This was requested. I changed it slightly from complete. Similar plot but different tropes. I hope you like it. :)
Warnings: Smut, mentions of pregnancy, bit angsty.
Monza always felt different.
Louder. Faster. Alive in a way no other circuit was.
But this year felt electric.
Ferrari banners flooded the grandstands at the Italian Grand Prix, a sea of red stretching as far as Y/N could see. The air above the Autodromo Nazionale di Monza shimmered with heat and anticipation, tifosi packed shoulder to shoulder, chanting before the cars had even fired up.
It was Ferrari’s home and it was Carlos’ 30th birthday.
Y/N leaned against the pit wall during the formation lap, heart hammering as she watched the two scarlet cars weave to warm their tyres. Charles lined up P2. Carlos P3. Close enough to fight. Close enough to dream.
“Imagine a double podium,” she’d whispered to her brother that morning.
Carlos had grinned. “Imagine a one-two.”
Now the five red lights blinked on above the grid.
Charles launched cleanly, slipping into the tow down to Turn 1. Carlos reacted instantly behind him, covering the inside as the pack squeezed three-wide into the Rettifilo chicane. For a split second it looked like there wouldn’t be space. Carbon fibre came terrifyingly close but both Ferraris emerged intact.
By Lap 12, the strategy tension had already begun. An early undercut from a rival threatened to split them. The pit wall was a storm of Italian and Spanish and clipped radio messages.
Y/N stood just behind the engineers, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Charles pitted first. A clean stop. 2.3 seconds.
He rejoined into traffic.
Carlos stayed out longer, tyres fading but lap times still strong. The gap to Norris behind wasn’t comfortable, Nowhere near big enough for a safe stop. Every sector he pushed was about survival, about stretching just enough space to protect track position.
“Push now, Carlos. We need two more laps like that,” his engineer urged.
“I’m trying,” he replied, breath audible over the radio. “Rear tyres are gone.”
Lando dove into the pits.
Carlos stayed out one more lap, wringing everything out of degrading tyres, the Ferrari sliding slightly through Ascari but holding on.
The stop was clean. Not lightning, but solid.
He blasted down the pit lane and emerged into Turn 1 with Norris thundering alongside him, fresh tyres biting hard.
The crowd was on its feet.
Carlos braked impossibly late, holding the inside line, forcing Lando to back out just enough to avoid contact. They exited side by side but Carlos had the better traction.
The Ferrari garage erupted, tension snapping into pure noise.
And ahead of him, Charles was now leading.
The tifosi roared every time the red cars blasted past the main straight, engine notes echoing off the old Monza grandstands. With ten laps to go, the top two were now Ferrari. Nose to tail at times through Lesmo. Matching each other through Ascari.
But it wasn’t comfortable.
A late safety car, debris in the Variante Ascari, bunched the field back up. The entire garage tensed.
No margin. No breathing room.
Restart. Five laps to go.
Charles controlled it perfectly, backing the pack up before launching out of Parabolica. Carlos reacted instantly, covering off the car behind, defending aggressively into Turn 1 as the crowd collectively forgot how to breathe.
Y/N couldn’t feel her legs.
Every lap felt like an hour. Every braking zone a potential disaster. One lock-up, one missed apex, and the dream would shatter.
Charles was flawless. Smooth. Precise. The Ferrari dancing over the kerbs like it belonged there.
Carlos defended like it was personal.
Out of Parabolica for the last time, the grandstands were already on their feet.
Charles crossed the line first.
The scream that tore from the crowd was almost violent in its joy.
Ferrari one-two at Monza.
For a moment, the garage just stared at the timing screen like they didn’t trust it.
Engineers shouting. Mechanics hugging. Headsets flying. Someone crying openly.
On the cooldown lap, Charles’ voice came over the radio, cracked with emotion.
“Grazie ragazzi… at home… P1 at home.”
Carlos’ laughter followed over his own channel. “Best birthday gift ever.”
Y/N was already running before she realized she was moving.
Parc fermé exploded into red. Charles climbed out first, arms in the air, soaking in the roar of the tifosi. Carlos jumped from his car seconds later and instead of heading straight to the team, he scanned the barriers.
She barely had time to brace herself before he vaulted forward and pulled her into a tight hug, lifting her clean off the ground.
“We did it!” he laughed into her hair.
“You did it,” she corrected, tears in her eyes. “Thirty years old and a Monza one-two!”
He set her down but kept his hands on her shoulders, grinning like a kid.
Behind them, Charles was being swallowed by team members, but his eyes found them through the chaos. He smiled soft and proud before turning back to salute the crowd again.
The Italian anthem would play soon.
The podium would be a blur of red and champagne and history.
But right now, in the middle of Monza’s madness, with her brother laughing breathlessly in front of her and Ferrari back where they belonged It felt like something unforgettable had just begun.
Monza didn’t sleep after a Ferrari one-two.
The streets were flooded with red long after the podium ceremony had ended. Fireworks burned in the distance, chants of Forza Ferrari echoing between buildings, car horns joining in like part of the orchestra.
By the time the three of them slipped into a tucked-away bar not far from their hotel, they were still buzzing.
“To thirty,” Y/N said, raising her glass toward her brother.
“To P2 at Monza on my birthday,” Carlos corrected dramatically.
Charles leaned back in his chair, jacket long abandoned, hair still slightly flattened from champagne and helmet sweat. “To a Ferrari one-two at home,” he added, softer. “That’s the important part.”
The first drink went down too easily.
Carlos was glowing. Not just smiling, but glowing. Relaxed in a way he only ever seemed to be around family. Around people who weren’t asking him about contracts, futures, or what came next.
“You nearly killed me into Turn 1 after that pit stop,” Y/N accused, pointing at him.
“I had it under control,” Carlos said instantly.
“Strategically,” he replied.
Charles laughed into his drink. “Strategic lock-up. New technique.”
Carlos shook his head. “You two are insufferable.”
The music grew louder as the night went on. The bar filled with Italian fans who had clearly followed the celebrations from the circuit into the city. A few recognized them. A few drinks were sent over “for the birthday boy.” Someone started singing again.
Carlos checked his phone at some point, frowning slightly before standing.
“I promised I’d call mum,” he said. “If I don’t do it now she’ll pretend to be offended for the next six months.”
Y/N snorted. “Go. Be a good son.”
Carlos leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her hair. “Don’t disappear.”
Then he looked at Charles, not suspicious just older brother aware.
“Don’t let her drink anything fluorescent.”
Charles placed a hand over his heart. “I would never.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes like he didn’t fully believe that… then disappeared toward the terrace, phone already to his ear.
Just like that, the noise around them faded into background blur.
Y/N hadn’t realized how close she and Charles were sitting until the space across from them was empty.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now.
“Yeah,” she said, a little too quickly. “Just… processing.”
He hummed. “It was loud today.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her.
“It was perfect,” she admitted. “Monza. Ferrari one-two. Carlos turning thirty. You winning at home. It felt… unreal.”
Charles’ expression softened. “When I crossed the line, I couldn’t hear my engineer. The crowd was too loud.”
She smiled. “That’s how you know it mattered.”
He was quiet for a second, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass.
“I saw you in parc fermé,” he said. “He ran straight to you.”
She laughed softly. “He always does.”
Charles’ gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. “You make him calmer. You know that?”
“You make him push harder,” she countered.
There was something different in the air now. Not dramatic, not obvious. Just warmer. Slower.
They were both tipsy. A little untethered from the pressure that usually surrounded them.
Outside, another firework lit the sky red.
Charles leaned closer so he didn’t have to raise his voice over the music. Close enough that she could smell champagne and something clean and familiar.
“You stayed for all the media obligations" he said quietly. “Most people would of left.”
“I wasn’t missing that,” she replied. “Not for anything.”
“For us?” he asked softly.
“For Ferrari,” she said but it came out quieter than she intended.
A smile tugged at his mouth. Not teasing. Not playful.
Across the bar, Carlos was still outside, laughing loudly into his phone, completely unaware.
The music had shifted at some point. Less chanting, more bass. Something slow and heavy that pulsed through the floor and up into their ribs.
Charles's hand brush her lower back, a spark igniting between them. 'Dance with me,' he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. She hesitated for a split second, glancing toward the terrance, but the alcohol buzzing in her veins made resistance feel pointless. They slipped onto the floor, bodies pressing close amid the throng of strangers.
His hands slid to her hips, pulling her against him as they swayed to the rhythm. YN's heart raced, the forbidden thrill of it all heightening every touch. His thigh nudged between her legs, grinding subtly, and she bit her lip to stifle a gasp. The heat built fast. His lips grazing her neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders. 'We shouldn't,' she murmured, even as she arched into him, her pussy already aching with need.
But the pull was too strong. Charles guided her through the crowd toward the back, their steps urgent, until they ducked into the dimly lit bathroom. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the music to a distant throb. It was a single-stall space, cramped and reeking faintly of bleach, but privacy was all that mattered now. YN leaned against the sink, her breath coming in short bursts. "Carlos... if he finds out, it'll destroy him. You're his best friend."
Charles stepped closer, his hands framing her face, thumbs tracing her jaw. "I know. Fuck, I know. But I can't stop thinking about you." His voice was rough, laced with guilt and desire. He kissed her then, hard and deep, tongues tangling as his body pinned hers to the cool porcelain. YN's hesitation melted under the assault, her hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt.
He broke the kiss to drop to his knees, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her jeans. "Let me taste you," he growled, eyes dark with hunger. YN nodded, breathless, lifting her hips as he yanked the denim down along with her panties, exposing her slick folds. The cool air hit her skin, making her shiver, but Charles's hot mouth was on her in seconds. His tongue flicked over her clit, firm and insistent, before he sucked it between his lips.
YN's head fell back, a moan escaping as she gripped the sink's edge. He devoured her pussy like a man starved, lapping at her entrance, tongue thrusting inside to scoop up her wetness. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, fingers digging into her flesh. She bucked against his face, the taboo weight of it, the risk of her brother just outside, only making the pleasure sharper. "Charles... oh god," she whimpered, her body trembling as he alternated between broad licks and targeted sucks, building her toward the edge.
He didn't let up until she shattered, her orgasm crashing over her in waves, juices coating his chin. YN panted, legs weak, but Charles was already rising, unzipping his pants. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum. The haze of alcohol dulled any second thoughts, their tipsy minds focused only on the raw urge pulsing between them. "I need to be inside you," he said, voice strained. YN met his gaze, the hesitation flickering again but she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Do it. Fuck me."
He thrust in with one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt in her soaked pussy. They both groaned at the stretch, the fullness. Charles's hips snapped forward, pounding into her relentlessly, the sink rattling with each drive. Yn clung to him, nails raking his back, her walls clenching around his cock as he filled her over and over. The mirror behind her fogged with their breaths, the sounds of skin slapping skin echoing off the tiles.
"You're so tight," he grunted, angling deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. The guilt twisted in her gut, but it fuelled the fire, making every plunge feel dirtier, more intoxicating. YN kissed him fiercely, tasting herself on his lips, as he fucked her harder, faster. Her body coiled tighter with each thrust, the friction building an unbearable pressure deep inside. She gasped into his mouth, hips rolling to meet him, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach.
Charles's rhythm faltered, breaths ragged, but he didn't stop, driving into her with desperate force. "Gonna cum... inside you," he rasped, the words lost in the fog of their drunken haze, neither pausing to consider the consequences. YN's own climax hit then, triggered by his words and the relentless pounding, her pussy spasming around his cock as waves of ecstasy ripped through her. She cried out, muffled against his shoulder, her juices mixing with his as he followed seconds later. With a final, deep thrust, Charles came, his cock pulsing as he flooded her pussy with hot spurts of cum. They rode out the aftershocks together, bodies locked and trembling, the world narrowed to the slick heat where they joined.
As Charles pulled out, a trickle of his seed leaking down her thigh, YN straightened her clothes with shaky hands, the alcohol making her movements clumsy. "We can't tell him," she whispered, the weight of their secret settling like a shadow, though the buzz softened its edges. He nodded, cupping her cheek. "Our little sin." They shared a quick, guilty kiss before slipping out, the door creaking as they remerged into the bar's chaos.
Back at the table, Carlos was already there, nursing a fresh beer, his eyes narrowing as they approached. "Where the hell were you two? I come back and the table's empty. Thought you ditched me or something."
YN's heart skipped, but she forced a laugh, sliding into her seat and grabbing her drink to steady her nerves. "Oh, uh, we just... Charles wanted to show me this crazy dance move he learned. But the floor was packed, so we ended up chatting by the bar for a bit. You know how it is we lost track of time." She shot Charles a quick glance, her cheeks still flushed from more than just the alcohol.
Charles settled in beside her, draping an arm casually over the back of her chair, close enough to feel the warmth but not suspicious. "Yeah, mate, your sister's got some killer moves. Almost dragged me into a full-on competition. Didn't want to embarrass myself too bad." He chuckled, clinking his glass against Carlos's, the lie slipping out smooth under the influence.
Carlos eyed them for a moment, then shrugged, the booze making him easy going. "Alright, alright. Next round's on me then. But no more vanishing acts we're celebrating tonight." He waved down the bartender, oblivious to the secret simmering between his sister and best friend, the air at the table thick with unspoken tension.
Two weeks later, Baku felt nothing like Monza.
Where Italy had been loud and glowing and wrapped in red, the paddock at the Azerbaijan Grand Prix felt sharp. Wind whipping off the Caspian Sea. Concrete walls looming too close. No room for mistakes.
No room for unresolved tension.
Y/N stepped into the Ferrari garage Friday morning and immediately regretted it.
Charles stood near the engineering table, already in team kit, headset resting around his neck. Focused. Calm. Professional.
Like nothing had happened.
Like two weeks ago they hadn’t stumbled back into the hotel in Monza still laughing, still flushed from champagne and adrenaline. Like they hadn’t crossed a line neither of them had dared name before that night.
She hadn’t stayed in the morning.
She’d left before he woke up and they hadn’t spoken since.
She kept her eyes down, pretending to check her phone as she moved toward the back of the garage. She could feel him though. The awareness was immediate, electric. The kind that made her skin prickle.
Her name in his voice still did something to her chest.
She froze for half a second before forcing herself to turn. “Hi.”
God, it sounded awkward. Thin.
He studied her carefully. There was no anger in his expression. No accusation.
That almost made it worse.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.
Her heartbeat spiked. “I... I actually promised Carlos I’d sit in on the strategy briefing.”
It was a lie. A weak one.
Charles’ jaw tightened just slightly. “Right.”
An engineer called his name from across the garage and the moment fractured. He nodded once and turned away, slipping seamlessly back into driver mode.
This track was unforgiving. Long straights into brutal braking zones. Walls inches away at over 300 km/h. Drivers needed clarity here. Focus.
And she was the opposite of clarity.
The guilt had been eating at her for fourteen days.
The way he’d run straight to her in parc fermé, lifting her off the ground like nothing in the world mattered more.
And hours later she had crossed a line with his teammate.
She hadn’t planned for it to happen. It hadn’t been some long secret scheme. It had been adrenaline and champagne and weeks of tension finally snapping.
And afterward, in the quiet, reality had crashed down hard.
Even if Carlos would never see it that way.
Even if Charles wasn’t just his teammate but her friend too.
Saturday qualifying in Baku was chaotic as always. Red flags, near-misses, cars brushing walls. Charles clipped the barrier in Q2, nothing major, but enough to spike everyone’s heart rates.
Y/N flinched harder than she meant to.
Their eyes met across the garage after he climbed out of the car.
Just something unresolved.
Later, as dusk settled over the city circuit and most of the team filtered out, she found herself alone near the back of the paddock building overlooking the track.
She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“You’re avoiding me,” Charles said gently.
The Baku skyline glittered behind him, wind tugging at his team jacket.
“You left without saying goodbye.” His voice wasn’t sharp. It was steady. “And you won’t look at me.”
Her throat tightened. “It was a mistake.”
The words felt like glass in her mouth.
“A mistake,” he repeated.
“I shouldn’t have let it happen. Not after Monza. Not when it was his birthday. I feel...” She broke off, frustrated with herself. “I feel awful.”
Charles stepped closer, but not enough to crowd her.
“You think I don’t care about Carlos?” he asked quietly.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
She wrapped her arms around herself against the wind. “I’m saying he trusts us. Both of us.”
“And we didn’t betray him.”
Her eyes flashed up. “Didn’t we?”
The wind howled briefly between the buildings, carrying distant city noise with it.
Charles ran a hand through his hair, frustration slipping through his calm exterior for the first time.
“It wasn’t just champagne,” he said. “It wasn’t just adrenaline.”
“It meant something to me.”
The admission hung between them, heavier than the concrete walls lining the circuit.
She hadn’t let herself think about that part.
Hadn’t let herself consider that maybe the guilt wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t sleep.
“I can’t do this right now,” she whispered.
“Because it’s Baku?” he asked softly.
“Because if I look at you for too long, I forget why I’m supposed to feel guilty.”
Somewhere out on track, another team fired up an engine for a systems check. The sound echoed through the narrow streets.
Tomorrow he would strap into a car inches from the walls at 340 km/h.
Tomorrow Carlos would line up beside him.
The three of them would stand together again like nothing had shifted but everything had.
Charles took a step back, giving her space even though it clearly cost him.
“After the race,” he said quietly. “We’re not avoiding it again.”
She didn’t trust herself to.
The tension between them felt tighter than the walls of the Baku street circuit and Sunday hadn’t even started yet.
The race in Baku had been brutal.
Close walls. Lock-ups. A late safety car that shredded strategies and nerves alike. Ferrari salvaged solid points. Not the chaos of a DNF, but not the fairy tale of Monza either. Controlled. Professional. Tense.
By the time the debrief ended, the paddock had thinned out. Mechanics packed up equipment under harsh white lights. The wind coming off the Caspian had picked up again, rattling the temporary structures around the circuit.
Y/N waited near the hospitality unit longer than she meant to.
She knew if she left without saying anything, this would drag on for weeks.
Charles emerged from the back of the garage still in his race kit, the top pf his suit tied around his waist. He looked tired. The kind of tired that came from concentration, not sleep.
“Can we talk?” she asked quietly.
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Neither of them spoke as they walked down the narrow paddock corridor toward his drivers’ room. The walls were thin. The space temporary. Everything about Baku felt fragile.
Inside, the room was small. A sofa, a table scattered with briefing notes, his helmet resting in the corner.
He leaned back against the table, arms folding instinctively. Guarded, but not closed.
She kept standing near the door, like she’d already decided she wouldn’t stay long.
“I need space,” she said.
The words came out steadier than she felt.
His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture stiffened. “Space.”
She swallowed. “From… this.”
He pushed off the table slightly. “We haven’t even defined what ‘this’ is.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
The room felt smaller by the second.
“Monza was…” She hesitated, forcing herself to say it clearly. “It was a mistake.”
The word landed heavier than she intended.
“A mistake,” he repeated quietly.
“It shouldn’t have happened. We were emotional. It was a big weekend. Champagne, adrenaline...”
“It wasn’t just champagne,” he cut in, not angrily, but firmly.
She shook her head, already defensive. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her chest tightened. She avoided his eyes.
“We can’t carry this on,” she said. “It’s not fair. To Carlos. To the team. It complicates everything.”
“We’re adults,” he replied. “It doesn’t have to be dramatic.”
He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself. “You’re acting like we betrayed him.”
“We didn’t,” he said again, more insistently now. “We didn’t hurt anyone.”
He stepped closer,not invading her space, but close enough that she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
She didn’t want to but she did.
There was frustration in his eyes now. And something else. Something vulnerable.
“You think I would ever do something to hurt Carlos?” he asked.
She shook her head again. “You’re not hearing me.”
Her voice wavered for the first time. “If we keep doing this… if it becomes something… and it goes wrong? It ruins everything.”
“It doesn’t have to go wrong.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But you can’t promise it will.”
He softened slightly. “You left without saying goodbye.”
“I thought you needed distance.”
“I needed you not to disappear.”
The honesty in his voice made it harder.
She forced herself to take a step back, physically creating space again.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Not right now. I need space and we shouldn’t carry it on.”
“So that’s it?” he asked quietly.
“For now isn’t the same as never.”
Because she didn’t trust what she might say.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead.
He nodded once, jaw tight. “Right.”
She reached for the door handle, pausing only for a fraction of a second.
He didn’t try to stop her.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the small drivers’ room. Helmet in the corner, race notes still scattered across the table, the echo of something unfinished hanging heavier than the Baku air.
Two months later, the paddock lights in the desert burned white against the night sky at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.
Ferrari versus McLaren for the Constructors’ Championship.
Everything felt razor sharp.
From the first practice session, the garage had carried a different kind of tension. Clipped radio messages, strategy simulations running nonstop, engineers double-checking everything twice. One mistake could cost them an entire season.
She hadn’t been to a race since Baku.
Charles had told himself that didn’t matter.
That it was better this way.
Carlos, though had been off all weekend.
Not slower. Not unfocused in the car. If anything, he was clinical. Precise. He put it on the front row in qualifying and barely celebrated. He answered media questions with polite half-smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.
Lights out on Sunday and the race unfolded like controlled chaos. Pit strategy undercut battles. A late safety car that tightened the field and nearly shattered Ferrari’s plan. Charles held P2 under immense pressure while Carlos fought tooth and nail for the lead.
If they finished P1 and P2, the championship was theirs.
Carlos defended like a man possessed. Charles covered off the car behind with ruthless precision.
When the chequered flag fell:
The Constructors’ was Ferrari's.
The garage exploded. Mechanics crying. Engineers screaming. Red confetti already being pulled out before parc fermé.
Charles climbed out of the car laughing in disbelief, pulling his helmet off as fireworks began lighting up the Yas Marina sky. He expected Carlos to be euphoric.
Instead, when Carlos removed his helmet, there was a strange quietness in his eyes.
He smiled. He hugged the team. He raised his fists.
Even on the podium, as champagne sprayed and the Italian anthem played for Ferrari, Carlos’ smile seemed… delayed. Distracted.
Later, when the noise had dulled and most of the team had dispersed toward celebrations, Charles found him standing alone near the back of the hospitality unit overlooking the marina.
“You win the last race of the season and secure the championship,” Charles said lightly as he approached, “and you look like you’re about to attend a funeral.”
Carlos let out a breath that almost passed as a laugh. “It’s been a long year.”
Charles studied him. “That’s not it.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Carlos rubbed a hand over his face.
“Y/N called me the other day,” he said.
The name hit like a jolt.
Charles kept his expression neutral. “Yeah?”
The world seemed to tilt.
Charles’ stomach dropped so fast it felt physical.
Carlos continued, voice tight in a way Charles had never heard before. “She just told me. Two days ago.”
Charles forced himself to breathe normally. “Okay.”
“She won’t tell me who the father is,” Carlos added, frustration creeping in now. “Says it’s not my business. Which is ridiculous, because of course it’s my business.”
Protective big brother mode. Activated.
Charles swallowed carefully. “How… how far along is she?”
He tried to make it sound casual. Like general curiosity.
Carlos didn’t notice the subtle strain. “About two months. That’s what she said.”
Charles’ mind raced, calculating dates he didn’t want to calculate. The last time he had seen her. The last time they had spoken properly.
He felt the edges of panic creeping in but kept his face composed.
“She won’t say anything?” he asked.
Carlos shook his head. “Nothing. Just that she’ll handle it.” His jaw tightened. “She doesn’t have to handle it alone.”
Charles nodded slowly, barely hearing the rest of the sentence over the thudding in his ears.
If the timing lined up...
Carlos was still talking. “If some guy thinks he can just walk away from this...”
Charles forced a steady breath. “You don’t know that’s what happened.”
“I know my sister,” Carlos shot back. “She’s protecting someone.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
A hollow feeling settled in Charles’ chest.
“Have you talked to her since?” he asked.
“She’s avoiding the topic,” Carlos muttered. “Typical.”
Fireworks exploded again outside over the marina.
Ferrari were world champions.
And all Charles could hear was two months.
Carlos clapped him on the shoulder, misreading his silence as shared frustration. “Anyway. We’ll figure it out.”
Carlos’ phone buzzed and he glanced down at it. “I need to go. Team dinner.”
“Go,” Charles said quietly.
As soon as Carlos disappeared down the corridor, Charles pulled his own phone from his pocket.
He stared at her contact for a long second before typing.
The screen showed the message delivered.
Outside, the celebrations roared on.
Inside, everything had just changed.
Charles barely remembers the flight.
All he knows is that he booked the first seat he could find to Nice and spent the entire journey staring at the same three words on his phone screen.
Her reply had come an hour later.
Okay. There’s a café near the port. Tomorrow at 10?
Like they were acquaintances, not...
He forces himself not to finish that thought.
The Mediterranean air is cool when he steps out of the taxi the next morning. The sea glints under pale winter sun, gulls circling lazily overhead. The café is small, tucked against a pastel-colored building, quiet except for the clink of cups and low conversation.
For a moment, he just stands on the pavement.
Y/N is seated at a small outdoor table, sunlight catching in her hair. She looks… softer. Calmer somehow. And there, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it, the faintest curve beneath her sweater.
It hits him all at once. The last time he saw her properly was in Baku, standing on a balcony with the wind in her hair telling him she needed space.
Now she looks breath taking and fragile in a way that makes his chest ache.
God, even that feels loaded.
He sits opposite her, the small metal table suddenly feeling like a barrier and a lifeline at the same time.
“You look… good,” he manages.
She smiles faintly. “You look tired.”
A beat of silence stretches between them.
A waiter drops off two coffees and a pastry they clearly ordered without coordinating. She nudges the plate toward him automatically, like muscle memory.
They split it without speaking.
It’s awkward at first. Painfully so. Small comments about the flight. The weather. Ferrari’s championship celebrations. Things that don’t matter.
His eyes flicker to her stomach more than once, subtle but involuntary.
Eventually he can’t take it anymore.
“Carlos told me,” he says quietly.
Her fingers still on the coffee cup.
The noise of the café fades into the background.
“He said you’re pregnant.”
There’s no drama in her voice. No fear. Just certainty.
“And he doesn’t know who the father is.”
She meets his eyes fully now.
His heart pounds so loudly he’s sure she can hear it.
“Y/N,” he says carefully, “is it...”
But it lands like thunder.
He stops breathing for a second.
“Yes,” she repeats more clearly. “It’s yours.”
The world narrows to the space between them.
He looks at her stomach again, not in disbelief, but in stunned realization.
“You’re sure?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
She gives him a look. “The timing isn’t exactly complicated.”
“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. “I never meant for you to find out from Carlos. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you and I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”
He runs a hand through his hair, overwhelmed but trying to stay steady. “You were going to tell me?”
“Yes.” A flicker of hurt crosses her face. “Of course I was.”
Relief mixes with panic inside him.
“He cannot know,” she says immediately.
There’s no hesitation there.
“For his sake,” she continues. “For yours. For the team. If he finds out right now. With everything, with Ferrari, with how protective he already is it would explode.”
Charles leans back in his chair, absorbing the weight of it.
“So we say nothing,” he says slowly.
“We say nothing,” she confirms. “He doesn’t need that distraction. Not now.”
She hesitates. “Later we figure it out.”
Silence settles again but it’s different now. Not awkward. Just heavy.
He studies her more carefully this time. The way her hand rests unconsciously over the slight curve of her stomach. The calm strength in her expression.
“You’re okay?” he asks quietly.
She smiles. Small, but real. “I am.”
He swallows. “I want to be there.”
There’s a pause before she adds, “I have a check-up in a few weeks.”
“If you want to come,” she says, carefully neutral, “you can.”
He doesn’t hesitate this time.
Something unspoken passes between them. Fragile, uncertain, but undeniably real.
They’re not what they were at Monza.
They’re not what they were in Baku.
This is something entirely new.
Across the table, their fingers brush briefly when they both reach for the last piece of pastry.
Neither pulls away immediately.
The Mediterranean breeze lifts slightly, sunlight warm against the quiet morning.
In Abu Dhabi, Ferrari are world champions.
In Nice, everything has just become infinitely more complicated
The morning of the appointment, Charles barely slept.
He’d driven circuits at 300 km/h without his hands shaking.
He pulls up outside her apartment in Monaco ten minutes early, then spends nine of them staring at the steering wheel and telling himself to breathe.
When she finally comes downstairs, wrapped in a light coat, hair loose, he forgets whatever calming speech he’d rehearsed.
And the curve is no longer something he has to look for.
“Hi,” she says gently as she opens the passenger door.
His voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat and pretends it didn’t.
The drive to the clinic is quiet at first. The Mediterranean glitters to their right, traffic light, morning sun warm against the windshield.
He grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
“You’re nervous,” she observes.
He exhales. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
“You drive into Turn 1 at Monza three-wide without blinking.”
“This feels more dangerous.”
She laughs softly, and the sound loosens something in his chest.
Still, as they pull into the small medical building’s parking lot, his heart starts racing again.
Inside, the clinic smells faintly of disinfectant and coffee. The waiting room is calm, muted tones and quiet voices.
He sits beside her, knee bouncing.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” she murmurs.
She reaches over without thinking and rests her hand lightly on his thigh.
He follows her into the examination room, trying to act normal, trying not to look like a man whose entire world might shift in the next five minutes.
The doctor smiles warmly, speaks gently, runs through routine questions. Y/N answers easily - she’s been here before.
Charles stays quiet, hovering slightly behind her, unsure where to stand.
“Would you like to see?” the doctor asks, turning the monitor slightly.
On the screen, at first, it’s just shapes. Grey and black and static.
Then the doctor adjusts something.
“That’s the baby,” the doctor says softly.
He doesn’t realize he’s reached for Y/N’s hand until their fingers are laced tightly together.
Then a sound fills the room.
For a split second he thinks it’s his own echoing in his ears.
It’s faster. Lighter. Alive.
He blinks hard, vision blurring unexpectedly.
“That’s…” His voice fails him.
“That’s your baby,” she whispers.
The words hit deeper than anything else so far.
He swallows, eyes locked on the monitor, listening to that rapid thump-thump-thump that feels impossibly powerful for something so small.
He’s driven for podiums. For championships. For Ferrari.
None of it compares to this.
“Everything looks good,” the doctor continues, unaware that Charles feels like he might either laugh or cry or both.
The irony almost makes him huff out a breath.
When the sound finally fades and the appointment wraps up, he stays standing there a second longer, staring at the grainy image printed for them.
In the car afterward, he doesn’t start the engine immediately.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
He looks at her, really looks at her, and something shifts in his expression. The panic is still there.
“I heard it,” he says quietly, like he still can’t quite believe it. “That was real.”
He rests a hand cautiously over her stomach, hesitant.
It’s still early. He knows that.
But knowing there’s a heartbeat under his palm changes something fundamental.
“We’re really doing this,” he murmurs.
Outside, Monaco moves on like nothing monumental just happened.
Inside the car, Charles feels like his entire life just rewrote itself.
And Carlos still has no idea.
Christmas had been… complicated.
The Sainz family home was warm, loud, filled with food and laughter and too many opinions. But under the fairy lights and festive music, tension hummed.
Y/N had smiled through it all.
“Yes, he’s in the picture.”
“No, I’m not saying who it is.”
“No, I’m not doing this alone.”
Her mother had watched her carefully. Her father had been quieter than usual. Carlos had hovered like a shadow, protective without being suffocating. Stepping in when questions became too pointed, changing subjects when conversations edged too close.
By January, she was four months pregnant.
The curve was undeniable now.
She and Carlos were walking through the harbour in Monaco, winter sun reflecting off impossibly expensive yachts, when he gently steered her away from a patch of uneven pavement.
“Carlos,” she sighed. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
He kept half a step closer to the road side, arm occasionally brushing hers like a silent barrier between her and everything else.
He’d been like this for weeks.
More watchful. More present.
She knew it came from love.
But it also made the secret heavier.
They rounded a corner near the café-lined stretch by the marina and stopped.
He was mid-conversation with someone from his management team but looked up at exactly the wrong moment.
His eyes found her instantly.
Four months was no longer subtle.
The faintest tension crossed his face before he masked it with something easier. Softer.
He excused himself and stepped toward them.
Carlos’ posture shifted immediately. Not hostile, but instinctively protective. Subtle. Almost invisible unless you knew him.
“Charles” Carlos greeted lightly, clapping him once on the shoulder.
“Carlos” Charles replied with a faint smile.
His gaze flickered back to her.
They’d been… better. Since the appointment. Since the heartbeat.
Still careful. Still distant in public.
“How are you?” Charles asked her.
He nodded, searching her face like he always did now. Checking, measuring, making sure she really meant it.
Something small and sharp moved behind his eyes.
“We were just grabbing lunch,” Carlos said. “Doctor says she shouldn’t skip meals.”
“I never skip meals,” she protested.
“You forgot breakfast yesterday.”
Charles huffed a quiet laugh.
A photographer, clearly recognizing both Ferrari drivers, stepped backward to frame a shot.
Carlos reacted instantly, grabbing her arm.
But Charles was already there too, hand braced at her lower back, steadying her before she could lose balance.
Everything froze for half a second.
Charles’ hand remained at her back. Firm. Protective. Instinctive.
The way Charles’ thumb pressed slightly, grounding.
“You okay?” both men asked at the same time.
She nodded quickly. “I’m fine.”
The photographer apologized profusely and hurried away.
Carlos’ gaze flicked between them, something calculating beneath the surface now.
Charles stepped back first, withdrawing his hand almost too quickly.
“Sorry,” he muttered, like he’d crossed a line.
“You didn’t do anything,” she said softly.
He studied Charles for a long moment.
“You seem very concerned lately,” he said, tone casual but eyes sharp.
Charles didn’t flinch. “She’s your sister.”
The marina felt colder suddenly.
Charles held his gaze evenly. “I care about her.”
Carlos’ jaw tightened slightly.
“I know you do,” he replied.
It wasn’t friendly either.
Y/N felt her pulse spike.
This was the line they’d been walking for weeks and for the first time, it felt dangerously thin.
Carlos checked his watch after a moment, breaking the tension. “We should go. Appointment soon.”
Charles hesitated, then looked at her. “Call me later?”
It was soft. Almost a question.
Carlos’ gaze snapped to her.
Charles stepped back toward his waiting conversation, but the look on Carlos’ face hadn’t softened.
As they walked away, he didn’t say anything at first.
“How often are you seeing him?” he asked quietly.
And suddenly, the secret felt like it was on borrowed time.
That’s what the doctor had said at the last appointment.
Five months and everything was progressing perfectly.
Charles was sitting cross-legged on Y/N’s sofa in her apartment in Monaco, trying very hard to act normal about the fact that his entire world currently revolved around the gentle curve beneath her oversized sweater.
“You’re staring again,” she teased softly.
He shifted closer anyway.
She guided his hand carefully to her stomach, her own fingers resting over his.
“It’s been happening more this week,” she murmured. “The kicks.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” he admitted.
The room was quiet. Late afternoon light spilling through the windows, the marina faintly visible beyond the balcony doors.
Another one. Stronger this time.
His breath caught completely.
“That’s… that’s real,” he whispered.
She laughed softly, emotional in a way that mirrored him. “Very real.”
He kept his hand there, barely daring to move and then it happened again. A distinct kick beneath his palm.
His face broke into something unguarded and bright and overwhelmed.
“That’s our baby,” he said, almost disbelieving.
The word our hung in the air.
Instead, she leaned her forehead lightly against his shoulder, both of them smiling in stunned, quiet joy.
She stood too quickly. “That’s Carlos.”
“He said he might stop by this week and I forgot and... oh my God.”
Charles stood immediately, heart racing in a completely different way now.
“Bedroom,” she whispered urgently.
He slipped down the hallway just as she opened the door.
Carlos stepped inside carrying a paper bag and wearing that familiar protective older-brother expression.
“Hey,” he said. “I was passing by and thought I’d check on you.”
She forced a smile. “You didn’t have to...”
“I know.” He held up the bag. “But I did.”
She blinked. “Is that...?”
“Yes. The ridiculous pistachio croissants you’ve been craving from that bakery across town.”
Her eyes filled slightly despite herself. “Carlos…”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “You’re building a human. The least I can do is secure pastries.”
He stepped inside fully, glancing around casually.
Charles pressed himself flat against the bedroom wall, heart pounding so loudly he was convinced it could be heard through the door.
Carlos moved toward the kitchen.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, softer now. “You seemed tired yesterday.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, praying her voice sounded steady.
“You’re not overdoing it?”
He studied her for a long moment.
Finally, Carlos nodded once. “Good.”
He kissed her temple gently. “Call me if you need anything.”
After another minute of small talk and reassurance, Carlos grabbed his keys.
“Get some rest,” he said.
She stood there for a full five seconds before exhaling shakily.
The bedroom door opened slowly.
Charles stepped out, running a hand through his hair.
“Too close,” she finished.
She sank onto the sofa suddenly, the adrenaline crashing all at once.
Without warning, she started crying.
Charles crossed the room instantly, kneeling in front of her.
She covered her face. “I hate this.”
“Lying to him.” Her voice broke. “He looks at me like that... like he’s going to protect me from everything and I’m standing there hiding the biggest thing in the world.”
Charles’ chest tightened.
“He deserves to know,” she whispered. “Every day we don’t tell him I feel worse.”
He sat beside her, pulling her gently into his chest.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“I feel guilty all the time,” she admitted. “He’s excited about being an uncle. He keeps talking about it and he doesn’t even realize...”
Charles pressed a kiss into her hair.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.”
She pulled back slightly, eyes red. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hiding you in my own apartment.”
The truth of that hit him hard.
He took her hands firmly. “We choose the moment. We control it. But we don’t drag it out until it explodes.”
She searched his face for hesitation.
“You’re sure?” she asked.
He glanced down at her stomach, where just minutes ago he’d felt their baby kick for the first time.
“I’m not hiding from this,” he said quietly. “Or from him.”
Her breathing began to steady.
She leaned into him again, this time calmer.
“Okay,” she whispered. “We tell him soon.”
Outside, Monaco carried on as usual.
Inside the apartment, the secret they’d been carrying for months finally felt like it had an expiration date.
And neither of them knew how Carlos would react when it did.
I will post part two tmr :)
PS: defo din't tear up wile writing this.
