirk upwards at his friend’s gentle ribbing. He fumbles blindly for the window switch, lowering the glass to allow a blessed gust of fresh air to roll in and fill the cabin.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just … don’t hold your breath on me moving on anytime soon.” His eyes flicker open once more to meet Pierre’s steady gaze. “I’m kind of stubborn that way when it comes to the things I want most.”
Pierre holds his stare for a long beat before giving a slow shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his own lips. “Believe me, mate — I’m well aware.”
They lapse into companionable silence for the remainder of the drive, the city’s twinkling skyline gliding past in a blur. Despite the copious amounts of alcohol still sloshing through his veins, a flicker of hope rekindles in Charles’ chest.
You might have slipped from his grasp, but that doesn’t necessarily mean your paths can’t someday and somehow intersect once more.
All it will take is the courage to keep inching forward, one stumbling step at a time.
No matter how many times the darkness tries to swallow him whole.
***
The roar of the crowd is deafening as Charles kills the engine, the high-pitched cheers swelling to near-riotous levels.
He tips his head back against the headrest for a beat, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. P2 at the Singapore Grand Prix isn’t cause for disappointment — he drove one hell of a race and pushed his machinery to its limits.
But the unbridled pandemonium echoing all around paints a stark reminder that second-place means precious little tonight.
As he cracks open his helmet visor, the screams seem to multiply tenfold. Charles squints against the blinding flash of a thousand camera flashes as the feverish celebration kicks into high gear. Of course the crowd is whipped into such a frenzy — a certain Dutchman has done it again.
Max Verstappen just secured his fourth consecutive World Drivers’ Championship.
Charles watches almost numbly as a swarm of bodies in dark blue coverings rushes the track. The Red Bull mechanics, crew members, and team management spill out in an ever expanding tide, swarming towards parc fermé. All desperate for their piece of history, to bask in the glory of their latest accomplishment.
Bracing one hand against the sweltering engine cover, Charles hauls himself up and out of the cockpit with as much energy as he can muster. He plants his feet wide on the sizzling asphalt, scanning the chaos overtaking the pit lane in search of … there.
You cut an unmistakable figure in understated elegance among the churning sea of navy. Even from here, Charles can make out the burgundy sheath dress clinging to your curves, the soft tendrils of hair escaping your chignon. You’re a vision wreathed in smiles as you follow closely behind Mark, the two of you buffeted but undeterred as you fight against the tide of bodies.
For a split second, Charles allows himself the simple indulgence of drinking in your radiance. Seeing the way your cheeks bloom with color from the heat and exhilaration. How your delighted laughter seems to sparkle in the humid night air, mingling seamlessly with the roars of jubilation.
You’re so clearly drunk on the evening’s euphoria, caught up in the intoxicating thrill of witnessing sheer greatness on display. Even standing halfway across the track, Charles can sense the infectious joy rolling off you in waves.
He’s always loved seeing you like this — passionate and alive in a way that sets his heart pounding. Though he knows now, with a ferocious ache, that particular spark isn’t for him anymore.
As if to underscore the point, Mark suddenly grinds to a halt right in the middle of the sea of revelers. You plow into his back with a breathless giggle, clearly caught off guard. That’s when Charles notices the obvious struggle as you try to regain your footing, wobbling precariously atop a set of wicked-looking stilettos.
Even from this distance, he can read the brief look of concern that pinches Mark’s brow as he turns towards you. The chaos of the celebration fades into background noise as Charles watches helplessly as Mark reaches for your arm to help steady you.
You wave him off with a warm smile, clearly unbothered as you simply shrug out of the towering heels completely. Mark lunges to catch the discarded shoes before they can get swallowed up by the crowd.
There’s a brief pause as the two of you seem to communicate wordlessly. Then, in one smooth motion, Mark pivots and crouches down in front of you, gesturing towards his broad back. Your laughter rings out bright and delighted as you clamber on, effortlessly looping your arms around his neck as he straightens with a grunt.
Just like that, you’re ensconced within the protective circle of Mark’s arms, held securely in place on his back as he continues walking through the celebrating crowd. From his vantage point, Charles can just make out the matching beams you both have plastered on as you sway happily with each step.
It looks so … easy. Natural and uncomplicated in a way Charles’ entire existence seems incapable of obtaining these days. He drinks in the vision of you nuzzling sweetly against Mark’s neck, leaving a feather-light kiss of pure affection on the hinge of his jaw before snuggling back down. Two people completely in sync and unabashedly in love.
Despite the sweltering humidity, an icy chill washes over Charles from somewhere deep within. He’s all too aware of precisely what he’s witnessing right in front of him.
You’ve exchanged his partnership — one defined by betrayal and brokenness — for something far greater.
Charles huffs out a dry, mirthless breath as he sinks back against the sweat-dampened chassis of his idle car, feeling painfully adrift despite the pulsing rush of people all around him. He catches one final glimpse of you and Mark before the crowd finally sweeps you up — the picture of contentment nestled so trustingly against your beloved’s back. Watching on as your dazzling smile lights up the night with each joyful step you draw nearer to the championship celebration
He knows with soul-cleaving certainty in that moment that you’ve likely never felt as cherished or prized in your entire life as Mark must make you feel every single day.
Meanwhile, Charles is perpetually exiled here on the outskirts, unable to do anything but bear witness to the other man’s spoils. So close to his own desires yet barred from ever seizing them for his own.
Always the usurped, forever second fiddle, constantly relegated to P2 in work and life.
With a jaw so tightly clenched it threatens to crack his molars, Charles wrenches his gaze away at last. He feels the first angry prick of heated moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes and hates himself for the painfully vulnerable reaction.
This is his self-manufactured hell, after all. He has no one to blame but his own selfish impulses and cowardly weakness for tossing that bond with you into the incinerator. For annihilating the relationship you had built over years of steadfast partnership in one careless night.
So he’ll swallow down the bitterness and lingering heartache as penance for his sins. Compartmentalize the image of you balanced so peacefully in another man’s embrace, so patently adored and worshiped as you deserve.
He at least owes you that mercy — to bear the whole of his consequences in dignified silence as you bask in the victor’s glow you were always meant for.
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Authors Note: Helloooo! I know Christmas is over but I started writing the night before Christmas kinda based on true story. I know I haven't posted in a while due to huge shifts in my life and stuff but Christmas was kinda shit for me this year like every year so I thought I'd write it all out instead of crying and having a mental breakdown.
Hope you enjoy!
English isn't my first language. Mistakes happen :)
Masterlist
•
You hated it. Even when you were standing on the mat outside the door, you could hear your parents arguing inside. It was the same every year and one of the reasons why you had moved out. Everything always centred around them and some argument they were having. As a child, you had somehow tried to block it out, but as a young adult you couldn't do that anymore.
But for some reason, unknown to you, you had promised your mum that you would come home for the holidays. During the flight from Nice to your home country, you kept trying to convince yourself that things would be better than in previous years. To be more precise, all the years since you could remember. But when you stood in front of that familiar door again, you knew it was going to be hell.
You slowly raised your hand and knocked on the door. It suddenly became completely silent and you could already hear your mum's footsteps behind the door before you could take your hand off the door. She opened with a serious expression until she could see you. All of a sudden, a smile flitted across her otherwise serious face. She pulled the door open and took you in her arms.
‘Y/N, my child, it's so nice to have you here.’ It felt so right in her arms. Like your home. And it was, but somehow you felt like you were 12 years old again, trapped in your little world that you had tried so desperately to break out of.
‘It's nice to see you too, Mum.’ She let go of you again and pulled you into your familiar four walls.
‘Take off your shoes. I've already started cooking and your dad is looking forward to seeing you too.’ You carefully undid the loops of your shoes and then pulled them off your feet to place them neatly next to your mum's shoes. The different smells from your mum's kitchen wafted straight into your nose. There was nothing better than your mum's food. You had often asked her for recipes, but you had never managed to make it so well yourself.
Nothing had changed in the rooms you once called home. It was almost as if time had stood still. Every now and then you noticed a new picture or other decoration that you didn't recognise, but otherwise nothing had changed since the day you moved out.
‘Hello Dad.’ Your father was lying on the sofa, the TV on the highest volume and he had just lifted his head when he saw you standing in the doorway. No hug, no warm greeting, just a cold ‘hello’ before he turned his attention back to the programme on the TV. You still tried to keep the smile on your lips and suppress the tears that were already welling up in your eyes. You tried to tell yourself over and over again that he wasn't worth shedding a single tear over.
Your mum was back in the kitchen behind the cooker. She was completely in her own world and didn't even notice that you were standing in the doorway. It wasn't until she turned in your direction that her stare turned back into a small smile for you.
‘My child, I'm making your favourite meal. I know it's not particularly Christmassy and not really a meal for the night before Christmas, but I'm so glad you're back.’ You gave her a little smile too. Before your mobile phone vibrated several times in your pocket and completely grabbed your attention. You slowly took it out while your mum paced back and forth in the kitchen.
Charles: Babe, I hope you arrived safely at your parents' place.
Charles: We are missing you here.
Charles: Kisses & Merry Christmas from my mum!
He had no idea how much you would have preferred to stay with him and his family. But this was your family and you couldn't bring yourself not to come home. It was your duty, so to speak, as you didn't usually see them during the year.
‘Please write to your brother to tell him to come to dinner.’ Your mother's words snapped you out of your warm and happy thoughts of the cosy Christmas holidays at the Leclercs'. The stories alone always warmed your heart.
You helped your mum set the table before your brother and father joined you at the dining table. Your brother didn't even say hello to you, just a wry look when he saw you standing in the kitchen and putting the plates on the table. The atmosphere was cold. Before everyone had even sat down, your father had already ladled the soup into his plate and started eating. Your mum had to refrain from saying anything. You could see exactly how she first looked at your father and then at you and then sat down without saying a word.
As always, the food was very good, which you told your mum and she immediately had a gleam in her eye. You knew she didn’t receive compliments often, especially about her cooking. This was one of the many things she had previously complained to you about.
You hadn't even finished your plate when your father got up, left the plate and sat back down in the living room. You could see how it broke your mum's heart.
‘Can't we spend an evening together as a family?’ It slipped out of your mouth. It felt wrong to be here for you. Like you were in a forbidden, cold place with no love where you shouldn't be. Your father looked in your direction from the sofa.
‘What else am I supposed to do at the table?’ He had already switched the TV back on and continued watching his programme from before dinner.
‘Your daughter's back for the first time in a very long time and you're doing nothing but watching the stupid telly.’ And as soon as your mum said it, you knew it was going to turn into another argument.
‘Oh, the princess is here and then of course there's nothing more important.’ Your father's words hurt, but you tried not to let it show. Afteralll you used to be a champion at hiding your feelings from your parents. That was at least when you were younger. These days to you it felt like everyone could read you just by looking you in the eyes long enough. But no worries about that here. No one would even try to look at you longer than necessary.
‘I didn't say that, don't put words in my mouth. But of course there's nothing more important to you than some stupid film that you have to watch over and over again every year and neglect your family for.’ You could remember exactly how you had heard the same films playing over and over again from the living room every year. After a while, you had started to skilfully tune them out because it was just getting on your nerves. To you this was one of the reasons why you now hated anything TV related. You tried to get around it as much as possible. Sometimes this wasn’t easy with friends wanting to go to the cinema or watch a film or show together. But most of your friends understood your feelings. And to you and them it was a fair point that especially when visiting the cinema you couldn’t really talk and connect, which is why you preferred to do more social things together.
‘I'm not going to let you tell me what to do and what not to do, you're not my mum. Try to get a grip on your children first. They don't even want to see you anymore.’ Your father had raised his voice and was now shouting so loudly through the rooms that the television could barely be heard. ‘The holy daughter you're supposed to do everything for comes to visit once a year and then I'm supposed to adapt to her wishes? I don't think so.’ You could already see the tears forming in your mum's eyes, but she refused to be talked down to and started shouting too.
‘Then ask yourself why your daughter doesn't come here anymore.’ You and your brother slowly got up and walked towards your rooms. Your connecction with your brother wasn’t as cold as with your dad. To be fair that was probably because you never really had a connection. You were raised differently. Wether it is because he was the younger sibling or because he is a boy you don’t know. But your parents always treated him with more leniency than you. He was allowed to do things earlier than you, they supported him in everything he did especially his football career, so much so that for years until he eventually got a scholarship you did not see your parents during the weekends. If you wanted to pick up a hobby it was always nonsense except for if it would have been football. Even then they complained that foot ball isn’t really for girls and continued to follow your brother instead of you. But after all this wasn’t his fault. Even if he obviously made use of all of this and made our parents do things for him, that they would have not even in their dreams thought about doing for me. Still it made you, maybe not hate him but dislike hime for sure. And no one could blame you really.
‘They never stop. It's always back and forth. Be glad you're no longer there. I really love them both, but believe me, you jumped ship at the right time.’ With these words, he left you standing outside your door and went into his own room.
Even as you closed the door, you could hear your parents screaming. It tore your heart apart. This wasn't a family. It was a battlefield. You couldn’t even find a topic to really talk to them aboout. Your father always answered all your questions with just one word or a thumbs up when you tried to ask him something via text or a phonecall, which is why you stopped talking to him overall.
You spoke to your mum more often on the phone but every time you called her, even when you wanted to talk about good news, she always started talking about stress from work and what she had been arguing about with your dad. You could understand the work, because you also had to let out anger from time to time. But whenever the subject changed to your father, you couldn't help but try to end the conversation as quickly as possible. You had told her a long time ago and again and again that maybe it was time to think about a divorce but for some reason she never had the strength to do it.
You would always help her with everything, but you were mentally broken by constantly hearing about the problems in her marriage when there was a solution. Your father had been an arsehole when you were younger and still living at home. Your mum never had a word to say in the marriage. You grew up believing that a woman had no say in the marriage and that her opinion generally didn't count for much. It wasn't until you met Charles and he showed you bit by bit what a relationship should really be like that you learnt what love really is.
And there it was again. That feeling of being nothing and nobody. No opinion that anyone cared about and this coldness that spread inside you. Even when you were lying under the covers in the bed that used to be yours, you couldn't stop freezing. Nothing had changed. After all these years and every time you had the hope that you would finally come home to a family that cared about each other and showed love, you were disappointed again and you couldn't help but let the tears flow freely.
You had completely lost track of time when your phone rang. You tried to somehow free your face from the tears but you knew that your red eyes would give you away straight away. You answered the phone and for the few seconds it took to connect, you tried to regain your composure. But every attempt was in vain, because it took just a second for Charles' face to shift and he excused himself from the table where he still seemed to be sitting with his family.
‘Babe, what's wrong?’ He was standing in a dark corridor and you could barely see him, but you could hear in his voice that he was worried. It didn't take five seconds before you had tears streaming down your face again. You couldn't think of anything else to say. It all just hurt so much. You felt worthless and unloved. Just like the girl who had left her parents back then in the hope of leading a better life, of being loved and of surrounding yourself with people who appreciated you.
‘I just wanted to give my own family a chance.’ You involuntarily finish your sentence with a sob. Charles didn't interrupt you, though. He waited and just let you carry on talking. ‘I thought things had changed in the time I was away. I thought the distance did us all good. But no.’ The last two words were just a whisper, barely audible if someone didn't try hard enough or could read your lips. And then it all burst out of you. Everything that had accumulated over the past few years. Everything you hadn't told anyone until now.
‘I want to love them, they are my family, but I don't feel any love. I only feel hate and disgust. I feel out of place and not wanted. It's Christmas Eve and we've just eaten together without any emotion, just gulping down food. There's no togetherness, it's all against each other and everyone for themselves. Apart from my mum, nobody was happy that I was here and actually I couldn't have been here either, nobody would have cared. My dad is lying absent-mindedly on the sofa, watching some stupid film that feels like he's watched a thousand times and isn't interested in anything at all. And then I get blamed and shouted at just because I tried to say that it would be nice if we all sat at the table together after dinner and did something together, played or just talked. And of course my parents are now arguing again. Well, actually, they've never stopped since I came home.’
You had to take a deep breath but it felt so good to finally be able to let it all out. Your heart felt lighter and a little bit freed from all the things you had swallowed and hidden away for years.
You hadn't noticed that Charles had gone into another room in the meantime. He looked at you worriedly and put his mobile phone down to do something on his laptop. You were super confused at first and thought he hadn't been listening to you. You were about to give him a stupid look until he finally started talking.
‘Nobody should feel like this at Christmas and I'm so sorry I never realised and I didn’t reach out sooner.’ You shook your head and wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault that you felt so bad. But he didn't let you get a word in edgewise.
‘I was just checking with my contact at vistaJet to see if he had a jet on standby nearby. Please get ready. I'll organise a driver to pick you up from your parents in a moment. I definitely don't want this to be your Christmas.’ You were speechless. It hadn't been your intention to whinge at him about sending you a jet.
‘Charles, I didn't mean to, I just needed to get it all off my chest. It wasn't my intention-’ Charles interrupted you and just shook his head.
‘Babe, are you happy to be with your parents right now?’ You shook your head slowly. ‘I know you didn't ask for it and probably wouldn't ever ask me, even if I told you a million times that I'd do anything for you. But I don't want you to be unhappy. We can hardly wait for you to come to us.’
Sometimes you weren't sure if your life was real or if you were stuck in a dream that occasionally turned into a nightmare. It still didn't feel real. You were just a simple girl who had done her masters and with a bit of luck had landed an incredible job. Somewhere along the way, you'd met this guy, who was a bit weird at first, in a club in London where you'd just celebrated your graduation with your friends from university. Who would have ever thought it would turn into something so serious.
‘Thank you.’ That was the only thing you could say. Satisfied with your answer, Charles had a small smile on his face and began to tell you the exact details. If all went well, you should arrive in France that night and from there Charles would pick you up himself and take you to the ski resort where the family was spending the holidays this year.
It was no great surprise that no one really noticed that you had left the house again. You didn't have to do much packing as your suitcase was still sitting untouched in the hallway. You had only left a little note for your mum saying that you were sorry but Christmas shouldn't be like this. You felt so sorry for her. Knowing that she was trapped here. But you had offered to help her again and again and to find something else for her. But it wasn't your marriage and your life. You could offer her help but she still had to take the steps herself. The same with your brother. He only lived at home because he couldn't afford to move out. But neither could you when you left the house. There are always ways for everything. You had decided for yourself that your life shouldn't be like this. At some point, you just had to put yourself first and not take a back seat. Who knows what would have become of you otherwise. Probably a submissive housewife who didn't dare speak her mind.
The driver took you to a small airport in no time where there was only one aeroplane and nothing else to be found. The staff were very friendly. But probably also because they thought you were so rich that you could afford a private jet. And somehow you were. Rich in love. Your boyfriend loved you so much that he organised it for you.
After the pilot and crew had briefly introduced themselves to you, everything happened very quickly. Between take-off and landing, everything seemed like a rush. You were fast asleep and woken up by the flight attendant shortly after landing.
‘We have arrived at Annecy Airport, Miss Y/L/N.’ You couldn't believe it. The aircraft was in parking position but the doors were not yet open. Looking out of the window, you could already see him. Charles was standing like an angel on the runway next to an airport employee and a car that was probably taking you from the runway to Charles' car. Your tiredness was gone. Later, Charles explained to you that it was the only airport in the vicinity of the ski resort that had given the jet permission to land because of the time of day.
You were beaming like a little child when the ground staff and the flight attendant opened the aircraft door and you said goodbye to them before literally running down the stairs into Charles' arms.
‘Amour.’ With that one word, all the stress of the past few hours fell from your shoulders, because Charles had that in him. With a word, a touch or a gesture, he could make you forget everything bad and bring warmth to your heart. That's what he did to you. And if you could trust his words, which you always did, then the same was true the other way round.
‘You don't know how reassured I am that I can hold you in my arms now.’ And you could feel how reassured he was. He didn't let go of you at all.
As you had already guessed, the car that Charles was waiting for you next to took you first to passport control and then to the car park where you changed into Charles' car. And even when Charles finally sat behind the wheel, he didn't let go of you. He always held your hand tightly in his. You had no idea how worried he must have been. Unconsciously, you closed your eyes again and slipped into a deep sleep. Even in your dream, Charles never let you out of his sight. Once again, you had no idea how much time had passed before Charles tried to carefully get you out of the car but failed immediately. Your sleep had been too light for that. Besides, you had probably noticed subconsciously that the steady rocking and the sounds of the car that had originally hypnotised you to sleep were suddenly gone.
You could already see the sky getting brighter behind the mountains. It wouldn't be long before it was daytime. Charles led you through the snow to the cabin the family had rented. You had seen pictures when Charles had talked to his brother Arthur about it.
‘Let's go straight to bed to get a few more hours of sleep.’ Charles just took off his shoes and then carried your suitcase up the stairs. You followed him with a small glance around the dimly lit groundfloor. It was a nice big area with an open-plan kitchen, a dining room next to it and a large living room with a huge Christmas tree. There weren't many presents in front of it, but there were a few. It made you a little sad to see more love even in a rented cottage than in the house you had just fled from.
In the last room down the small corridor, Charles closed the door behind you and simply took off his trousers and T-shirt. He handed you one of his jumpers and then waited until you had changed to get into bed with you.
With your back pressed against his chest, you could feel his every breath. He put his arms around your body and pulled you even closer to him.
‘My family were really worried about you. Lorenzo overheard what you said on the phone and you know the good guy, he can't keep his mouth shut so now the whole family knows.’ You had to suppress a little laugh. You could just imagine the chaos in the house.
‘I think mum quickly tidied up the whole house again. Arthur had to help her and you can imagine how much he wanted to do it.’ You had to grin again. For a brief moment, Arthur must have hated you. He would certainly make a comment about it later. But unlike your family's emotions and remarks, he would take you in his arms immediately afterwards and not let you go for at least as long as Charles did. Arthur was like your brother. You understood each other blindly.
‘Actually, I'm almost surprised that he hasn't written or phoned me, because Arthur usually has a little inkling when I'm not feeling well.’ Charles didn't answer that at first. You turned round in his arms because you thought he might have fallen asleep. But he was still awake and rolled his eyes.
‘Well, I wasn't actually going to call you. I thought maybe you were having a nice evening with your family and that's why you didn't reply to my messages, but Arthur insisted.’ You had to grin slightly. ‘Sometimes I really wonder if you two are twins who were separated at birth.’ You could sense that Charles was a little envious of the good bond between you and his little brother. You put your hands to his face.
‘Charlie, yes I get on well with your brother, but you're still the one I love. I couldn't be happier. I really have won the lottery with an in-law family like yours. Everyone cares about each other and you can rely on every single one of them. I see my little brother in Arthur and the connection I never had with him. It just gves me joy knowing that I am capable of giving sisterly love.’ Charles shook his head slightly.
‘That’s not the point. I love to see your relationship with him.’ He trailed off for a second before he spoke his actual worry. ‘If Arthur hadn't nagged me to call you, you'd still be alone and crying in your bed. But never mind. I'm glad you're here now.’ He wrapped his arms around your body again and pulled you close to him. He gave you a kiss on the forehead and then rested his chin on the top of your head. ‘You deserve so much love and only the best. Please never forget that.’ Your eyelids grew heavy and you only managed to get a whispered ‘I love you’ past your lips before you drifted off into a deep sleep in Charles' arms.
The next time you opened your eyes, the bed next to you was empty. The sun was shining through the window onto your pillow. It felt so warm and cosy. You stretched before slowly getting out of bed and putting on at least halfway presentable clothes from your suitcase. As soon as you opened the door, you could hear the many voices from downstairs, all talking in a jumbled but somehow organised manner. At the bottom of the stairs, you saw the whole family sitting around the Christmas tree in the living room. They were playing a game on the games console and you couldn't help but smile. This is how Christmas should be. A family, no arguments and all together.
‘Y/N!’ You hadn't realised that Pascale had come down the stairs behind you. She came almost running towards you and gave you a big hug. ‘I was so worried about you, my darling. Thank God you're with us now.’ It all felt so right. You felt more at home in Pascale's arms than in the four walls that used to be your home. She was more of a mum, especially right now, than your mum. And you knew for sure that the boys and their girlfriends would give you at least as big a hug. You were so relaxed and reassured in Pascale's arms that you didn't even realise that a few tears were rolling down your cheeks.
‘My angel, you don't have to cry.’ She wiped the tears from your face. When Charles heard that you were crying, he came running even faster than he already was. He had the others in tow, especially Arthur, who couldn't wait to take you in his arms.
‘No, it's all good. It really is. I'm just so glad to have you. I don't know how I earned this, but I'm just so incredibly grateful.’ Pascale gently stroked your face again before letting go and leaving you to the others. Charles had gone to the back of the queue after hearing that you were fine and that he didn't need to worry. Arthur wrapped you in his arms and almost squeezed your breath away as hard as he held you against him.
‘I just knew something was wrong. I'm glad Charles reacted so quickly and that you're here now.’ He gave you a kiss on the hair before leaving you to Lorenzo, Charlotte and Jade. The three of them also hugged you before Charles took you by the hand, placed a kiss on the back of your hand and then pulled you towards the living room and the Christmas tree.
‘Perfect, we're finally all here so we can open presents.’ Arthur sat in front of the glowing Christmas tree with shining eyes and could hardly wait until everyone had finally sat down again.
Everything was just perfect. You didn't know how you got so lucky, but finally you didn't feel out of place. It was the greatest gift to have the others around you, to see them shine and to be part of this family. That was Christmas and you couldn't imagine anything better.
i was wondering if you could write a fic where reader is kelly’s older child from a past relationship and feels left out at times cause kelly and P are much closer than she is with kelly. but basically max is overprotective of her and always wants to involve her in things
he brings her to races, makes sure she doesn’t feel left out at family gatherings or f1 events. he even brags abt her accomplishments to other drivers
More Than Words
The paddock buzzed with its usual energy—mechanics in motion, media everywhere, fans cheering from behind barriers. Max walked through it all with a quiet purpose, his eyes searching the crowd until he spotted her: Yn, sitting on a low wall near the Red Bull hospitality unit, her arms wrapped around her knees, earbuds in, chin resting on her folded arms.
He made his way to her slowly, giving her time to notice him. She didn’t. So, he tapped her shoulder gently.
"Hey," he said softly.
Yn looked up, blinking out of whatever world her music had her in. Her face immediately softened when she saw Max. “Hey,” she mumbled, pulling one earbud out.
"You alright?" he asked, crouching in front of her so he could be eye level.
She nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.
Max tilted his head. "That was a very enthusiastic nod."
She gave a tiny smile. “Just tired.”
Max didn’t press her. He knew that tired didn’t always mean sleep-deprived—it was the kind of tired that settled into your bones when you felt invisible.
“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “We’ve got ice cream in the motorhome.”
She hesitated, glancing toward the hospitality unit where she knew Kelly and Penelope were. “I think I’ll just stay here.”
Max’s smile faded, just slightly. He sat next to her instead, letting his knees bump against hers. “You know, I told Checo yesterday that you got a 94 on that science paper. He asked if you were tutoring.”
Yn blinked at him. “You did?”
“Of course. I mean, how many sixteen-year-olds can explain astrophysics to me without even Googling stuff?”
She flushed, hiding a small grin. “I didn’t explain that much…”
“You talked about black holes for twenty minutes. I nearly re-evaluated my whole existence.”
She giggled. “I didn’t even think you were listening.”
Max turned to face her fully, his voice firm but kind. “I always listen to you, Yn.”
She went quiet again. After a beat, she said, “Mom doesn’t.”
Max felt that one land in his chest like a punch.
He didn’t speak for a moment, just gently placed a hand over hers. “I know it feels like that sometimes.”
Yn nodded, biting her lip. “She and P are always laughing together. Watching TikToks, doing their little dances… She doesn’t even ask me how school is anymore unless I bring it up. And then it’s just, ‘That’s good,’ and she moves on.”
Max swallowed. “I see it, too. And it’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to ask for her attention.”
She looked down, her voice smaller. “I don’t even talk to my dad. He texted me ‘k’ last week when I said happy birthday. That’s the only thing I’ve heard all year.”
Max exhaled slowly, his fingers curling protectively around hers. “That’s not okay. That’s not your fault, Yn. He doesn’t get to make you feel unwanted.”
She didn’t cry—but she looked like she might. Her voice shook just a little. “Sometimes it just feels like I’m… extra. Like I’m just there, and no one really notices unless I mess up or get in the way.”
Max shook his head. “Not with me.”
Yn looked up at him.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re not ‘extra,’ okay? You’re you. Smart, funny, a little sarcastic—okay, a lot sarcastic—but also kind. You always help Penelope when she needs something, even when she’s being annoying.”
“She’s always being annoying,” Yn muttered.
Max grinned. “Exactly. And you still help her. You let her play with your hair. You let her steal your hoodies.”
“She stretched out my favorite one…”
“And you didn’t even yell at her. You deserve to be seen, Yn. You deserve to be loved loud.”
She blinked again, her eyes a little glassy. “You always say the nicest things.”
“I just tell the truth.”
Yn leaned her head against his shoulder, and Max rested his head against hers.
After a long pause, she asked, “Do you ever wish I wasn’t around?”
“What?” Max pulled back to look at her properly. “Not for a single second. If anything, I wish I met you earlier.”
She laughed softly. “That would’ve been hard, I was like… eight.”
“Exactly,” Max said. “I could’ve started bragging about you sooner.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now.
Max stood and offered her his hand again. “Come on. Let’s get ice cream. You can pick the flavor this time.”
“Even if it’s cookie dough?”
“You know that’s my weakness,” he said dramatically. “You’re exploiting my love.”
She finally took his hand, letting him pull her up. As they started walking, Max slung an arm around her shoulder. “Also, I signed you up for that STEM summer camp you mentioned. Don’t worry—I’ll drive you every day if I have to.”
Yn stopped in her tracks. “You did what?”
He smirked. “It’s not until July. You’ve got time to prepare. Or pack.”
“You’re serious?”
“Completely. I figured you might not push for it if you thought no one cared.”
Her face was unreadable for a moment, then she slowly whispered, “Thank you.”
Max gave her a one-armed hug, squeezing her into his side. “Always. You’re stuck with me, Yn.”
As they approached the motorhome, Penelope darted out with a grin and ran straight to Yn. “Can we do your hair again? I brought the glitter clips!”
Yn blinked. She looked to Max for a second—he just nodded.
“Sure,” she said finally, and Penelope squealed, pulling her inside.
Kelly stood near the door, distractedly on her phone. She glanced up briefly. “Oh hey, sweetheart,” she said, barely meeting Yn’s eyes. “Did you eat lunch?”
“Yeah,” Yn answered automatically.
Kelly smiled for a second and returned to texting.
Max watched the exchange silently, then stepped closer to Kelly.
“You know she got a 94 on that science paper, right?”
Kelly glanced up. “Oh… That’s great.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should tell her that.”
Kelly blinked at him, then looked over at Yn and Penelope giggling inside. For a moment, her face shifted—something like guilt or realization washing over her.
Max didn’t say more. He just turned to follow Yn inside.
Because he meant it.
She was his kid, too.
And he was going to make sure she always knew it.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
titsay
ellievsbear
