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The man himself did not share this mood. His hand moved mechanically, etching the familiar loops of his signature. Charles was exhausted. He was annoyed by the weak test results, openly infuriated and unsettled by the comments of the haters and the intrusive, sometimes inappropriate behaviour of some fans. He could do nothing about it, really, except smile tightly and utter words of gratitude in response to the support and good luck wishes from hundreds of people. It was as if he had become a trophy that millions wanted to possess.

He was tracing the marker over identical merch items more and more mechanically, often without raising his head at all. He would need all the luck they wished upon him.

***

You also felt a certain discomfort in this crowd. Wrapped in a simple black hoodie and clutching a piece of metal in your hands, you could feel your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were like a shadow amidst the riot of colour, not a single Ferrari logo, not a single red element on you. But you had something important in your hands that gave you hope and pushed you to get lost among the branded jackets and racing chatter.

Your time would come soon, and you would say all the things that mattered. But for now, the queue dragged on and on, barely coming to an end.

***

Meanwhile, the guy looked more and more gloomy and weary. He’d already motioned his manager over, murmuring about ending the session before his sanity did. Then, the next fan stepped forward, and something different landed on the table. It was neither a photo nor another red cap with a familiar logo.

Mechanically picking up a simple but painfully familiar L-shaped wrench, he sighed. It wasn't new, but clearly used, as if it had passed through more than one pair of hands. Yet Charles recognised it instantly – on the handle, among the scuffs and scratches, was the inscription "Silverstone test 2019".

Time stuttered. The tiny, precise instrument felt familiar, like a forgotten piece of a puzzle. Slowly raising his eyes to you, it was as if he couldn't believe what was happening was real.

"Won't you sign it, Mr. Leclerc?"

Your voice was a melody of gentle mockery and warmth, perfectly tuned to the storm inside him.

"Didn't you drop this at Silverstone in 2019?"

Charles continued to stare at you intently. He couldn't look away. He absorbed every detail—your lack of team colours, that simple black hoodie.

His hoodie.

And you could see how the joy of your meeting was reflected in his bright eyes, mixed with the pain of your absence.

Back in 2019, you had said too much to each other. With words that never meant to be spoken, promises that never meant to be broken and the events of the past years flashed before his eyes, years during which you had unconditionally given him all your tenderness. These memories made him forget where he was and with whom. Charles waved away the manager, who was already saying something about timings, and turned his eyes to the thinning crowd as if seeing nothing.

And there you were.

It was like a punch to the gut, and time froze for him. You touched your lips thoughtfully with your fingertips, lost in the same reel of memories where every victory sweetly merged with kisses, and every bitter disappointment was lived through together over warm, languid evenings in your cozy Monaco apartment. And sometimes on not-so-languid evenings, in the bedroom of that very apartment, where, studying and covering your body with kisses, he would let himself go, only to wake in the morning exhausted and tender, full of determination and fire for new victories and defeats.

It all flashed between you in a split second, but you managed to notice how long it had been since you'd seen him so tired. The season was past its midpoint but had brought no relief. The next race was Silverstone, and you feared it would break him completely.

"Where... should I sign?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Don't. I just came to return it."

You took a deep breath before continuing. "You... Back at Silverstone... You lost a lot. I thought this might help you keep at least some of the memories."

He shuddered, averting his eyes. No matter how distant those memories were, they still hurt. He remembered the screams and quarrels, the promises never to look at each other again, and the bitter tears afterwards – his and yours – shed over the remnants of a union once called the most tender and passionate among the many other couples on the grid. At Silverstone, he’d lost more than a title; he’d lost his grip, his rivals flying past as he drove on autopilot, his mind elsewhere. Just like now, his attention was split between you and the key in your hand, this tangible proof of loss.

"Can I keep it?” Raw and desperate “To keep at least something of what's left."

His entire posture begged for more. Hewanted to keep much more than a trinket from the boxes. Leclerc touched your palm, looking into your eyes. "Can we talk afterwards? I'll arrange everything..."

You squinted, crossing your arms over your chest. You thought for a second, looking at him, drowning in his bright eyes. Remembering how you used to run your fingers through his chestnut curls, you took a deep breath and shook your head. The plan was the plan. Although, the temptation to give up everything now and fall into his arms was great, you restrained yourself.

Slowly touching your lips, chapped from the cold, dry air, you took his hand and gently but firmly pushed it away.

"I'll meet you at Silverstone, Mr. Leclerc. And I wish you good luck."

A smile touched your lips as hope flashed in his eyes, and you continued, "I'll be there. And you can find what you've lost."

***

The track was still heated leftover from the battle it had just witnessed. Turn after turn, leading further away, giving wings to some and leaving others behind.

Charles got out of the car breathless, but his eyes shone with a fierce, almost inhuman joy. He had come first. This trophy was neither his first nor his last, but it was incredibly special. Silverstone was his.

Soon, a noisy crowd would watch the handsome, strong Monegasque on the podium. But in this fragile, quiet aftermath, his focus was singular: the front row. The jubilant team that never stopped showering him with praise, close friends, and family filled with pride for him.

And you.

In the front row, with tears of happiness and pride in your eyes. Your hands trembled; your heart galloped with a joy that was entirely his. Your eyes met, and you couldn't tear yourselves away from each other. The team surrounded him from all sides, congratulating and hugging the winner. Leclerc laughed, slapped high-fives, and for the first time in a long time, a sincere smile bloomed on his face. But his eyes... They were chained to you. They caught your every movement and every tiny detail of your image, which he loved despite all the trials and issues.

You had zero expectations. You didn't expect his attention because the press had long stopped making headlines about your breakup. Fans worldwide were already speculating about his new lovers, and you had nothing left to lose.

But after disentangling himself from the team members' hugs, amidst the sounds of general rejoicing, he walked up to you. He looked around, almost disbelievingly, making sure it was really you in front of him. Tired, a little lost, but absolutely real. You had waited at the finish line of your past, and in your slender fingers was still that hex key—the totem that seemed to have started it all.

He approached slowly, intertwining his fingers with yours and closing the distance until not an inch remained between you.

"An autograph this time, Mr. Leclerc?" you exhaled, chuckling softly. Tears of joy shimmered on your lashes.

"With pleasure... Shame I don't have a marker on me..." He was cut off mid-sentence by your gentle kiss. Later, you'd debate who moved first, crossing that line, but you would always remember how your tongues intertwined and how the heat from his body, still blazing from the race, made you shiver.

To the approving and slightly shocked cheers of the crowd around you, he reluctantly pulled away, regretfully stroking your palm. His whole being screamed how much he wanted to stay right there with you. He didn't care about any rules now and hadn't even taken the notorious trophy, because the main treasure he had found in rainy Silverstone was already standing before him.

"I'll find you after the podium. Please, be there."

Hearing these words, you lost control. Tears streamed down your cheeks. You would wait an eternity for this.