#chlerc

Charles hadn’t thought much of it, really. Not at the time. It was just a pen — a fountain pen, sleek and finely weighted, its deep emerald lacquer gleaming under the conference room’s sterile lights as he scribbled notes absentmindedly during the debrief. The nib glided effortlessly across the parchment-like pages of his notebook, each stroke smooth, precise, almost indulgent. It was one of those rare moments where the act of writing felt as dignified as the content itself.

He only pulled it out because the biro on the conference table had given up mid-stroke, dry as dust. With little thought, he reached into the pocket of his jeans, retrieved the fountain pen, uncapped it in one fluid motion, and continued scribbling on the project debrief like it was the most ordinary instrument in the world.

Until, of course, it wasn’t.

The murmuring of engineers and department leads around him blurred into the background until a voice to his left cut through. “You’ve got an eye for quality,” murmured one of the engineers across the table, a lanky man named Alessandro who had a penchant for cufflinks and fountain pens.

His gaze lingered on the pen with something approaching reverence. “Montblanc 149, if I’m not mistaken? Limited edition run... rare resin finish. You don’t see many of those around.”

Charles glanced up briefly, with Alessandro’s eyes locked on the pen in Charles’s hand with borderline reverence. He blinked. “The what?”

“The 149, Charles. The grail pen. The top of the bloody line.” Charles offered a vague shrug, still writing with his brow slightly arched. “Oh? I hadn’t noticed. It was a gift,” he replied offhandedly, his tone clipped in a way that suggested the topic needn’t go any further. But Alessandro, undeterred, leaned back with an appreciative whistle.

“A gift?” Alessandro nearly sputtered. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a wry grin. “Hell of a gift. That’s not the sort of thing you find at the corner stationery shop,” he mused, eyes lingering. “Whoever gave that to you must’ve thought you hung the bloody moon.”

Alessandro’s voice rose with each word, drawing the attention of at least three other colleagues around the table. Charles remained unmoved, eyes still on his page, the nib gliding in smooth, elegant arcs.

Alessandro pressed on, animated now. “Those go for over a thousand pounds, easy. If you’re lucky. And that’s just the base price. There are custom editions, limited releases — hell, the vintage ones sell for four times that. You don’t just use those pens. You preserve them. They must’ve thought you were the sun and stars, giving you that.”

Over a thousand pounds? If you’re lucky?

The words were light and casual, intended as a compliment, but they landed like a hammer to the chest. Just for a breath of a second, the pen paused mid-word, leaving a slight smudge of ink like a bruise blooming on the page. And then silence. A roar of silence that crashed against him louder than any reprimand could. Because Alessandro didn’t know. He couldn’t have known.

She’d given him that pen. She, whose hands bore the calluses of part-time work and after-hours hustles. Who stitched her life together with early morning lectures and late night shifts, budgeting every pence to make rent and afford her textbooks or semesters. She wasn’t from a world of luxury or excess, yet she’d given him the one thing she’d worked tirelessly for, her first fountain pen. Her favourite. A piece of her heart wrapped in lacquer and gold.

And he, the coward, had let her slip through his fingers.

They’d met at a dinner party, one of those mindless affairs hosted by a mutual friend. She had laughed with the kind of carelessness that made people look, not because she was loud, but because she was real. He’d liked that. The easy cadence of her voice, the way she tilted her head when listening, the quickness of her wit. And somehow, between late-night texts and shared taxi rides, she became a constant in his life.

He had never asked her to give him the pen. But one evening, as they sat on the stone steps outside her university hall, she pressed it into his palm with a smile that trembled at the corners. The look on her face, half proud, half sheepish as she handed him the box. The Montblanc. He hadn’t even registered the name then, not really.

“It’s my favourite,” she had murmured, not quite meeting his eyes. “I saved up for it, for months. But I want you to have it although you could easily afford it.” she admitted, laughing at herself like it was silly. “But it’s the one thing I’m proud of. I really wanted to give you something you’d use. It’s… my favourite. The first one I ever bought for myself but I want you to have it. It felt right to give it to you.”

He remembered now — how her fingers trembled slightly as he opened the box. How she watched his expression, almost apologetically, as if afraid he wouldn’t see it the way she did. And he hadn’t. Not really. He thanked her, kissed her temple, tucked the pen into his bag, and treated it like a kind gesture. Nothing more. He never asked how much it cost. Never asked how she’d managed it. He didn’t understand that for someone like her, it wasn’t just a pen.

He should’ve said no. He should’ve realised then. But back then, he believed time was something he had enough of. That feelings could wait, that she'd always be there. It hadn’t registered, not properly, how much she gave without ever asking for anything in return.

He remembered the way she’d rush to her night shifts at the bookstore, hair barely dried from her evening shower, the way she’d juggle coursework with rent payments, never complaining, only smiling. She never had much, not money, not time, but she gave it all, and gave it to him.

“Gifted, huh?” Alessandro repeated with a curious smile, unaware of the emotional avalanche he’d triggered. “Well, you’ve got good taste in friends for them to be giving it away, it’s like giving away your favourite child.” Charles swallowed hard, blinking back the fog settling behind his eyes.

His throat tightened, his jaw clenching ever so slightly, letting out a soundless breath, one that seemed to draw from somewhere deep within him. “You alright?” Alessandro asked, his voice cutting through the fog of memory.

Charles blinked, eyes falling back to the pen, to the way his hand trembled slightly now. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just tired.” Alessandro nodded, oblivious. “Well, whoever gave you that, damn. You don’t let a girl like that go.”

He didn’t reply. What was there to say? That she’d left quietly, without slamming doors or raising voices? That she’d simply stepped back, the way people do when they’ve tried too many times and are met only with silence? That even now, he didn’t know what her life looked like anymore.

Charles stared down at the page, at the scrawled ink lines that blurred slightly as his eyes began to sting. He blinked hard. No. Not now. Not here.

But inside, the ache twisted.

Somewhere out there, she was probably walking home from class, clutching her coat tighter around her against the wind, working a second shift to afford another semester. And here he was, with the remnants of her sacrifice resting quietly in his palm — proof that once, someone had loved him so deeply they gave up something they had nothing of, just to make him feel important.

It wasn’t just a pen. It was a declaration, a vow he never answered.

He’d give away every accolade, every successful race, every win; if it meant he could go back to that step outside her hall, take the pen she offered and say, “Only if you stay.” But he hadn’t. And now she was gone.

And the cruel irony was, he’d still see her until the end of his days, not in person, but in everything: the pen that moved like a whisper across paper, the scent of rain on warm concrete, the spaces in his life she used to fill.

Now, with Alessandro’s words lingering in the air like smoke, ‘thought you were the sun and stars’, Charles felt something rupture quietly within him. A pinprick of guilt blooming into something cavernous

She had given him that pen when she had nothing.

He hadn’t even realised how little she had until much later. Until she stopped calling. Until her texts grew colder. Until silence replaced her place in his life like ivy creeping over a home abandoned. He told himself he was busy. That the distance was hard. That life got in the way.

But that was the coward’s answer. The truth? She gave and gave and gave. And he only took.

“She wasn’t even well off, she just gave me everything when she had nothing,” he muttered under his breath, not even realising he’d spoken aloud until Alessandro turned toward him in faint surprise. Charles cleared his throat quickly, returning to the pad in front of him. His hand tightened around the pen. His pulse was loud in his ears, a dull thrum that drowned out the rest of the room.

How many times had she reached out? How many times had he left her on read, promising to reply later, only to forget? She had always tried, tried harder than anyone ever had. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Especially when he didn’t.

He hadn’t meant to distance himself, it just happened. Gradually. Subtly. Always with an excuse at the ready. “I’ve just got too much on.” “We’ll talk later.” “It’s not the right time.” The calls had slowed. The messages became brief. One missed call led to another, then replies delayed for days, then work trips stretched longer than they should’ve. Eventually, she stopped reaching out altogether, and he had let her slip through his fingers, too tangled in passion and ambitions to notice the quiet emptying of his world.

She never raised her voice. Never demanded his time. She simply existed, quietly waiting on the other end of a call he rarely returned. She didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. She simply stopped asking for more. She understood. She always understood. Until one day, she didn’t. And he hadn’t heard from her since.

Alessandro was saying something again, but Charles didn’t catch it. His eyes stayed fixed on the Montblanc 149, now resting against the pad, its cap rolling gently across the desk.

She had nothing, yet gave him everything. He had everything, yet gave her nothing that stayed.

“You’re a lucky bastard,” Alessandro remarked under his breath, eyes still on the pen. Charles stared down at the gift that now felt like a confession in ink and gold.

“No,” he murmured, voice brittle. “I was. Once.” And as the debrief dragged on around him, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a version of his life where he had chosen better. Chosen her. Where he hadn’t let the noise of ambition drown out the sound of someone quietly loving him from the sidelines.

He might have already lost the love of his life, and the cruel thing was, he’d never even realised she was it, not until now.

And he knew, somehow, even if he lived a thousand lives and scrawled his apologies into every page with that same ink — he’d never earn her back. But he’d still see her, until the end of his days, in the trails of ink and in the silence of every unsent reply.

And he would always remember, she gave him her best, her everything, even when she had almost nothing. Her permanence in a fleeting world in the form of a pen.

But he never once deserved it when all he gave her was goodbyes, nothing but temporary love dressed in promises he never kept.

THE ROOM WAS AWASH WITH a peculiar blend of nostalgia and tentative conviviality, the kind that only a high-school reunion could conjure. Fragments of laughter, some sincere, others tinged with a hint of uncertainty floated through the air, mingling with half-remembered stories and recollections of days long past. Charles lingered near the periphery, a glass of tepid punch clasped in one hand while the other nervously traced the edge of his jacket pocket. His gaze flitted around the room, moving from one face to another, searching for a singular visage — her visage.

Years had passed since they last spoke in earnest. They were mere acquaintances now, connected only by the fragile threads of social media, a few cursory comments on Instagram stories, an annual exchange of obligatory birthday wishes. But once, they had been inseparable deskmates bound by shared secrets, shared laughter and shared dreams scrawled in the margins of their textbooks. She had a peculiar habit; a habit of collecting rocks from every place she visited. It was a small thing, almost whimsical, but it was something he had never forgotten.

At last, he spotted her, standing by the old trophy case, the dim light casting a soft halo around her, making her appear almost ethereal. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling the weight of time and lost opportunities pressing down upon him. But then, as though compelled by an unseen force, he began to make his way through the throng, the container in his hand growing heavier with each step he took.

She noticed him before he reached her, her eyes widening in recognition, followed by a smile that had not changed in all those years. The same delicate curve that seemed to illuminate her entire face. It began softly at the corners of her lips, as it widened, her smile seemed to spill over, brightening her eyes until they sparkled with a warm, unspoken invitation. The fullness of her lips caught the light, the subtle dimples that appeared in her cheeks adding an almost childlike charm, a hint of playful innocence. The same smile that lingered long after it faded, the same smile he never forgot. “Charles!” She greeted, her voice carrying a blend of surprise and something gentler, something like familiarity tinged with warmth. “Hello,” he replied, striving for a nonchalance that belied the quickening of his heartbeat. “It’s been quite some time.”

They exchanged the customary pleasantries; the polite inquiries about life, careers, and family. Yet, all the while, Charles was acutely aware of the container in his hand, a silent testament to years of quiet devotion. As the conversation began to wane, he gathered his courage and took a steadying breath. “I, uh, I brought something for you.” He mumbled, his voice catching slightly. He extended the container towards her, his hand trembling ever so slightly. It was a simple plastic vessel, but its contents were far from ordinary — they were the culmination of years spent thinking of her.

She looked at it, curiosity knitting her brows together. “What is this?” She questioned, accepting the container from him with a gentle touch. “Rocks,” he stated painfully obviously, almost bashful. “I remembered how you used to collect them from every place you visited. So, I started collecting them for you. Every time I travelled to a new country for the F1 season or for the holidays, I made a point of finding a beach and picking up a rock.” Her eyes widened further, her gaze moving from the container to his face and back again, a look of astonishment mingled with something else, something like wonder. “You did that? All this time?” Her voice meek like she couldn’t believe someone would’ve done that for her.

He nodded, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yes, and there’s more. I used the Polaroid camera you gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I captured a photograph of the sea in every country I visited and I wrote the date and the location on each one, in my usual messy handwriting.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bundle of polaroids, bound together with a fraying rubber band. He handed them to her, his heart thundering in his chest.

She took the photographs, her fingers brushing lightly against his, sending a spark of electricity up his arm. She leafed through them slowly, her eyes tracing the images — the endless, varied blues of oceans from around the world. She saw the dates and the names, scrawled in his familiar handwriting, each one a small, personal testament to his enduring thoughtfulness. Her eyes glistened, her smile deepening with each photograph she examined.

“Charles, I… I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “This is… extraordinary. Thank you.” He shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant, though his pulse was racing. “I just thought you might appreciate them. I remembered how much you loved collecting them, and I hoped… I hoped you still did.” She looked up at him, her eyes meeting him with an intensity that was almost disarming. For a long moment, they simply stood there, suspended in a silence that was laden with all the words left unsaid over the years — all the missed chances and unspoken sentiments. Yet in that silence, there was also a flicker of something new, a glimmer of possibility, a chance for renewal, for rekindling what had been lost.

“You always were the thoughtful one,” she said softly, her smile tinged with nostalgia. “I still collect them, you know. I never stopped.” He chuckled softly, relief flooding through him like a warm wave. “I’m glad, I was hoping that was still the case.” For a moment, they stood together in that small pocket of space by the trophy case, the rest of the reunion swirling around them like a distant, blurred backdrop. It was as if time itself had slowed, giving them a precious few moments to reconnect, to rediscover the connection that had once bound them so closely.

“I’ve missed you,” she confessed at last, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ve missed you, too,” he replied, the words flowing more easily than he had expected. “More than I can put into words.” They shared a smile — a new smile, one that spoke of second chances and the faintest hope of rekindling something once thought lost. As the evening wore on, they found themselves engrossed in conversation, reminiscing about the past, laughing over old memories, and uncovering how much they still shared in common.

And as they talked, the container of rocks and the stack of Polaroids sat beside them — a tangible reminder of time passed, and perhaps, a bridge to a future that was now just a bit more luminous, a bit more promising, with the prospect of a renewed friendship or perhaps something more — beckoning on the horizon.

— I.

It was the sort of detail that would have escaped most — a minor oversight, inconsequential to anyone else, invisible even to the well-meaning. But not to Charles. Never to Charles.

The evening sun had just begun its slow descent behind the low rooftops, casting a gilded glow over the terrace of the little café they often frequented. Their table was nestled beneath a canopy of rustling ivy, where laughter mingled with the clink of cutlery and the amber hum of street lamps flickering to life. Glasses glistened with condensation, cradled in idle hands, catching light with the easy sparkle of summer. Their friends, an ensemble of familiar voices, were already settled, drinks ordered in advance, good-natured teasing passed across the table like bread.

Charles arrived a touch later, having been caught in traffic on his way from a sponsor meeting. He approached the table just in time to see her lean forward with a soft laugh, lifting her glass — a tall one, rim beaded with droplets and garnished with a curl of citrus, and drink. But not with a straw. And in that single, fleeting moment, something in him paused.

It was such a small thing. A negligible detail. But she always drank with a straw. Not out of necessity, but fondness, an affection for the sensation. The soft draw of liquid through narrow plastic, the idle way she would chew the end as she listened intently or toyed with it while thinking. He remembered the way she used to tuck the straw between her fingers, twirl it absentmindedly, press her lips to it as though the world might slow down just a touch if she did.

Once, he’d asked her why, half-mocking, wholly curious, and she had simply smiled, that lopsided, sunlit sort of smile that softened every part of her face. “Feels nicer,” she’d said with a quiet shrug. “I know it’s silly. I just like it. It makes things feel a little gentler.”

And she’d laughed, then, nibbling at the bendy part of the straw with a grin like moonlight skipping over still water. A laugh that, even now, echoed somewhere in his chest like an afterthought he never quite let go.

So when he saw her now, sipping directly from the glass, without complaint, without hesitation — something curled within him, quietly and insistently. She hadn’t asked. She never would. She adapted so easily it almost hurt. He saw it in the way she tucked discomfort away like loose threads, how she made do with what was in front of her, never demanding more, never even flinching when something was missing.

Even now, surrounded by friends and the gentle cadence of conversation, she said nothing and merely smiled, her fingers cradling the glass as though it had always been enough. But he knew better. He knew her.

So, without a word, Charles rose from his chair, offering a murmured excuse that went largely unnoticed, something about needing the loo, said softly enough to drift into the night air. No one questioned it. He walked briskly through the open terrace doors and into the softly lit interior of the café, his eyes scanning behind the bar until he spotted them, a small glass jar of plastic straws, almost forgotten, nestled beside the napkins.

He reached for one, black, slim, bendable and turned it between his fingers once, thoughtfully. It wasn’t much. But it was something. And perhaps that was what mattered. When he returned to the table, no one looked up, still mid-conversation, caught in the gentle swell of evening mirth. She sat with her chin tilted slightly towards the sky, her eyes gleaming as she listened to one of the others recount something foolish and likely exaggerated. The curl of her hair framed her cheeks, touched by the honeyed light of dusk, and her drink, still half-full, rested at her elbow, untouched since that first sip.

He did not speak. He didn’t need to. With the same quiet deliberation with which one might place a cherished relic on an altar, Charles leaned forward and gently slipped the straw into her glass. It slid between ice cubes with a soft clink, the citrus bobbing in its wake, and then he eased back into his seat with the poise of someone for whom this was entirely ordinary. She looked down and then, slowly, up.

Her smile, when it came, was not performative. It was not polite or surprising or reflexive. It bloomed. Her eyes crinkled into crescents, luminous with unspoken gratitude, and for a heartbeat, she simply stared at him as if committing the moment to memory, as though something in her had softened. The kind of smile that made everything else, the noise, the laughter, the summer breeze, fall away, leaving only the space between them, tender and charged with something wordless.

Her fingers curled instinctively around the straw, lifting it to her lips with a soft sip, and immediately, she began to nibble at the edge in that old, familiar way, the way that told him, without a single syllable, I’m at ease now. You saw me.

He offered a light shrug in return, feigning indifference, his expression unreadable save for the smallest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Forgot you’re intolerable without a straw,” he murmured, his voice so dry it might’ve passed for teasing, were it not for the warmth flickering behind his gaze.

She let out a breath of laughter, low and fond, her shoulders lifting slightly in a gesture that betrayed her embarrassment and her joy all at once. “Shut up,” she whispered, not looking away, her eyes still tethered to him as though the rest of the world had blurred into the periphery. And in that moment, in the simplicity of a plastic straw offered without fanfare, Charles knew what most never would: that love, when it is quiet, when it is observant and enduring, often speaks not in grand gestures, but in these infinitesimal acts of memory. Of knowing. Of seeing someone as they are, and responding without request.

He hoped she understood what he could not yet voice, that he remembered every little thing about her, not out of obligation, but out of reverence. That he noticed when something wasn’t right, even if she would never say so. That her comfort mattered more than conversation, more than appearances, more than anything else that moment had to offer.

That this, this one small straw, was not just about a drink. It was about her. Always her.

And she smiled, with that gentle, grateful radiance he knew he’d carry with him far longer than anything else the evening had to give.

The terrace had emptied gradually, chairs scraped back, goodbyes exchanged with the lingering warmth of familiarity. One by one, their friends had peeled away into the night, swallowed by car doors and street corners and the inevitable pull of Monday morning. But Charles, as always, had remained.

They walked in silence now, side by side, their footsteps soft against the pavement slick with the sheen of evening humidity. The city breathed around them — not loud, not intrusive, but alive. Distant music drifted from an open window above a bakery, the faint scent of pastry still clinging to the air. Her arms were folded lightly across her chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her sleeve, while Charles walked with his hands in his pockets, his gait unhurried, deliberate.

They weren’t speaking, and yet nothing felt unsaid. Her thoughts, however, had not left the café. More precisely, they had not left the straw. It had been such a small thing. Insignificant to the world. But to her, it was everything. Because he had noticed. He remembered.

She hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t looked at him in any particular way. Hadn’t sighed or hinted or pouted or reached for something she knew wasn’t there. She had simply adapted, taken the glass as it was handed to her and drank without pause. And yet, within minutes of arriving, he had noticed the absence of a thin piece of plastic. And went out of his way to make it right.

And it wasn’t just about the straw. It was never just about the straw.

It was about how much of her he still carried quietly with him. The subtle things, the gentlest of preferences, things she herself sometimes forgot to mention aloud, but which he held onto as though they were sacred. She hadn’t spoken about her odd fondness for drinking through straws in months. And yet he remembered. Not because she reminded him. But because he wanted to.

The thought made something soft unfurl within her, something fragile and aching all at once. She glanced at him now, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft glow of a passing streetlight. There was a faint line between his brows, not from worry, but from thought. As though his mind was elsewhere, tracing the shape of some silent burden he never spoke of. His jaw was faintly tensed, the vein in his temple visible when he turned his head. And yet, when he looked at her, when their eyes met for the briefest beat, there was something quiet there. Gentle. Steady. The kind of softness that made her throat tighten with something unnameable.

“Charles,” she said, her voice a murmur in the hush of the evening, barely above the rustling of leaves in the wind. He looked over at her, one brow arching faintly. “Hmm?” She hesitated, not for lack of words, but because the feeling sat so deeply in her chest, she feared it might splinter if she let it out too carelessly. So instead, she offered a smile, quiet and full of meaning, her gaze resting on his face the way one might rest their fingers on something precious.

“Thank you. For the straw.” His brow furrowed, not out of confusion, but in that way he often did when receiving gratitude for something he considered too obvious to deserve it. His lips curved faintly, and he exhaled through his nose, amused. “Hardly worth a medal, is it?”

But she stopped walking. He turned back to her, and in the pause between footfalls, something shifted. Her eyes were glassy with a sheen of emotion she didn’t quite trust herself to name. “It is,” she said, her voice firmer now, though it trembled at the edges. “You remembered. And I didn’t even ask. I didn’t hint. I didn’t even think of it myself until you brought it to me. But you remembered.”

Her hand rose, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she looked down, smiling faintly to herself before meeting his gaze again. “That’s the thing about you. You remember the little things, the soft things. The things no one else thinks to keep.” Charles was still, and in the golden light spilling from a nearby window, she saw it, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his lips parted just slightly, as though he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure he could.

She stepped a little closer. “You always say you’re not good with words. That you’re not the sentimental one. But you are,” she said softly, the words tumbling out now, fragile but insistent. “You don’t make a show of it, but you see me. Even when I think I’m fading into the background, you still see me. And you do these quiet, thoughtful things that no one ever asks for. That I never ask for. But you do them anyway.”

She laughed, self-conscious, shaking her head. “It was just a straw, right? But it felt like... I don’t know. Like you reached into a part of my heart I didn’t even realise was waiting to be touched.” Charles blinked, and for a moment, all the usual retorts seemed to fail him. He looked down, exhaling slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of his palm, a gesture she recognised, the way he often steadied himself when emotion crept too close to the surface.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “I notice you,” he said. “Even when you think I don’t. I always have.” And with that, they fell into step once more, the silence between them no longer hollow, but full, thick with feeling, steeped in the quiet knowledge that sometimes, love does not arrive with trumpets or declarations.

Sometimes, it’s a straw in a glass. Sometimes, it’s a man who remembers how you like to drink, even when you forget to ask. And sometimes, that’s how you know. You are loved.

— II.

Breakfasts with Charles were never grand affairs. Not the way one might imagine in the fantasy of hotel mornings, no ostentatious silver platters beneath cloche lids, no chilled flutes of mimosa or extravagant towers of French patisserie. No, theirs were quieter rituals. Softer. Built not of spectacle, but of knowing, the sort that could only be cultivated over time and tenderness.

The hotel buffet, as ever, offered the usual suspects: lukewarm eggs in wide metal pans, wilted greens, triangle slices of pale toast barely brushed with butter, and a cruel abundance of strawberry-flavoured atrocities masquerading as yoghurts, jams, and jellies.

She had always loathed that particular brand of cloying sweetness, that artificial tang of strawberry-flavoured nonsense that seemed to follow her everywhere. It wasn’t the fruit itself, no, she rather liked that, the way the seeds crackled faintly between her teeth and the juices stained her fingertips. But the manufactured version, bright pink and plastic-tasting, reminded her of childhood medicine and cheap lollipops left too long in the sun.

And yet, even before she reached the table, before the first sip of coffee passed her lips or the sleepy fog had lifted from her thoughts — Charles always knew. He was already seated when she arrived that morning, a page of Le Monde folded neatly beside his plate, his cutlery arranged with the sort of casual precision she’d come to associate with him. His hair was damp, fresh from the shower, and he wore that vaguely rumpled Oxford shirt he never quite bothered to button all the way. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with a faint tan, and there was a small ink smudge on his thumb, always, somehow, there was ink.

As she slid into the seat opposite him, the plate already waiting for her told her everything. He’d done it again. Her toast sat unassumingly on its plate, two slices stacked slightly askew, but without a trace of tomato. Not even a smear of pulp or a rogue seed to betray its absence. They were gone, of course, spirited away onto his plate, nestled beside his eggs. She could see them now, glistening under the morning light, sliced thinly and stacked in that way he did, not for presentation, but for ease.

She didn’t even have to look at him. She knew. He had eaten them for her. Not out of obligation, not because she asked, but simply because he remembered.

She picked up her fork, her gaze flicking to the small fruit bowl beside her napkin, and there, too, was the quiet curation of his affection. No strawberry yoghurt. No pink-tinted jam. Only the fresh strawberries remained, halved neatly, their bright red flesh exposed, untouched. Just the way she liked.

And just beside it, on a tiny plate he’d nudged to her side without ceremony, was his croissant, golden and still warm, along with half a hard-boiled egg and a small wedge of brie he’d quietly abandoned from his own tray. His own breakfast, modest and picked apart, as though it had been negotiated and reassembled with her preferences in mind, not his.

“You know,” she said after a long silence, her voice still a little hoarse from sleep, “you always eat the tomatoes off my toast.” Charles didn’t look up from his coffee. He gave a faint shrug, as if this fact was hardly worth remarking on. “They’re better on mine.” She smiled. “You don’t even like them that much.”

He finally glanced at her then, his eyes soft but unreadable, the ghost of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I don’t dislike them either.” A beat passed, quiet but full. “And the yoghurts?” she asked, nodding at the abandoned strawberry pot still on the serving tray behind him, untouched. “Didn’t fancy those this morning either?”

Charles lifted his coffee cup, the steam curling around his knuckles, and took a slow sip. “They taste like regret and sugar-free chewing gum,” he said dryly. “Wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all you.” She let out a laugh, the kind that escaped before she could smooth it down, unexpectedly genuine. “But you used to eat them.”

“I used to do a lot of things,” he replied, setting the cup down with care, his voice dropping just slightly. “Then I realised how much you hated them.” There was something unspoken in the air between them then. Something that wasn’t quite said, but pressed in from the edges like morning mist creeping across a windowpane.

It wasn’t just about the tomatoes. Or the yoghurt. Or the reshuffled breakfast plates. It was about noticing. It was about care. It was about the way he saw her, not only in the big declarations, but in the minutiae most others missed. The way she peeled her fruit but left the seeds. The way she pushed the tomatoes to the side without fanfare. The way her nose crinkled at artificial scents, her disdain for strawberry-flavoured things nearly as strong as her fondness for the real fruit itself.

And Charles — reticent, observant Charles, had made it his quiet mission to preserve her comfort without ever calling attention to it. “You remember everything,” she murmured, almost to herself. Charles didn’t smile. He didn’t offer any easy reply. Instead, he simply met her gaze across the narrow table, his eyes steady and impossibly gentle. “No,” he said, after a moment. “Just the things that matter.”

She looked down then, cheeks warm, her fork idly cutting into the yolk of the egg he’d given her. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full, thick with memory and unspoken affection, like a well-worn book whose pages still smelled faintly of ink and the past.

In that moment, she realised, as she chewed the toast that no longer bore the sting of tomato, drank the coffee he always sweetened to her taste, and watched him quietly refill her glass without a word — that love didn’t always need to shout. It didn’t have to be grand or performative.

Sometimes, it was breakfast. Sometimes, it was the tomatoes he ate so she didn’t have to, the yoghurts he left untouched, the fruit bowls he edited in silence. And sometimes, that was more than enough.

— III.

The paddock was a cacophony of movement and sound — a restless tapestry of camera shutters, overlapping voices, glinting flashes, and the low thrum of engines idling in the distance. Reporters swarmed like bees, each vying for a slice of attention, microphone cords tangled at their feet and press passes flapping in the breeze like fragile flags of entitlement. It was an environment of barely restrained chaos — all gloss and noise and performance.

And she hated it. Not the sport, nor the spectacle, but this part. The part that demanded visibility. The part that left little room for silence. She stood just to the side of Charles, her figure half-shielded by his taller frame, a step behind but tethered to him by presence alone. She didn’t speak, she rarely did when cameras were involved, but her smile, soft and hesitant, held steady for the sake of politeness. She was good at that: presenting a composed exterior, even when her nerves fluttered like moths beneath her skin.

Yet her hands betrayed her. They always did. When there was nothing to hold, nothing to occupy the anxious energy that simmered beneath the surface of her stillness, her fingers defaulted to the familiar ritual of picking at her nails. The edges of her thumbnails were already raw from the morning, tiny crescents of skin peeled back in quiet punishment, and now her index finger circled the corner of her nail with obsessive precision, over and over and over again.

Charles was speaking — something about race strategy and track conditions — his voice low and measured, the cadence effortless, as if the words came from muscle memory alone. But even as he faced the journalist and nodded thoughtfully at their questions, his eyes flicked sideways. Just once. Just enough. He saw her hands. Of course he did. He always saw.

Without a break in conversation, without so much as a change in his tone, he reached down and unhooked the silver bracelet from his wrist, the one she had once described absentmindedly as fidget-worthy during a quiet moment in the back of a hotel shuttle, when she’d spun it between her fingers for an entire hour without realising.

He slipped it from beneath the cuff of his fireproof undershirt, fingers deft despite the constraints of the suit, and turned slightly, subtly, towards her. His voice didn’t falter. His words continued to flow into the press microphone, eloquent and precise, as if he weren’t doing something else entirely with his hands. Then, low enough for her ears only, he murmured, “Here. Play with this instead.”

His voice was a balm — even, warm, without judgement. As though this, too, was simply part of the routine. As natural as breathing. She glanced up at him, startled at first by the bracelet being pressed gently into her palm, the cool metal coiling like a snake across her skin. Her fingers closed around it instinctively, grateful beyond words, and her lips parted, as if to protest, or perhaps to thank him but no sound emerged.

There was only the look he gave her then, fleeting, almost imperceptible, but anchored in a softness that undid her. And so she stayed quiet, as she always did. Smiled politely at the camera. Let the storm pass around her. But this time, her fingers twisted the bracelet between them instead of worrying the edge of her cuticles to blood.

Later, someone would post the clip online, a zoomed-in snippet from the live interview, barely ten seconds long. You could see her, half-hidden behind him, shifting her weight from foot to foot. You could see her hand start to rise towards her mouth before being gently intercepted by his. You could see the bracelet passed between them like a secret. And then, as clear as sunlight, the way her shoulders lowered, her thumb idly tracing the ridged pattern of the chain links, the storm in her spine slowly dissolving.

And Charles? He didn’t look at her again. He simply went on answering questions about tyre degradation and sector times as if he hadn’t just pulled her out of the spiral and placed her firmly back into the world. It was never loud, the way he cared.

Never performative, never dramatic. But always, always present. In gestures small enough to be missed by anyone who wasn’t paying attention. In the accessories he wore, not for style or sponsorship, but for her. In the way he carried her needs like second nature, quietly, without ceremony, without needing to be thanked.

She stood beside him, her fingers wrapped gently around the bracelet that now warmed in her palm from the heat of her own skin, a talisman, a lifeline, a reminder that someone saw her even when she didn’t speak. And for the rest of the interview, while the cameras flashed and the journalists jostled and Charles slipped easily from one polished reply to the next, she didn’t touch her fingernails once.

— IV.

The room was steeped in that peculiar kind of silence that only arrives in the early hours, not emptiness, but a hush thick enough to hear the passing of time itself. Moonlight poured like melted pewter through the gauzy curtains, brushing silver over the bed linens, over the slope of the duvet where Charles lay half-curled on his side, one arm instinctively reaching out, seeking warmth where hers should’ve been. Only to find air.

His hand met the cool, undisturbed hollow of her pillow, the sheets untouched. No warmth lingered. No trace of her sleep-heavy breath or the weight of her limbs tucked close. His brow furrowed in the dark, a slight crease between his brows as he blinked himself more fully awake. There was no sound, no movement, only that unsettling stillness which made the absence of her even louder.

He sat up, the mattress creaking softly beneath his weight. His bare feet found the floorboards with a muted sigh, and he reached for the dressing gown slung across the armchair. The air was cooler than expected as he padded quietly through the hallway, passing the soft spill of lamplight under the kitchen door.

There, in the quiet glow of the refrigerator’s faint light and the soft amber cast of the counter lamp, she stood in silence. Her frame, small and pale in one of his old T-shirts, was silhouetted against the darkened kitchen like a figure carved from sleep and shadow. She was cradling a glass of water between both hands, fingers wrapped tightly around it as if drawing heat, though the liquid was cold.

Her gaze was far-off, fixed somewhere beyond the windowpane above the sink, where nothing stirred but the occasional drifting wisp of cloud. He leaned against the doorframe, his voice barely a whisper. “Couldn’t sleep again?” She turned, almost guiltily, her expression softening at the sight of him. Her smile was faint, apologetic, though he needed no apology, he’d long known her sleepless habits, her restlessness once the world went quiet and the thoughts grew loud.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse with fatigue, the barest crack threading her words. Charles crossed the room in a few quiet strides. He didn’t speak again until he reached her, until he’d taken the glass from her hands with a tenderness that made her breath catch. He placed it gently on the counter, then reached for her wrist, fingers warm and sure as they circled it.

“Come back to bed,” he said, not a suggestion, but a quiet, unwavering promise. “I’ll read to you.” She blinked up at him, her expression half amused, half disbelieving. “A bedtime story?” He offered a lopsided smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened his usually composed features into something achingly fond. “If it helps, I’ll even do the voices.”

She huffed a breath of laughter, barely a sound, really, but it melted the frost clinging to her bones, enough for her to nod, allowing him to lead her back down the hall with one arm loosely around her shoulders, his thumb brushing absent circles against the curve of her arm.

Back in the dim sanctuary of their bedroom, he tucked her in first — carefully, like something sacred — smoothing the duvet over her legs, brushing a stray wisp of hair away from her temple before retreating momentarily to the bookshelf tucked into the alcove across the room.

When he returned, he held a small, well-thumbed book in his hand. The cover was faded, the corners worn soft by time and use, one of those children’s storybooks she had once confessed brought her comfort, the kind with more whimsy than structure, tales about forest creatures in waistcoats and teacups that could talk.

He settled beside her with the ease of familiarity, one arm behind her head, the other holding the book open against his thigh. She turned towards him, head resting on his chest, and he began to read, softly, deliberately, with a cadence shaped not for theatrics, but for soothing. His voice, though deeper than the tales demanded, wrapped around each sentence with a kind of reverence, unhurried, as though willing each word to guide her gently out of her wakefulness.

“And so the hedgehog, with his scarf trailing behind him like the tail of a comet, tiptoed into the clearing where the moon had woven silver through the grass…” She didn’t respond, but her breathing slowed, gradually, like a tide beginning to recede. Her fingers, which had been nervously twisting the edge of the duvet, stilled, then curled into the fabric of his shirt. He continued reading even as her eyelids fluttered shut, even as her body grew heavier against him, her tension dissolving into the warmth of his presence.

By the time he turned the page, she was asleep, her expression soft now, no longer pinched by exhaustion, the crease between her brows smoothed as though sleep had finally offered her something close to peace.

Charles didn’t stop reading. Not immediately. He read on for a few more pages, his voice a low hum against the quiet, not for her benefit now, but simply to fill the silence with something gentle, something kind.

Eventually, he placed the book down on the bedside table and turned the lamp off with a gentle click. The darkness folded around them once more, but this time, it was not empty. He gathered her closer in his arms, pressing a kiss to her crown, and whispered into the space between them, “Sleep well, amore.”

She didn’t stir. But he stayed awake a while longer, just to listen to the rhythm of her breath, and to marvel at how something as simple as a storybook could coax sleep from the jaws of her insomnia, not because of the words themselves, but because it was him reading them.

Because sometimes, love was not in grand declarations, but in the quiet conviction of a man who would sit in the stillness of 3 in the morning, reading stories aloud just to help her find peace even when he lacked the sleep from his race schedule.

— V.

There were, perhaps, a hundred louder things one could observe in the paddock on a race weekend — the purr and growl of machinery fine-tuned to the edge of performance, the subtle orchestra of radios crackling commands, the thrum of soles against tarmac, and the easy camaraderie threaded through half-spoken jokes and short bursts of laughter.

Yet, amidst it all, Charles sat cross-legged on a bench just outside of hospitality, the sunshine glazing the shoulders of his black hoodie, his head bowed in quiet concentration over a humble collection of brightly coloured sweets.

Scattered across the small table in front of him lay three opened packets of Skittles, their glossy little forms glinting in the sunlight like enamelled jewels. He was sorting through them with a precision that bordered on the methodical, fingertips deftly flicking away the reds, oranges, yellows and greens, setting aside the coveted purples into a separate paper cup with all the seriousness of a jeweller sifting for amethysts.

To the untrained eye, it might have looked absurd — a Formula One driver, whose fingers gripped a steering wheel at 300 km/h with surgical control, now carefully hunched over sugar-coated confections like he was performing some sacred ritual. But there was something ineffably tender in the way he did it. Something unspoken and warm.

The interruption came, inevitably, in the form of laughter. “Mate, what the hell are you doing?” Max’s voice was bright with amusement as he strolled past, his cap pulled low over his brow, eyes crinkled in curiosity.

Charles didn’t even look up, merely plucked another red Skittle and dropped it unceremoniously into the discard pile. “Sorting them,” he said simply, his tone nonchalant. “She likes the purple ones.”

There was a pause. Then, the echo of laughter again — not mocking, but affectionate — as Max was joined by Carlos and Lewis, the three of them forming an impromptu audience for the quiet absurdity.

“That’s commitment,” Carlos grinned, nudging Max with his elbow. “You’re mad, you know that?” Lewis arched a brow, arms folded, a teasing glint in his gaze. “She said that, like, once?”

Charles finally glanced up then, his expression unbothered, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of his mouth. “She mentioned it once, yes,” he replied, brushing a few more Skittles into the growing collection of purples. “But to be loved is to be seen, non?”

The words weren’t said with fanfare or boast. They were simply there, quiet and sincere, spoken in that lilting Monegasque accent of his, and yet they landed like poetry. The kind of sentence that hung in the air long after the speaker had gone back to sorting sweets.

The trio exchanged glances, that same fond amusement flickering in their expressions, before they moved on down the paddock, chuckling to themselves. But Charles remained, undisturbed, content with the small but purposeful task before him. The sun had risen higher by the time she arrived.

There was always something quieter about her presence — not shy, necessarily, but composed, inward. She moved like someone who didn’t need to fill every silence, whose stillness spoke volumes where words might fall short. Dressed in a simple sundress and trainers, her accreditation swinging gently from her lanyard, she smiled as she approached him, her eyes lifting slightly in surprise at the small paper cup he held out in her direction.

“What’s this?” she asked, her fingers brushing his as she took it from him. “Purple Skittles,” he said, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other with an easy air. “You said you liked them, that they’re your favourites.” Her lips parted, not quite in speech, more in that tender astonishment of being remembered. Really remembered.

Not in the grand gestures, not in declarations painted across sky banners or diamond-studded gifts, but in this, in purple sweets sorted by hand on a sunlit morning, because she had once mentioned, offhandedly, that she liked them best. She looked down at the cup in her hands, the colours all the same, her favourites, and then back up at him, her gaze warm, slightly glassy, as though her heart had swelled so quietly it pressed against the edges of her chest.

“You really remembered.” He shrugged, feigning indifference, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth, gentle and unmistakably proud. “Of course I did.” There it was again, that unshakeable sense of being seen. Of being watched with care, of her passing remarks held like rare treasures in the corners of his mind. She sank onto the bench beside him, her shoulder brushing his, and offered him one of the purple Skittles in turn.

“You’re getting soft,” she teased lightly. “No,” he murmured, bumping her knee with his. “Just attentive.” And for a moment, as the bustle of the paddock carried on around them, the clatter of trolleys, the murmurs of engineers, the flash of cameras, they sat in their little orbit of stillness. Just two people, elbows brushing, sharing sugar sweets beneath a springtime sun.

Because to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be remembered in the quietest, smallest ways — even in the sorting of purple Skittles at half past ten in the paddock.

— VI.

There was nothing particularly offensive about spring onions. To most, they were innocuous, the sort of garnish sprinkled with habitual flourish by chefs who sought only to add colour, not controversy, to their plates. A final dusting of green, delicate and insistent, perched atop steaming bowls and glistening noodles like the feather in a cap, largely decorative and often overlooked.

But not by her. She never made a fuss. Not the kind to push her preferences loudly into the centre of a room or send plates back with disdain. Instead, her disapproval was always quiet, a subtle wrinkle of her nose, a pause just long enough before the first bite.

And then, with a kind of resigned patience, she would begin the delicate process of removing them herself, picking at the chopped spring onions with the tip of a spoon or the corner of a serviette, collecting the flecks of green into a tiny pile at the edge of her plate as though they were unwelcome thoughts she was trying to quietly set aside.

Charles had noticed, of course. Not at once, not with any grand revelation, but with the sort of slow-burning attentiveness that came from watching someone you loved simply exist.

He had seen the way she did it every time, never complaining, always careful not to appear troublesome, and something about that unspoken discomfort had stirred something in him. A quiet sort of ache, almost imperceptible, nestled beneath his ribs.

It happened first in Shanghai, in the modest, low-lit restaurant tucked behind the circuit, the kind of place frequented by locals and drivers alike, with steam fogging the windows and the scent of sesame and broth heavy in the air.

She had ordered a simple bowl of rice porridge, and he had watched as she began the routine once again, that tiny, precise extraction of spring onions from the silky surface.

He reached across the table without a word. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, fingers already reaching for her spoon. She blinked, a little startled, as he gently angled the bowl toward himself.

He worked deftly, silently — spooning the offending garnish out with the focus of someone performing a task far weightier than it appeared. It was almost comical, how seriously he took it, how meticulously he gathered every green sliver and flicked it onto a side plate as though defusing a bomb.

When he returned the dish to her, his expression was matter-of-fact. “There. All clear.” She gave him a look — soft, amused, a little disbelieving. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” The way he said it, without bravado, without ceremony, made her chest pull painfully tight. There was something infinitely more romantic in that than in flowers or fireworks. This quiet removal of what she disliked. This small, wordless protection of her comfort.

And so it became a ritual, unspoken but unmissable. In every city, every continent, whether in posh post-race dinners with crystal glassware or street-side cafés with mismatched crockery, he would check her plate first. His eyes would scan for the telltale greens, and if they were there, he would intercept her dish with a casual, “Wait, let me get rid of those for you.”

Sometimes, he would do it even before the server had fully retreated, already lifting his fork to sweep aside the spring onions before she had a chance to touch her napkin. No one else paid much mind to it, perhaps dismissing it as habit or fussiness, but for her, each gesture felt like a quiet sonnet sung beneath breath.

Once, she had asked, her voice hushed beneath the noise of clinking cutlery and background music, “You remember every time. Why?” Charles had glanced up from her plate, his eyes meeting hers with that same unassuming warmth that always made her feel like her heart was caught between its beats.

“Because you don’t like them,” he said simply, as though it required no further explanation. And perhaps it didn’t.

To be loved, truly loved, was not always in the grand gestures. It was not in serenades or showy declarations. It was in the gentle hand that remembered what you quietly endured, and removed it before you had to ask. It was in the bowl of porridge, stripped of its garnish. In the way he handed it back with a soft smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to safeguard someone’s comfort, one tiny green sliver at a time.

Because, after all, to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be known, not in the loudness of who we are, but in the quietest corners of what we avoid.

— I.

Charles had always been the quiet type. The kind of person who blended into the background without much effort, his presence in the room more like a shadow than a force. His cold, nonchalant demeanour kept most people at arm's length. He never spoke more than necessary, never engaged in the idle chatter that seemed to dominate the classroom before the teacher arrived. He was distant, detached, and entirely unreadable — yet there was something beneath that frosty exterior, a subtle warmth, like a fire hidden beneath a layer of ice.

No one really paid much attention to him, except for the girls who admired him from afar. He had a sort of natural appeal, with his sharp features and air of disinterest. But he never seemed to care, shrugging off the attention as easily as he shrugged off everything else. She thought he was just another aloof, handsome boy with nothing more to offer than a pretty face.

But what no one else knew — what she herself wouldn’t have suspected — was that Charles cared more than he let on. It was in the small, nearly imperceptible gestures he made. The way he would glance her way when he thought no one was looking. The way his cold eyes would soften, just a fraction, when she passed by. He had grown used to her presence, though they were in different classes, separated by the walls of the school, by desks and timetables. Yet, every day, his gaze would unconsciously drift towards the window, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of her in the classroom opposite his.

That was why he had changed seats. It wasn’t an easy task, especially since the seat he wanted was by the window, highly coveted by the students who enjoyed daydreaming during lessons. His classmate who currently occupied it had refused at first, until Charles, with his usual indifferent expression, pulled out a notebook and mentioned, almost too casually, that he could get him Kimi Raikkonen’s autograph.

“You can get me Kimi Raikkonen’s signature?” his classmate had asked, eyes wide with disbelief. Charles had merely nodded. He didn’t brag about his connections; it was beneath him. But for this, he was willing to play the card.

The deal was struck. Charles traded his own seat for the one by the window, a fact that quickly spread through the school. The rumour mill worked fast, and soon enough, people speculated that he’d done it to sit closer to Léa, the gorgeous girl who always seemed to be surrounded by admirers. She sat just two rows away, close enough that Charles could, in theory, exchange casual glances or whispered conversations with her during class.

That was, at least, what she thought when she heard about the seat change. She hadn’t paid much attention to Charles before — he was too quiet, too removed from the kind of people she usually spent time with. But when her friend mentioned his sudden change of seats, she couldn’t help but wonder if the rumours were true. It seemed so typical of boys like him, drawn to the prettiest girl in the class. Not that she blamed him — Léa was undeniably beautiful.

She didn’t expect to be dragged into the mystery herself. Not until the day he stopped her in the corridor, his expression as neutral as ever, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite place. “You’re coming with me,” he said simply, his voice low but firm. “What?” She frowned, confused by his sudden approach. “Where?”

“Just follow me.” He didn’t wait for her to argue, already walking ahead, his long strides forcing her to catch up. She followed, her curiosity piqued despite herself. Charles led her through the school, down the hallways she knew so well, until they reached his classroom. The lesson had ended just moments before, and most of his classmates were still lingering, gathering their things. “Here,” he said, stopping in front of his desk — the one by the window. He motioned for her to sit down. She glanced at him suspiciously, then at the desk. “Why am I sitting here?”

“Just sit.” Reluctantly, she lowered herself into the chair, still unsure of his intentions. The classroom buzzed softly with the sounds of students talking, but Charles remained focused on her, his gaze unwavering. 

He gestured towards the window, and she followed his gaze, looking outside. It took a moment, but then she saw it — her own seat in her classroom, visible directly through the window. Her eyes widened as realisation dawned. “You... you can see my desk from here.” He nodded, his expression still unreadable. “That’s the point.”

“You changed seats... just so you could... look out the window and see my desk?” She felt a strange mix of confusion and something else, something warmer, though she couldn’t quite name it. He shrugged, his lips quirking up ever so slightly at the corners. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a good seat.”

She scoffed, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Right. And I suppose the view of Léa is just an added bonus?” Charles gave her a look, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to say she was being ridiculous. “I couldn’t care less about Léa.”

“Really?” she teased, leaning back in the chair, folding her arms. “Because that’s what everyone thinks. I mean, why else would you bargain for this seat?” He didn’t answer at first, instead, he looked out the window, his gaze distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “It’s not for her.”

There was a long pause as his words sank in. She glanced out the window again, her mind racing, trying to piece together the meaning behind his actions. Charles wasn’t one to express his feelings, that much was clear. But the fact that he’d gone out of his way — made a deal with someone, even used Kimi Raikkonen’s name — just to sit here, just to be able to see her... it said more than words ever could.

She turned back to him, her teasing smile replaced by something softer. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be, are you?” His gaze flicked back to hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of vulnerability in those dark eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by his usual mask of indifference. He smirked, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Don’t get used to it.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible, Charles.”

“And yet, here we are.” He raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly against the edge of the desk. Her smile grew, and she found herself looking at him in a new light. There was more to him than she’d ever realised — more than anyone realised. He might have been cold and distant to the world, but in small, unexpected ways, he showed that he cared.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence, “are you going to let me keep this seat, or do you want it back?” He looked at her for a moment, then out the window again. “You can have it. I’ve already seen what I needed to. So, will you stop ignoring me now?” She laughed again, a soft, genuine sound that seemed to catch him off guard. He watched her, his usual cool façade cracking just slightly, revealing something warmer beneath.

— II.

The moment Charles had heard that she was unwell, something in him shifted, though outwardly, his expression remained as neutral as ever. He had always prided himself on his self-control, on not being ruled by impulses or emotions. But this — this was different. There was an unspoken urgency in the way he grabbed his coat, barely remembering to lock his door before he left the house. In the quiet hum of the late afternoon, he made his way over to hers, his steps quick and purposeful.

He arrived at her front door, a bag of medicine in hand, and his usual calm, collected self barely masked the concern that churned underneath. When she opened the door, her face pale and her eyes heavy with the weight of sickness, he felt something tighten in his chest. Her usual spark was dimmed, and he hated seeing her like that — vulnerable and weary. But instead of showing any of this, Charles slipped into his familiar aloof demeanour, the one that gave away nothing.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice hoarse but laced with curiosity. “I was passing by and remembered I had some extra medicine,” he replied, shrugging nonchalantly, holding up the bag. “Thought you might need it.” She raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe for support. “Right, you just happened to have extra medicine on you?” He gave a slight smirk, his lips barely curving upward. “What can I say? I’m a man of preparedness.”

“Sure, Charles Leclerc, always so practical. You’re telling me you carry around medicine for no reason?” she said, a teasing glint in her tired eyes, though her tone was soft. “I do,” he replied smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He made his way to the kitchen as though he’d done it a hundred times before, placing the bag on the counter. “The last time I was at the pharmacy, I bought extra. You know, just in case.”

As he busied himself unpacking the medicine, she leaned against the doorway, watching him with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. It was strange seeing him like this — so at ease in her space, acting as if taking care of her was second nature. “Charles, you’re a terrible liar,” she finally said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re telling me you just happened to have exactly what I need?” He glanced at her briefly, eyes cool and unreadable, before pulling out a bottle of cough syrup and setting it down. “Coincidence.”

“Mmm-hmm, and what about the receipt?” She stepped closer, her tiredness not dulling her wit. “Receipt?” His brows furrowed ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm. She picked up the crumpled piece of paper that had fallen out of the bag, her eyes scanning it quickly. “It says here you bought all this... today.”

Charles froze for a brief moment, his eyes flicking to the receipt in her hand. He mentally cursed himself for being so careless, but instead of admitting to his obvious concern, he rolled his eyes with feigned exasperation. “Fine, you caught me,” he said, his tone dry. “I’m guilty of being considerate. Sue me.”

A small smile tugged at her lips as she shook her head. “Why didn’t you just say so?” He shrugged, leaning against the counter, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Because then you’d make a big deal out of it, and we both know you’d never let me hear the end of it.” Her smile grew, though it was tempered by the weariness in her body. “You really think I’d make a big deal out of you caring?”

“You? Absolutely.” His voice was teasing, though there was a softness behind his words. She laughed lightly, though it quickly dissolved into a cough, and Charles’s expression tightened with concern, though he masked it quickly. He pushed himself off the counter, crossing the space between them in a few long strides. Gently, he took her arm and guided her towards the living room.

“Come on, you should be resting, not standing here making fun of me.” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Someone has to keep you humble,” she muttered, letting him lead her to the sofa, where she sank into the cushions with a sigh. He handed her a glass of water, watching her drink with a careful eye.

“And you do a terrible job at it,” he quipped, settling himself in the armchair across from her. “I’m as arrogant as ever.” She smiled weakly, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before reopening. “You’re not as cold as you think you are, Charles.” He looked at her for a long moment, his face unreadable, as if weighing her words. “I’m not cold. I just don’t waste time pretending to care about things that don’t matter.”

“But I matter, don’t I?” she asked, her voice soft but playful, pushing him just enough to see if he’d bite. Charles exhaled through his nose, glancing away for a brief second before meeting her gaze again. “You already know the answer to that.” Her smile widened just a little, and she leaned back into the cushions, her body relaxing as she finally allowed herself to rest. “You’re terrible at hiding it, you know.”

“Hiding what?” he asked, though there was no real challenge in his voice. “Caring. You act all cool and detached, but when it comes to the people you actually care about, you’re different.” Her eyes flickered to the medicine on the counter. “Like rushing over here with medicine the second you hear I’m sick.”

“Like I said, coincidence,” he deadpanned, though there was a faint warmth in his eyes. She rolled her eyes, a tired but amused look crossing her face. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Charles.”

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence between them, the kind that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill every space with words. Charles watched her as her breathing steadied, as the weariness in her frame seemed to ease slightly. He didn’t move from his spot, didn’t leave her side, though he could have easily brushed this whole thing off and gone home.

Instead, he stayed. Because despite his insistence that he didn’t care, that he was merely being practical, there was something deeper there — something that he could never quite admit, not even to himself. He might have been cold and nonchalant to the rest of the world, but with her, he was different. Even if he would never say it out loud.

“You’re staying, right?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes already half-closed. Charles looked at her, his gaze softening just slightly. “I’m not going anywhere.” And with that, she smiled once more, a small, contented smile that lingered on her lips as she drifted off to sleep, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts and the quiet realisation that he cared far more than he ever let on.

— III.

It was one of those sunny days where the excitement in the air was almost palpable, with an entire inter-class group from their highschool planning an outing to the amusement park. It was a mix of mutual friends between the two of them, some from her class, others from his, all eager to make the most of the day. The park was alive with the sound of laughter and the constant hum of rides whirring into motion. The scent of freshly spun candy floss and buttery popcorn drifted through the air as they wandered around, hopping from ride to ride.

Everything had been going smoothly until they reached the infamous roller coaster, a towering structure of sharp loops and steep drops that sent a shiver down her spine just by looking at it. The group gathered at the base, all eyes drawn upward to the intimidating metal tracks twisting in the sky above them. “Right, who’s in for this one?” someone from the group called out, already bouncing on their feet with anticipation.

Her stomach lurched at the sight, and she immediately stepped back, her hand gripping the strap of her bag. There was no way she was getting on that thing. Heights, sudden drops, and twists? Not her idea of fun. “I think I’ll, um… sit this one out,” she said, her voice barely audible over the buzz of the group.

Her declaration caused a ripple through the crowd. With her out, they now had an odd number of people. Several heads turned towards Charles, who had been standing a few steps behind her, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. “I’m not going either,” Charles suddenly spoke up, his voice steady but nonchalant.  The group turned to look at him in surprise. Charles, the guy who rarely backed down from anything, refusing a ride?

“Wait, what? You’re skipping the roller coaster too?” one of their mutual friends asked, confusion clear on his face. “You love this adrenaline stuff!” Charles gave a half-hearted shrug, his expression as indifferent as ever. “Yeah, well, doctor’s orders,” he replied lazily, eyes glancing upward toward the coaster as if it held no real interest for him. “Doctor’s orders?” She shot him a sceptical glance, folding her arms over her chest. “What are you on about?”

He didn’t look at her, instead keeping his gaze on the roller coaster in the distance. “Yeah, something about my equilibrium. Can’t do steep drops. Inner ear issue,” he said, the lie slipping off his tongue with the smoothness of a well-rehearsed excuse.

Their mutual friends exchanged incredulous looks, some rolling their eyes, already seeing through his flimsy excuse. “Really? Inner ear? Since when?” Charles didn’t flinch, only smirking slightly. “I don’t make the rules.” Her eyes narrowed, scrutinising him. She knew Charles well enough to know when he was bluffing. “So… you’re scared of the roller coaster?” she teased, raising an eyebrow at him.

He turned his gaze to her then, his smirk widening slightly. “What do you think?” His tone was laced with sarcasm, the challenge clear in his eyes. “I think you’re only saying that because I’m not going,” she shot back, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You’re trying to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

Charles rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I just didn’t want you sitting out here alone,” he said, his tone light but carrying a weight she wasn’t expecting. She raised an eyebrow, though amusement danced in her eyes. “How noble of you.”

The group began to filter into the roller coaster queue, their friends throwing playful jabs at Charles for his sudden ‘inner ear problem’ before disappearing into the line. Now, with just the two of them left standing by the entrance, she turned fully to face him, still smirking. “Seriously though,” she said after a pause, “you didn’t have to stay behind. You could’ve gone on with them.”

“I know,” he replied easily, not bothering to elaborate further. He kept his gaze ahead, seemingly indifferent to the ride and the group that was now filing away. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “When I’m not scared anymore, you’ll go on the roller coaster with me, right?”

Charles looked down at her then, his expression softening ever so slightly. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll ride it with you,” he said, his voice steady but genuine. “And what if I never get over it?” she asked with a playful challenge in her voice, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

Without hesitation, Charles replied, “Then I’ll never ride it either.” She blinked, taken aback by how easily he said it. For a moment, the usual banter between them faded, replaced by something quieter, something heavier. His words, though casual, held an unspoken promise. She felt a warmth spread through her chest but shook her head, smiling as she broke the tension.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, though the affection in her voice was hard to miss. He smirked, leaning slightly closer. “I’ve been called worse.” They stood there together, watching the roller coaster cars rattle along the tracks, the distant screams of their friends echoing in the background. She glanced up at him again, her earlier scepticism replaced by something softer, though she tried to mask it.

“Next time, maybe I'll surprise you and actually get on,” she mused, giving him a playful nudge. Charles looked down at her, a quiet smile playing on his lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” They spent the rest of the day together, watching from the sidelines as their friends braved the rides. And while she didn’t muster the courage for the roller coaster that day, the fact that Charles stayed behind with her — even with the worst excuse ever — was enough.

— IV.

The rain had started without warning, a sudden cascade from the grey sky that sent students scattering beneath doorways and trees, scrambling for cover. She, of course, hadn’t thought to bring her umbrella — she never did. With a resigned sigh, she tugged her school bag from her shoulder and lifted it over her head, preparing to dash through the downpour towards the bus stop. The idea of arriving home soaked wasn’t ideal, but at this point, it seemed inevitable.

Just as she took her first step into the rain, a voice called out behind her. “Hey! Are you seriously going to run through that?” She turned, her eyes narrowing against the droplets as Charles approached, completely at ease beneath the wide black umbrella in his hand. He didn’t seem in any particular hurry, strolling towards her with his usual composed stride. His face was impassive, as always, though there was the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What choice do I have?” she replied, her tone slightly defensive as she gestured to the pouring rain. “I don’t have an umbrella.” He raised an eyebrow, as if her lack of preparation was no surprise to him. “Clearly.” She rolled her eyes, about to turn away and continue her ill-fated sprint when he spoke again.

“Here,” he said, extending his free hand. She blinked, her gaze dropping to the transparent umbrella he held out to her. “You can use this one.” Her first instinct was to sigh with relief at the prospect of staying dry, but as she took the umbrella, something about it caught her eye. The familiar outline of a car, sleek and red, was painted onto the plastic surface, a near-perfect rendition of her favourite Ferrari. She frowned, her fingers brushing the artwork. “Where did you get this?”

“Found it,” he replied smoothly, his face a mask of indifference. “Someone must’ve left it behind.” She glanced up at him, suspicion flickering in her eyes. “Found it?” Charles nodded, his expression as calm and collected as ever. “Yeah, just lying around. Lucky, huh?” She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips twitching upward in disbelief. “It just so happens that someone left an umbrella with this exact painting on it? You expect me to believe that?”

His gaze didn’t waver, though she noticed the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Why not? Stranger things have happened.” She couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her mouth. “Right, and it also just so happens that this is my favourite car, perfectly painted on this umbrella?”

“Coincidence,” he replied, deadpan. “Maybe the owner had good taste.” She laughed then, shaking her head at his stubborn insistence. “You painted this, didn’t you?” His expression didn’t change, though there was a slight twitch of his lips as he shrugged. “Like I said, I found it.”

She looked down at the umbrella again, running her fingers over the brushstrokes. Despite the rain pelting down around them, a warmth bloomed in her chest at the realisation of what he had done. He had painted this — for her — yet he wouldn’t admit it, wouldn’t take the credit.

She shook her head again, her smile widening as she glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re really bad at lying.” Charles raised an eyebrow, his tone still cool and even. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please,” she teased, stepping closer to him so she could peer into his eyes more closely. “You think I don’t know your handwriting by now? That’s your signature brushstroke on the headlights.” He remained resolute, though she noticed the faintest flush of pink creeping up his neck. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mmm, sure,” she hummed, spinning the umbrella around in her hands. “And I suppose if I were to ask Arthur about this later, he wouldn’t mention anything about you spending all afternoon painting it?” Charles finally cracked a grin, though he quickly masked it by looking away. “You really think Arthur pays attention to anything I do?”

She laughed again, her heart swelling with affection at his poorly hidden care. The rain continued to fall around them, but with the umbrella in her hand, she felt completely shielded, not just from the weather but from any of life’s unpredictable moments. That’s what Charles was like — stoic and nonchalant on the outside, but always ready to protect her in subtle ways.

“Well, thank you for finding this,” she said, her voice softening as she twirled the umbrella overhead. The painting glistened under the rain, every detail visible, every stroke done with a care that only someone who truly paid attention to her would know. “Like I said,” Charles replied, his tone still casual but his eyes warmer than before, “it’s just a coincidence.”

She chuckled again, shaking her head as they began walking towards the bus stop, her newly acquired umbrella held proudly above her head. They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of rain tapping gently against the plastic surface. “So,” she said after a beat, casting him a sideways glance. “Are you going to paint all my future umbrellas too?” He shrugged, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “Depends. Are you going to keep forgetting to bring one?”

“Probably,” she admitted with a grin. “Then I guess I’ll have to,” he murmured, and though his voice was quiet, she could hear the smile in it. They continued walking, the rain falling steadily around them, but beneath her umbrella, the world felt warm, safe.

Charles’ quiet acts of care always managed to wrap around her in unexpected ways, and though he’d never admit to it, she knew the truth behind his gestures. And as they neared the bus stop, she couldn’t help but smile to herself, knowing that he’d always be there to offer her an umbrella — whether he ‘found’ it or not.

— V.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and quiet worry. Charles hadn’t even taken a moment to catch his breath as he sprinted through the long corridors, his trainers squeaking on the polished linoleum floor. The message from his parents had been cryptic at best, void of any real details — just that she had been rushed to hospital after an injury. His heart had been hammering in his chest since he’d received the news, and as he approached her room, his panic only grew. His cheeks were flushed, the cold sweat from his rushed journey still clinging to his skin, and his hair stuck messily to his forehead. 

He burst into the room, chest heaving, eyes wide and already glossy with unshed tears. His gaze immediately fell on her, propped up in bed with a slight smile tugging at her lips as she watched him stumble in, looking every bit as though the world had just collapsed on him. “Charles, what—” she began, but he cut her off, his voice choking with emotion as he stood at the foot of her bed.

“Don’t mind it, just a little cry...” His words came out in a strangled breath, a pitiful sound as his eyes darted across her body, searching for any sign of trauma. “They didn’t tell me what happened... I thought— I thought you—”

“Woah, woah,” she interrupted, raising an eyebrow at his distraught state. “Why are you acting like I died?” She looked at him in amusement, sitting comfortably under the pristine white hospital sheets, clearly not in as dire a state as he had imagined. But he couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that poured out of him, his words tripping over each other as he tried to explain. 

“The hospital— they didn’t clarify,” he stammered, his breath catching as he wiped furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand. “They just said you were here, and I— I ran—” His words dissolved into hiccups, his chest heaving with the effort of trying to calm down. He sank heavily into the chair beside her bed, his shoulders slumping in relief now that he could see she was, at the very least, alive and not in any critical danger. His hand reached up to wipe his cheeks again, trying to steady himself, but the tears kept slipping through his fingers.

She giggled softly, watching him with a mixture of fondness and amusement. Leaning forward, she wiped a stray tear from his cheek with the pad of her thumb, her touch gentle and warm. “Stop laughing, you bully,” he muttered, his voice thick with embarrassment as he avoided her gaze. His eyes were still red-rimmed, his breathing uneven from the emotional onslaught. 

“I’m not,” she insisted, though the giggles continued to bubble up in her throat. She shook her head, her grin widening. “You’re just really cute when you’re worried.” He shot her a half-hearted glare, still wiping away the evidence of his tears. “It’s not funny.” She chuckled again before settling back against the pillows, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at the injury she was about to explain. “It’s just a ligament rupture, Charles. Nothing life-threatening. I was on a run, twisted my ankle the wrong way. That’s all.”

He blinked at her, trying to process the words, nodding absently as his hiccups continued to break up his breathing. “Ligament rupture?” She nodded, lifting her leg slightly to show him the bulky brace that now encased her knee. “Yeah, I’ll be fine in a few weeks. They’ve just got me in here for observation.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, and he took a long, shuddering breath, though his chest still hitched with residual hiccups. He turned his gaze to her leg, his expression softening now that he knew the injury wasn’t nearly as severe as his mind had conjured. “I thought it was something worse,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, twisting together as he continued to avoid her gaze. “I didn’t know what to think. I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t know what to do if it was—”

His voice trailed off, and for a moment, the weight of his fear hung between them, unspoken but palpable. She reached out and took his hand in hers, her fingers curling around his in a comforting gesture. “I’m fine, Charles. You don’t have to worry about me like that.” He swallowed, his gaze finally meeting hers. “I can’t help it.” She smiled, squeezing his hand gently. “Well, now you know. I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a small, shaky breath, his hiccups finally subsiding as he allowed himself to relax. She was right here, and she was okay. That was all that mattered. But as he sat there, still processing the flood of emotions that had overwhelmed him, he realised just how much she meant to him — how the mere thought of losing her had unravelled him so completely.

“Still,” she teased, her voice lightening the mood once more. “I can’t believe you ran all the way here crying like that.” He huffed, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. “I wasn’t crying that much.”

“Oh, you were, your hair’s all stuck to your head, and your face is as red as a tomato.” She said with a mischievous grin. “Stop it,” he groaned, covering his face with his hand in embarrassment. “You’re making it worse.” She giggled again, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in a soothing motion. “I’m just saying, it’s kinda sweet. You care that much.” He peeked at her from between his fingers, his voice soft as he admitted, “Of course I do.”

There was a moment of quiet, a gentle understanding that passed between them. His hand still rested in hers, their fingers intertwined in a way that felt natural, like it had always been that way. “Thanks for coming,” she said after a beat, her voice quieter now, a note of sincerity threading through her usual teasing tone.

“Always,” he replied, his eyes finally softening, though his cheeks still held a faint blush. He gave her hand a squeeze, feeling the weight of his worry lift now that she was here, with him, safe.

— I.

The faintest whisper of dawn crept through the thin curtains, casting threads of pale gold across the modest kitchen. The air still held the warmth of a life that had only just passed through it; the soft hum of the kettle cooling, the faint aroma of toast and something sweet lingering in the quiet.

On the small wooden table, beside a steaming mug and a neatly arranged plate, lay a folded note. The paper was creased with affectionate deliberation, its edges slightly curled from the warmth of the room. A packet of chocolate milk, her favourite brand, stood neatly beside the breakfast he had prepared with careful precision.

In a hurried but graceful scrawl, the note read:“Made a bit extra this morning. Please don’t let it go to waste. And, of course, your chocolate milk. Wouldn’t do to start the day without it. Have a good one, yeah?”

The handwriting leaned slightly forward, as though propelled by the momentum of his ever-busy mornings.

She found it, as she always did, just as the light began to spill across the counter like liquid honey. The flat was still, his shoes gone from beside the door, his coat missing from its hook. Only traces of him remained: the faint echo of movement, the warmth of habit, the gentle ghost of care lingering in every detail.

She unfolded the note slowly, her lips curving into a smile so soft it might have dissolved in the sunlight. The scent of butter and browned bread enveloped her, and for a brief moment she imagined Charles there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair still damp from a too-early shower, humming something tuneless under his breath as he worked over the pan.

Her fingers brushed the chocolate milk. It was cool to the touch, as though it had been placed there with exacting thoughtfulness. That simple, ordinary gesture felt impossibly tender.

“You are impossible,” she murmured, her voice breaking the morning’s stillness like a drop falling into calm water.

Yet there was no irritation in her tone. It was coloured with reluctant fondness, the sort that grows quietly between people who never intended to mean so much to one another.

She sat at the table, the chair creaking softly beneath her, and took a bite of the still-warm toast. The taste was simple but perfect, golden and comforting, infused with the quiet intention of care.

The chocolate milk, sweet and familiar, washed over her like a memory of childhood. Each sip felt like an unspoken thank-you, a silent exchange of warmth that passed between them even in absence.

Outside, the morning stirred. Bicycles clattered down cobblestone paths, and laughter drifted faintly from students on their way to early lectures. The world continued, yet in that small kitchen time seemed to hesitate, suspended between routine and tenderness.

There was something profoundly moving in his quiet consistency. He never announced his kindness or made a spectacle of it. Instead, he left these modest proofs of regard behind each morning, as though affection were best expressed in the ordinary acts of living. She often told herself that they were simply roommates, merely university mates sharing space and circumstance, but the warmth spreading through her chest whispered something altogether different.

She folded the note again, tracing the edges with her thumb before tucking it into a small tin on the counter, where all his other notes rested. She kept them not out of necessity, but for reasons gentler and less easily named.

When she finally rose to begin her day, she paused beside the table, her eyes lingering on the empty chair he had vacated hours before. The sunlight had grown stronger now, bathing the room in a soft, forgiving glow.

“Thank you,” she whispered, though there was no one there to hear it.

Still, somehow, it felt as though he would.

— II.

The evenings always carried a peculiar kind of stillness within their small shared flat, as though the walls themselves had learned to listen. By the time she returned from her part-time job, the clock would often be edging towards ten, sometimes later, and the world outside would already have folded itself into darkness. The city’s hum softened into the distant rhythm of passing cars and the occasional echo of laughter drifting through the narrow streets.

Each night, without fail, she would open the door to find Charles there, always waiting in some unassuming way. Sometimes he would be seated on the worn sofa, the dim lamplight pooling over him as he typed quietly on his laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration. At other times he would be half-watching some late programme on television, a half-eaten packet of crisps at his side, the soft flicker of the screen painting his face in shifting tones of silver and blue. And on certain evenings, she would find him entirely still, sitting with his head tilted slightly, his gaze distant, as though his mind were wandering through corridors of thought far beyond the walls of their little home.

He would always look up when she entered. A small smile would appear, brief but warm enough to undo the weight of her day.

“You are back,” he would say softly, the words carrying a quiet relief rather than simple acknowledgment.

The sound of his voice always made the room feel less empty, and her weariness would seem, if only for a moment, less consuming.

She would place her bag by the door, loosen her scarf, and reply with a tired but content smile. “You are still awake.”

He would shrug lightly, his tone casual though his eyes betrayed something gentler. “Could not really sleep yet. Thought I might as well wait up.”

The warmth of his presence filled the small space, wrapping itself around her like a well-worn blanket. There was comfort in his predictability, in the certainty that she would never return to an empty room.

On nights when her shifts ended even later, when exhaustion blurred her thoughts and the streets were quiet save for the hum of the streetlights, she would find Charles outside the café where she worked. He would be leaning against the lamppost, hands in his pockets, the faint golden light falling across his face, softening the sharpness of his features.

The first time she saw him waiting, she had frowned in surprise, her breath visible in the cold night air. “What are you doing here? It is freezing.”

He glanced at her then, his expression calm, his voice untroubled. “Just thought I would walk home with you.”

There had been no grand explanation, no trace of embarrassment, just quiet sincerity.

She had laughed, shaking her head, the sound of it breaking the silence between them like glass touched by sunlight. “You did not have to. It is late, you should be resting.”

He had merely lifted one shoulder in that familiar, unbothered manner. “I would feel better walking home with you.”

The simplicity of the statement had left her momentarily speechless. Beneath its plainness lay something profound, something that reached beyond the ordinary rhythm of their days. The words had clung to her long after they began their walk, side by side, their footsteps falling in quiet synchrony upon the damp pavement.

The night wrapped around them like velvet, and though neither spoke much, their silence felt companionable rather than empty. The soft thrum of the city seemed distant here, replaced by the rhythmic tapping of their steps and the occasional brush of their sleeves as the wind nudged them closer.

When they reached their flat, he would always wait until she had unlocked the door before stepping inside. It had become a quiet ritual between them, one neither had named yet both performed with unspoken understanding.

She would glance at him then, the lamplight behind them catching in his hair, and say softly, “Thank you for waiting.”

He would look at her with a small smile that never quite reached his eyes but carried warmth all the same. “It is nothing.”

But she knew it was not nothing. It was everything. It was care distilled into the simplest of gestures, affection hidden beneath the guise of casual companionship.

Later, when he returned to his place on the sofa and she disappeared into her room, the quiet between them would settle once more, tender and fragile, like dust floating in golden light. And though they spoke little of such things, both understood that in a world full of noise and transience, this small, steady kindness was something rare.

For her, it became the quietest kind of comfort. For him, it was a habit he could not bring himself to break.

And so the nights continued, each one carrying the same rhythm, the same unspoken promise, the same soft thread of connection weaving itself silently between them.

— III.

There was a gentle predictability to his attentiveness, one that revealed itself in the smallest, most unassuming gestures. Whenever he went out with his friends for lunch or dinner, he would always, without fail, send her a message first. It had become something of a ritual between them, though neither had ever spoken of it aloud.

His messages always arrived at the same time, brief and unembellished yet inexplicably tender in their intent.

“Have you eaten?” The question appeared on her phone screen like a quiet murmur in the middle of her day.

More often than not, she would stare at it for a few moments, her lips curling into a faint smile tinged with guilt. The truth was that she rarely had. Meals for her were an afterthought, swallowed between work, lectures, and the thousand little demands of student life.

She would type a half-hearted reply. “Not yet. Will do it soon.” The response was always the same.

“Do not skip it. Out with my friends, I will bring something back for you later.” She could almost hear Charles’ voice through the words, calm and matter-of-fact, with that slight firmness that disguised concern as casualness.

He never needed to ask whether she wanted anything. He already knew she would protest, insisting that he need not trouble himself. And yet, without fail, he would return later that evening, his hands carrying a paper bag that smelled faintly of warmth and spice, the edges darkened where the oil had seeped through.

When he stepped through the door, the familiar scent would precede him, filling the small flat with a kind of homely reassurance. He would set the bag down on the kitchen counter with the ease of someone performing a long-practised ritual.

“Picked up something for you,” he would say, his tone light, as though it were a mere afterthought.

She would glance up from her seat at the table, where her books lay open but neglected, and shake her head softly. “You didn’t have to.”

Charles would smile faintly at that, his eyes warm with quiet amusement. “You would not have eaten otherwise.” There was no accusation in his voice, only simple truth wrapped in fondness.

She would roll her eyes in mock protest but her heart would tighten, stirred by the gentle insistence behind his words. When she lifted the lid of the container, the aroma would rise to meet her like a soft embrace: the fragrance of herbs, the faint tang of lemon, the warmth of freshly cooked food that tasted not merely of sustenance, but of thoughtfulness itself.

As she ate, he would sink into the sofa, occasionally glancing her way as he scrolled through his phone or absently flicked through television channels. The silence between them would be comfortable, shaped by the quiet understanding of two people who had long since learned to read each other without words.

Sometimes, when she finished, she would look towards him and say softly, “Thank you. For remembering.”

He would lift his eyes to hers, his expression unreadable for a moment, then offer that small, understated smile of his. “Someone has to.”

The words were light, yet they carried a weight she could feel long after the moment had passed.

Later, when he had retreated to his room and the flat had settled into its usual stillness, she would find herself staring at the empty container on the table. It was a simple thing, disposable and ordinary, yet it held the echo of something far more significant. It spoke of a kind of care too subtle to name, a tenderness expressed not through grand gestures but through the gentle repetition of small, consistent acts.

In the hush of the late evening, she would imagine him earlier, surrounded by his friends, laughter echoing around the table, and still thinking to ask whether she had eaten. There was something quietly beautiful about that, something that stirred her heart in ways she did not fully understand.

It was love in its most unspoken form, clothed in simplicity, disguised as habit, and woven delicately into the rhythm of their days.

— IV.

Night was her companion. It clung to her like a second skin, wrapping itself around the small study corner of her room where the pale glow of her laptop flickered against the walls. The rest of the flat slept while she remained curled up on her chair, one leg tucked beneath her, surrounded by open books and the faint hum of exhaustion. The soft crackle of an energy drink can punctuated the silence now and then, the sound sharp and lonely in the stillness.

He often teased her about her nocturnal habits, though never unkindly.

“No wonder you look like a zombie every morning,” Charles would remark, leaning against her doorframe on his way to bed, his voice touched with humour and something fainter, gentler, that he never quite allowed to surface.

She would glance up from her screen, her hair falling into her eyes, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Some of us actually study, you know.”

His answering grin would soften the words that followed. “And some of us value sleep, which is why we do not resemble the undead before breakfast.”

She would laugh quietly, shaking her head, her gaze returning to the endless stream of words and notes before her. The laughter would fade into silence, and soon his footsteps would retreat down the hallway, the flat resuming its midnight calm.

Yet it never truly ended there. Around half past eleven, when the night deepened and her concentration began to fray, a soft knock would sound against her door. It was never loud, only a gentle tap, hesitant yet familiar.

Moments later, the door would open just enough for a slender hand to slide through, carrying a steaming cup. The scent of warm milk would drift into the room, mingling with the faint bitterness of energy drinks and the dusty smell of paper.

“You should take a break,” his voice would murmur from the other side, quieter now, stripped of its earlier teasing.

She would glance at the cup on her desk, its warmth curling through the cool air, and call softly, “Thank you.”

His reply would always come in that same understated tone, light and dismissive, as though the gesture meant nothing at all. “Could not sleep. Needed to use the milk before it expired.”

The door would close again, and she would be left alone with the faint steam rising from the cup and the lingering echo of his voice.

She knew, of course, that it was not about the milk. He was terrible at lying, at least to her. Yet she never called him on it. Instead, she would cradle the cup between her palms, letting its warmth seep into her skin, and take a slow sip. The taste was simple and comforting, the kind of warmth that seemed to reach not only her throat but something far quieter within her.

Outside her room, his footsteps would fade back towards his own, and the flat would fall still once more. Yet in the silent hours that followed, while she returned to her notes, she always sensed that he remained awake for a while longer.

What she did not know was that he always lingered in the hallway, pretending to tidy something or scroll through his phone, waiting until he heard the faint clink of her cup against the desk. Only then would he allow himself to relax, knowing she had stopped for at least a few minutes.

Sometimes, when the light beneath her door still glowed far past midnight, he would glance at it quietly from his room. There was a particular tenderness in that small, unwavering beam of light, a fragile persistence that both exasperated and endeared him. He would wait, every night, until it dimmed or flickered out, before letting himself fall asleep.

To her, it was only a cup of milk left at her door. To Charles, it was a ritual of reassurance, a silent promise that she was not entirely alone in her sleepless hours.

And though neither of them ever spoke of it, each found comfort in the knowledge that the other was there, awake in the quiet depths of the night, their lives intertwined in the gentlest, most unspoken ways.

— V.

Saturday afternoons were often reserved for errands, though neither of them would have admitted it aloud. The streets were busy with the hum of weekend life: the low murmur of conversation, the steady rattle of shopping trolleys over uneven pavements, the warm scent of bread and roasted coffee wafting from nearby cafés. They walked side by side, their steps naturally in sync, their conversation light and meandering.

By the time they reached the corner shop, her basket was already brimming. He had offered once, briefly, to help, but she had brushed him off with that quick, stubborn smile of hers.

“I can carry them myself,” she said, her tone firm, the defiance in her voice softened by amusement.

Charles gave a small, resigned nod, though his eyes lingered on the bags she was gathering. “Suit yourself,” he replied, his voice coloured with that familiar teasing cadence that often hid concern beneath its surface.

Outside, the afternoon sun hung low, pouring a mellow light across the pavement. She adjusted the handles of the bags in her hands, their weight uneven, the plastic cutting faintly into her fingers. He walked a few steps ahead, his hands tucked into his pockets, pretending not to notice her quiet struggle.

She tried to match his pace, determined not to ask for help, though the rhythm of her breathing grew slightly uneven. The bags swayed awkwardly against her legs, brushing the hem of her coat, and for a moment she stumbled, her foot catching on the edge of the pavement.

He turned at once.

The sigh that left him was long and theatrical, the kind that carried both exasperation and fond amusement.

“You are hopeless,” he muttered, striding back towards her and plucking the heavier bags from her hands before she could protest.

She frowned, her lips curving into an exaggerated pout. “I had it under control.”

Charles glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable, before shifting the bags effortlessly onto his arm. “Of course you did,” he said dryly, his tone rich with irony.

She rolled her eyes, the faintest glimmer of laughter escaping her composure. The sight of him, walking ahead now with all the bags hanging from his arms, stirred something warm within her chest. There was an ease in his movements, a quiet strength that spoke not of showy gallantry but of habit, of someone who always did what needed to be done without fanfare.

As they continued down the narrow street, the late sunlight filtered through the overhanging trees, dappling the pavement in shifting gold. The bags rustled softly with each step, the sound merging with the rhythmic scuff of his shoes. He continued to grumble beneath his breath, an unending string of mild complaints about how she never listened, how she always took on too much, how she would one day sprain her wrist trying to prove a point.

His words, however, were stripped of any real annoyance. They came instead with a quiet protectiveness, the kind that expressed itself through teasing rather than tenderness.

She followed a few steps behind, watching the faint movement of his shoulders as he walked. The sight of him carrying everything, despite his mock complaints, made her lips curve into a small, unguarded smile. There was something disarmingly gentle about it, the way he carried her burdens without asking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

When they reached their building, he stopped by the door, his breathing only slightly uneven, the corners of his mouth tilted in a half-smile.

“Next time,” he said, glancing at her, “you can carry them, and I will complain instead.” She laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You would not last two minutes.” He tilted his head as though in mock contemplation. “Probably not. But I would still complain better.”

Their laughter filled the narrow stairwell as they climbed, echoing faintly off the walls. And though his words remained teasing, his hand never once faltered beneath the weight of the bags.

When they reached the flat and he set everything down on the kitchen counter, she looked at him quietly, her smile softer now. He wiped his hands against his jeans, muttering something under his breath about stubborn people and unnecessary groceries.

She wanted to say thank you, but somehow the words felt too small for what she meant. Instead, she began unpacking beside him, the comfortable silence between them saying everything that language could not.

And as the late afternoon light spilled through the window, bathing the kitchen in a gentle gold, the two of them moved together in that easy, wordless rhythm they always seemed to find — her smile lingering, his quiet care disguised once again as complaint.

Lando sat at his usual spot in the library, the steady hum of muted conversation floating through the air as he lazily twirled his pen, his textbook sprawled open before him. He scribbled half-hearted notes on the margins, his mind far from the equations in front of him. Across from him, she sat with an air of quiet determination, eyes focused, every gesture deliberate as she effortlessly worked through the problem set. There was a certain grace in the way she moved, her concentration almost tangible, and he couldn’t resist the urge to break the silence.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, her voice low but tinged with amusement, though her eyes remained fixed on her work. The scratch of her pen was soft, almost rhythmic, as if even her distraction couldn’t break her focus.

He leaned back, a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Just wondering how many hours you'll spend on that before you realise I’m still ahead of you in class.” Her gaze flicked upward then, sharp and challenging, a subtle gleam in her eyes. “In your dreams, Norris. I’m just letting you think you’re ahead, so you don’t feel too bad when I crush you in finals.”

Lando’s smirk deepened, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand. “Is that right? Because, if I remember correctly, I outscored you on the last mock exam.”

“By half a point,” she retorted smoothly, the gleam of competition still in her eyes, though a soft smile tugged at her lips. “And I was sleep-deprived.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, his voice laced with teasing. “Always an excuse with you.”

She arched an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as if conceding, though her expression told him otherwise. “Not an excuse — just facts. You should get used to it, because next time, you won’t even come close.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, but beneath the playful façade, there was something else. He enjoyed these moments far more than he’d ever admit — the way they pushed each other, a constant dance between rivalry and something more tender, something unspoken. The tension between them hummed with an energy that was undeniable, though he’d convinced himself it was merely competition. Yet, no one else made him feel quite like she did.

And after every other gruelling lecture, she would pull him along on yet another one of her spontaneous convenience store runs. He trailed a step behind her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression one of mock reluctance.

“Do you really need something this time, or are you just dragging me out for the fun of it?” Lando’s voice was laced with faux exasperation, though his gaze softened as it lingered on her.

She glanced back at him over her shoulder, a knowing grin lighting up her face. “I like the company. Besides, I know you don’t mind.” His lips quirked into a smile he tried to hide. “I definitely mind,” he muttered, though his tone held no real conviction, and they both knew it.

“Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that,” she teased, her laughter ringing out softly as she reached for a snack on the shelf, tossing it into the basket. Her movements were effortless, as if these small, mundane moments were enough to make her day brighter. “You should be grateful I’m keeping you out of trouble. What would you even do without me?”

Lando leaned against the shelf, watching her with a smirk. “Probably live a quiet life. Go home, play video games in peace. Not have to deal with your very demanding schedule.” She laughed, a light sound that danced in the air between them. Nudging him with her shoulder, she shook her head. “Come on, you love it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he replied, though the way his eyes lingered on her told a different story.

Later, on a night he would’ve sworn he’d never be caught in — under the dim lights of a club, with music vibrating through the walls — Lando found himself in his least favourite environment. The bass thrummed through the floor, and the crowd pulsed around him, but she was there, pulling him onto the dance floor with that irresistible smile.

“You really don’t dance, do you?” she teased, her voice barely audible over the music as she tugged him closer, her touch light but insistent. “I told you, I’m not a fan of this whole scene,” he muttered, his feet shuffling awkwardly, though his gaze never left her.

“And yet, here you are. For me,” she said, her smile widening as their bodies moved in sync, her laughter soft and sweet against the chaos of the music. He shook his head, feigning exasperation. “Only because you begged.”

“Begged?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she spun around, catching his gaze again. “Please, Norris, I didn’t beg. I knew you’d come.”

“And why’s that?” He has an eyebrow cocked up, smirk on his lips with his arms crossed. “Because you can’t say no to me.” Her voice was light, teasing, but the truth in her words hung between them, undeniable. He sighed, his hand slipping to rest on her waist, pulling her closer. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I know,” she replied, her voice dropping just slightly, her eyes locking onto his. “And you secretly love it.” Lando chuckled softly, though there was no denying the way his heart stuttered in his chest at her touch. “Yeah, okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

But even as he said it, there was something deeper. He didn’t want to admit how much she got under his skin, how much she’d already wrapped him around her finger. She was his academic rival, the one who always challenged him, pushed him — but she was also the only one who made him feel like this, the only one who could shift his world so effortlessly.

And yet, there were nights when his world felt like it was tipping too far. His workload piled up, deadlines looming, and he found himself cancelling their study plans more often than not. But one evening, after cancelling yet another one, he showed up to her seminar unannounced, determined to make up for lost time.

She spotted him as soon as the seminar ended, her brows knitting together in confusion as she walked over to him. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you have, like, a ton of work?” He shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, but I figured I’d spend time with you anyway.”

Her stern expression softened into something more amused. “You don’t have to come to my classes to prove a point, you know,” her hand running through his dirty brown strands. “I know.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I just… missed you.”

The teasing look in her eyes faltered for a second, replaced by something more tender, something unspoken between them. “Well, I missed you too, you idiot. But don’t think this gets you out of cancelling our last three study dates.” He laughed, pulling her into a gentle hug. “Fair enough. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better,” she replied, her face pressed against his chest, and for the first time in days, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter. “Here’s the notes I collated from our recent classes.” He tosses her his notebook, decorated with sketches of different cars and though he never said it, sharing his notes with her was just a quiet way of showing her he cared. Because he had a soft spot for her.

But late at night, when the world fell quiet, Lando often found himself thinking of her, unable to sleep. She had become the constant in his life, the one who made him feel things he never thought possible. He didn’t want to fall in love — not really — but there she was, challenging everything he thought he knew. She didn’t ask for anything, but somehow, he found himself wanting to give her everything. 

And though he fought it, though he tried to convince himself that it was just rivalry, just competition — deep down, he knew. He was already hers.

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ynusername did you miss me, Viseu?

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itsnicolewallace I MISS YOU, regresa a mí!!! (come back to me)

evaruiz tan hermosa (so gorgeous)

maddisonarg love you

ynusername @maddisonarg love you too!!!

gabrieloxguevaraa eres tan bonitaaaaa (you’re so pretty)

ynusername @gabrielxoguevaraa halagándome guapo (flattering me, handsome)

ferrantorres 🔥

yn.officialupdates Drop dead gorgeous

hugofelix18 meu irmão sentiu sua falta (my brother missed you)

ynusername @hugofelix18 saia do aplicativo 🤦🏻‍♀️ (get off the app)

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ynusername THE LAST TIME ON SET!!! Super excited for this to go out on @netflixes soon, catch Through My Window coming up. Really really love this one, please look forward to it 🤍

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juliopfernandez por favor espera #ATravésDeTuMirada!!! (please look forward to Through My Window)

carlitosalcarazz Le conté a mi mamá sobre nosotros 😉 (I told my mum about us)

ynusername @carlitosalcarazz sin habla 🤦🏻‍♀️ (speechless)

siramartinezc Eres tan bonita te quiero tan mala (you’re so pretty I want you so bad)

hugofelix18 legal, vou dizer ao meu irmão para assistir (Nice, will tell my brother to watch it)

ynusername @hugofelix18 HUGOOOO, ir para a cama 😠 (go to bed)

joaofelix79 @hugofelix18 você está cheio de merda, o que você está fazendo e dizendo aqui? (You’re full of shit, what are you doing and saying here?)

gqportugal 🤩🤩🤩

gqspain ¡nuestra princesa! (Our princess)

IT COULD HAVE BEEN the lack of sleep catching up on him from yesterday but he swore he wasn’t seeing things. Amidst the sea of faces in the crowd, his gaze kept drifting to a familiar figure seated near the team’s bench where he stood nearby taking a quick gulp of water.

There she was, with her eyes the colour of earth kissed by spring rains, the hue that promises to stir life from dormant seeds, the nascent plants guided upward by the light before blossoming into the vibrant colours of a new season. Her hair was the brown of aged mahogany, rich and deep, yet with the subtle hues only time brings. Those strands that he was too familiar with, staring at the back of her head back in the days whilst she sat in front of him in classes.

She was a constant presence in his thoughts, a captivating enigma he couldn't shake off. Her laughter echoed in his mind when the lights dimmed in his bedroom, her smile a beacon of warmth that drew him in. But here, in the midst of the pulsating stadium, João couldn't believe his eyes. Was it truly her?

Throughout the match, João’s mind oscillated between the thrill of the game and the enigmatic presence of her. His concentration wavered, his thoughts drifting to moments shared and conversations unspoken. With each passing minute, the field seemed to blur, his focus slipping away like sand through his fingers.

But duty called and he pushed aside the distractions, channeling his energy into the game, his every touch eliciting roars of approval from the crowd for those seventy three minutes he played. He thanked his lucky stars and the coach for subbing him off early today, finding himself a seat within her distance. João’s neck awkwardly craned and turned just to catch a glimpse of her, her eyes everywhere but on him.

And when he catches her eyes before he could realise he was staring, his breathing becomes harder, the pensive look on him melting into a smile as soft as the morning light. His body squirms just a little as his muscles relax but he just threw a thumbs up her way, acting as if everything was fine. There was something about that gaze of her he’ll never find in another woman.

As the final whistle blew and Barcelona emerged victorious, João’s heart raced with adrenaline and triumph. But amidst the celebrations, a lingering doubt gnawed at him. Should he have approached her? But it was probably her lookalike, the last he checked her Instagram, she was still on set and busy. At the end of the day, he knew deep in every nook and crevice of his heart that it was probably her and he was just lying to himself, no mistakes on recognising the girl he secretly pinned after in highschool.

There would be other matches, other moments. For now, João embraced the euphoria of victory, knowing that somewhere amidst the chaos of the stadium, she lingered, a silent specter in the tapestry of his dreams. He made a mental note of checking her Instagram later tonight and stop his brother from commenting outrageous comments about himself.

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ynusername back in barcelona, i feel it 🤍

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judebellingham wrong place bruv, thought we talked about this before?

ynusername @judebellingham literally born in barcelona before i went to UK and befriend you whilst on shoot??? the ego, jude…

judebellingham @ynusername YOU’RE SOOO MEAN, did you just call me egoistic? Not gonna talk to you ever 😞

rolemod3lyn @ynusername Y’ALL ARE FRIENDS???

claaragalle no podría extrañarte más (couldn’t miss you more)

drewstarkey you visiting home but I don’t see you? (I’m supposed to be your home) 😠

ksi #drinkprime!

ynusername @ksi this is not the football team you sponsored mate????

ksi @ynusername ohhh i thought…

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ynusername off season for me but always cheering my number 1 and childhood team on with Laila! ps ksi this is the team you sponsor.

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ksi #DRINKPRIME

judebellingham how bout you come to madrid and visit your friend (me) too!

ynusername @judebellingham thought someone didn’t wanna talk to me 😒

judebellingham @ynusername we LITERALLY FACETIMED after my comment????

fcbarcelona Welcome Back Home ✨🏠

barca.4life SHE A CULER TOO???

davidrenzo she just got more perfect

forblaugrana One of our own, culer 💙❤️

ferrantorres Bienvenido de vuelta amiga, gracias por venir! (Welcome back home friend, thanks for coming by!)

ynusername @ferrantorres no hay problema chico tiburón 👉🦈 (no problem shark boy)

itsnicolewallace Dijiste que me llamarías cuando hayas vuelto a España, mentirosa (you said you'd call me when you're back in spain, liar)

ynusername @itsnicolewallace ¡Te iba a sorprender! (I was going to surprise you)

The last time he was playing in the stadium and on the pitch was when she was here. And she literally was here after her two recent posts on her social media platform accounts. And he was right, João would never recognise the wrong woman, not when he memorised every bit and parts of her before she left Viseu.

In the velvet night, the shining light of the stadium shone upon her, illuminating each and every feature of her. João legs unable to carry himself forward, entranced by her with his match jersey in one hand and a towel in the other. There she was looking right at him, dead in his eyes whilst a small grin plastered across her face.

“You’re staring at her like you love her.” Ferran nudges him by his shoulder, a small hint of banter evident in his voice. “She’s your friend though, isn’t she?” João questions, his once agape jaw now capable of finding words to speak, arms hanging around Ferran’s shoulders as they walk towards where she was.

“Yeah but we aren’t that close like you are with her.” Ferran shrugs nonchalantly, removing João’s arm around his shoulder before patting João on the back and pushing him towards her before running into the tunnel. “Good luck, I know you can do it.” He heard the whispers of Ferran before actually processing what happened.

“Long time no see and talk, great goal today Floki.” She rubbed his shoulders, calling him by his nickname she had for him in school. She was the whole entire point of naming his own dog Floki, just to have the simplest and smallest yet memorable thing of her by his side.

His palms turned sweaty at the moment, nibbling at the lower lip of his and he swore he could hear his heart palpitating against his chest, yearning to be freed from the tightness within him. “Thanks, it’s so good to see you after all these years. You still look gorgeous.”

Her eyes curved into crescents, his favourite thing about her. “Really, you think so?” Her fingers are linked together while she fiddles with them, swaying her body a little from side to side. “I don’t think so, I am sure. Anyways, what brings you here?”

“You, I heard you have been loaned to Barcelona for the season and I thought to just drop by some matches to watch you while cheering for the team.” She turns João around, pushing him to walk into the tunnel while she follows behind. He didn’t know how to reply, losing all capability of talking when he couldn’t find the right words without messing it up and showing his anxiousness.

“That’s good, I was hoping to catch you in Barcelona when I saw your Instagram post. I mean not that I follow up on it but nevermind, I’m not explaining myself clearly.” He waved his hand in the air, a sign for her to shrug the conversation and whatever he just said off.

“It’s okay I miss you too João, you can just admit it.”

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ynusername Floki & Laila’s papa and mama reunion

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judebellingham uh, Floki as in João Félix’s sausage dog? 🤔

ynusername @judebellingham RUDE! You’re calling Laila a sausage too? You’re calling her fat? BLOCKED.

judebellingham @ynusername YOU’RE PUTTING WORDS INTO MY MOUTH. SAUSAGE DOGS ARE CUTE IS WHAT I MEANT.

bornaswaglife OMG??? THE CROSSOVER

joaofelix79 Laila and Floki’s mama 🤍

ynusername @joaofelix79 you too papa!

ferrantorres 😆😆😆

livenolaughnolife TWO DACHSHUND OMGGG EVEN MATCHING DOGS

barcawag.planet This is literally so unexpected and cute

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joaofelix79 Laila’s mama but myself and Floki’s new mama now 😉

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pablogavi 👏👏

andr34daurent bros pulling 10s on and off pitches

marcguiu9 lindo hermano (nice one brother)

forblaugrana 10/10

ynusername my favourite dog papa 🤍

joaofelix79 @ynusername & my favourite mama

blaugranaplanet ustedes dos son muy lindos juntos, se complementan bien (you two are really cute together, complement each other well)

lamineyamal ¿Tienes dos perros salchicha, papá? (You got two sausage dogs papa?)

fcbarcelona Floki’s Star papa & Princess mama!

CHARLES WALKED INTO HIS apartment, expecting the familiar warmth of shared moments and the comforting presence of Y/n. Instead, he was met with an eerie silence that filled the void left by her absence. The emptiness of the apartment echoed the void in his heart, and he found himself grappling with the realisation of what he had lost.

As he sauntered through the hallway, memories flooded back — memories of moments he had ignored, conversations he had dismissed, and the love he had taken for granted. The apartment was a museum of their shared life, each corner holding remnants of the person he had unknowingly pushed away.

He walked into the living room, where her favourite duvet lay on the couch. The soft fabric seemed to whisper tales of countless nights they spent wrapped in each other's arms. He couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for the times he had turned away from her attempts at conversation, too preoccupied with the struggles of his racing career during the 2023 season.

The dining table held her favourite mug, a silent witness to the countless mornings they had shared quiet moments over a cup of coffee. The mug he had gotten her as a joke on Valentine’s day with Mrs. Leclerc imprinted on it. Now, it stood alone, a solitary reminder of the companion he had neglected. Neither was the only woman he wanted as his Mrs. Leclerc here, at the end of the day he too was lonely.

The kitchen counter displayed a jar of her favourite cookies, a sweet indulgence that used to bring smiles to their faces. The same kitchen where they had spent most of their time baking sweet treats on weekends he was free. Now, it only served as a bitter reminder of the sweetness he had let slip away.

In the bathroom, her toothbrush holder and all her other essentials stood as silent symbols of her routines. Charles realised how he had taken her presence for granted, never truly appreciating the small details that made up their shared life. The side of the bed she used to slip into was untouched, her absence palpable. The closet, once filled with her clothes, now stood empty, reflecting the hollowness he felt inside.

The air carried the lingering scent of her perfume, haunting him with memories of the times he had dismissed her attempts to communicate. He could almost hear her voice echoing in the quiet apartment, a ghost of conversations that remained unresolved. The moments she had begged for his attention, a quick conversation but he so casually dismissed with a wave of his hand. Regret weighed heavily on his shoulders as he replayed the moments he had chosen career struggles over connection.

Charles sank onto the couch, surrounded by the artifacts of a love that had slipped through his fingers. The realisation hit him like a tidal wave — she had been his pillar of support during the storm of his career challenges, and he had pushed her away when she needed him the most.

As the evening wore on, Charles found himself retracing his steps through the apartment, trying to mend the fractures he had caused. He picked up her favourite cup, as if holding onto it could bring her back. He gazed at the empty closet, haunted by the absence of her presence. The realisation of his mistakes carved a deep ache in his chest as his eyes fell upon the paper sitting loosely on the coffee table, her words haunting him.

Charles, in a world of men, I hope you know I’d still choose you but I never know if in a room of women, would you ever choose me? I know I said I was okay with taking things slow and without any titles but maybe things aren’t so okay anymore when you read this. I know you said you weren’t ready for a relationship and we stuck to that but I can’t keep up with the lie anymore when I would forever want more with you. Some people aren’t ready no matter how much time you give them but you can’t keep waiting for them, can’t keep choosing them when they don’t choose you. I can’t do that anymore, I can’t keep choosing you Charles. I was willing to settle for whatever you would give me because a fraction of you was better than nothing at all. There isn’t any point losing my mind over you when you don’t mind losing me at all. I think that maybe I would always let you come back, if you told me that you were ready and wanted me back, I’m not sure there’s anything that I wouldn’t drop for you. I always wanted it to be you. Call it what you want but I know I love you, it was love for me.

Her words would probably stick with him forever but he should have told her he was ready, told her he loved her when he had the chance. He mind losing her. Yet now he never knew where to find her, his eyes searching for her in every crowd but it was too late for all of that now isn’t it?