#cl 16

Lewis: “Don’t worry, I’ll check on her.”

Lewis: regrets this decision immediately.

He knocks. No answer. He tries again. Nothing. So, being the responsible mentor he thinks he is, he uses the spare key the team gave him.

And then—

“...Y/N, what the hell are you doing?!”

Cue Lewis standing in the doorway, watching his rookie teammate crouched like a gremlin, hair half‑bleached, dye dripping onto the hotel towels.

Y/N, with a streak of red across her forehead: “...self‑care?”

—

The Chaos Ensues

Lewis absolutely loses it in the most Lewis Hamilton way possible.

“You have media duties in twenty minutes.”

“You’re supposed to be talking about tire degradation, not looking like a strawberry explosion.”

“Do you have any idea what the sponsors are going to say if you show up like that?”

Y/N, still calmly painting her hair: “Well, technically the dye needs to sit for thirty more minutes so I literally can’t go.”

Lewis, clutching his forehead like he’s aged forty years: “Oh my god, I cannot do this with you.”

—

Rookie Logic™

Y/N: “Listen, the fans love a dramatic reveal. Imagine me walking into the paddock tomorrow with new hair. Boom. Instant PR win. Mercedes looks fresh. The sponsors will eat it up.”

Lewis: “This is not a TikTok transition, Y/N.”

Y/N: “Everything is a TikTok transition if you commit.”

Lewis: screams internally.

—

Group Chat Meltdown

Of course Lewis doesn’t just suffer in silence. No, no, he immediately snitches in the Drivers’ Group Chat™.

Lewis: Does anyone else’s teammate skip PR duties to dye their hair instead??

Lando: lmaooooooo send pics

George: wait which color

Charles: tell her to go pink next so we match 🩷

Oscar: respect. she has her priorities straight.

Max: rookie mistake. should’ve gone blonde. easier maintenance.

Lewis, in all caps: THIS IS NOT FUNNY.

—

The Great Dye Debate

Lewis is still pacing the bathroom like an angry dad.

Lewis: “What if the dye drips on the team polo? Do you even know how expensive those are? Do you even care?”

Y/N: “I’ll embroider a Mercedes logo on my forehead if it helps.”

Lewis: “I am not letting Toto see you like this.”

Cue Y/N laughing so hard she almost drops the dye bowl.

“Wait, wait—imagine Toto Wolff barging in right now. He’d combust. Instant heart attack. Mercedes down one CEO.”

Lewis: visibly considering it.

—

Meanwhile… in PR Hell

PR Team: waiting at hospitality, staring at the empty chair where Y/N should be.

PR intern: “Should I… check on her?”

PR manager: “Lewis said he’d handle it.”

PR intern: “Oh thank god. He’s responsible.”

Cut to Lewis currently holding a mixing brush and yelling about ammonia fumes.

—

Unexpected Guest Appearance

Because fate is cruel, George Russell decides to drop by Y/N’s room. He walks in, takes one look, and immediately takes out his phone.

George: “This is gold. I’m sending it to the group chat.”

Lewis: “DON’T YOU DARE—”

Too late. The grid now has photographic evidence of Y/N crouched on the floor with foils in her hair like she’s auditioning for America’s Next Top Disaster.

Max (in the chat): Iconic.

Lando: okay but lowkey looks good??

Daniel (who wasn’t even asked): tell her to add purple streaks. Trust me.

—

The Reveal

After forty minutes of chaos, three towels ruined, and Lewis nearly disowning his teammate, Y/N rinses out the dye. And—against all odds—it actually looks good.

Y/N, posing dramatically in the mirror: “See? Worth it.”

Lewis, still stressed: “You’re lucky it worked. If it hadn’t, you’d be wearing a Mercedes cap until Abu Dhabi.”

Y/N: “Joke’s on you, I would’ve bedazzled it.”

Lewis: “Please stop talking.”

—

Media Duties, Take Two

Of course Y/N eventually has to show her face to the media. And when she does, it’s with freshly dyed hair and an attitude like nothing ever happened.

Journalist: “New look for the race weekend?”

Y/N: “Yes, thank you for noticing. I believe in innovation. Both on track and in hair color.”

Lewis in the background: dying inside.

—

Postscript: Toto Finds Out

Because chaos never dies, Toto Wolff eventually hears about the entire incident.

Toto, in a team meeting: “Next time, Y/N, please do not skip media duties for… personal projects.”

Y/N: “Personal growth, actually.”

Lewis: muttering under his breath “Personal brain damage.”

Toto: sighs so hard the entire factory feels it.

—

The Internet Reacts

Within 24 hours, #RookieY/N is trending on Twitter for her new hair.

Fan edits. TikTok audios. Memes comparing her to Lightning McQueen.

Lewis: “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Y/N: “Ka‑chow.”

—

✨ End.

THE PADDOCK HAD, OVER THE years, cultivated countless traditions. Some were loud like the singing that erupted from the Ferrari garage after an improbable victory.

The playful jeers exchanged between drivers during Thursday media day. The familiar scent of freshly brewed espresso drifting through the hospitality units before sunrise, mingling with the sharp aroma of hot tyres and engine oil.

Others existed only in quiet understanding. An unspoken rhythm that nobody had ever formally acknowledged, yet everyone instinctively obeyed.

One of those traditions involved Charles Leclerc. Or, more specifically, Charles Leclerc whenever she was due to interview him. Nobody could quite remember when the teasing had first begun.

Perhaps it had started with one of Ferrari’s mechanics noticing the way Charles unconsciously straightened his race suit whenever she approached with a microphone nestled beneath one arm.

Perhaps it had been after a particularly awkward interview in Barcelona, when he’d forgotten the question entirely because he’d been far too occupied admiring the sunlight catching in her eyes.

Or perhaps it had begun much earlier than that. Long before anyone realised they were witnessing the same thing, race after race after race.

Whatever the origin, by now it had become a ritual as deeply embedded within the Formula One paddock as the national anthems before lights out.

If she was assigned to Charles’ post-session interview… Someone was going to make a joke. Without fail. It scarcely mattered where they were in the world.

Under the oppressive Mediterranean heat in Monaco, where the humid air clung stubbornly to every inch of exposed skin.

Beneath the unpredictable grey skies of Silverstone, where rainclouds loomed with permanent menace over Northamptonshire.

Across the dazzling floodlights of Singapore, where the night shimmered against polished carbon fibre. Or amongst the roaring sea of scarlet at Monza. The outcome was always identical.

She would emerge from the media pen, accreditation swinging gently against her waist with every measured step, microphone held confidently in one hand, an iPad tucked neatly beneath the other arm.

And somewhere nearby, someone would notice. “There she is.” The sentence alone was enough. Charles, who could withstand the unimaginable pressure of threading a Formula One car between concrete barriers at over three hundred kilometres per hour without so much as a tremor in his breathing, somehow lost every fragment of composure from four ordinary words.

“There who is?” His answer came far too quickly. Far too innocently. The mechanic beside him would slowly turn to look at him. “Oh?” A grin. “Nobody.” Charles immediately regretted asking. The damage had already been done. Another mechanic nudged his shoulder. “Don’t embarrass yourself today.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” He answered curtly. “Mhm.” A third voice joined in. “Try answering the question before proposing marriage this time.” Charles groaned so dramatically that several engineers looked over from their laptops.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Charles let out an exasperated groan, dragging both hands down his face as though sheer frustration might somehow erase the last thirty seconds of conversation. “What?”

“I have never—” He barely managed three words before another mechanic cut in, lifting a sceptical eyebrow with impeccable timing. “No?”

“No.” The chorus of disbelief that greeted his denial was almost theatrical. Around him, several Ferrari mechanics exchanged exaggeratedly dubious glances, each one looking to the next as though silently asking whether they had all just heard the same outrageous claim. “You’ve never forgotten the question because you were too busy staring?”

“I wasn’t staring.” One mechanic folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Oh. Really?”

“I was listening.”

“To what?” Charles opened his mouth without thinking. “The question.” A beat of silence followed. Then someone coughed deliberately into their fist.

“You never answered it.” Charles’ confidence faltered almost instantly. His lips parted, ready with what he had been certain would be an excellent defence. Nothing came.

He stood there for a long moment, blinking once before quietly closing his mouth again.

“I answered eventually.” The words emerged with considerably less conviction than he had intended. The garage dissolved into laughter. “Oh, you poor thing Charles.” His ears had already begun turning the faintest shade of pink. It happened every single weekend. Every. Single. Weekend. “You lot are impossible.”

“We’re not the ones making heart eyes on international television.” The sentence barely left his lips before one of Ferrari’s younger mechanics silently unlocked his phone. “I do not make heart eyes.”

Three taps. One swipe. Then he turned the screen around. It was a compilation. Nearly twelve minutes long. The title alone made Charles want the floor to swallow him whole.

Charles Leclerc forgetting how to function around his favourite interviewer for 11 minutes straight.

“Oh, come on…” The mechanic pressed play anyway. There Charles was in Monaco, smiling before she’d even reached him.

Another clip from Suzuka showed him laughing at something she hadn’t even said aloud. Then Australia. Then Bahrain. Then Mexico. One clip had been slowed down to an almost absurd degree. Charles was looking at her. Simply looking.

Except, apparently he wasn’t simply looking. His expression had softened into something almost embarrassingly tender. The sort of expression poets dedicated sonnets to.

His eyes followed her with unwavering devotion, every trace of post-race exhaustion dissolving the moment she smiled up at him.

The comments were somehow even worse.

He’s smiling before she even speaks.

Sir, your software has crashed again.

Ferrari needs to investigate whatever bug this is.

He looks at her like she’s the sunrise.

No because WHY ARE HIS EYES SPARKLING?

Charles let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh before burying his face inside both hands, his shoulders slumping in theatrical defeat. “I hate the internet.”

“No, you don’t.” A voice answered almost immediately, dripping with far too much amusement.

Charles remained hidden behind his palms for another moment before reluctantly conceding, “No.” His words came out muffled. “I really don’t.”

A ripple of laughter travelled through the garage. One of the engineers leaned casually against the workbench, folding his arms with a knowing grin. “They’ve got over six million views now.”

“I know.” Charles didn’t even bother pretending otherwise. “You watched them?” Slowly, he lowered his hands, revealing an expression that suggested he already regretted whatever answer he was about to give. “Research.”

The single word hung in the air for precisely half a second. Then the entire garage dissolved into fresh laughter. “Research?” One mechanic laughed so hard he had to steady himself against a tyre trolley.

Charles sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with the sheepish embarrassment of a man fully aware that he was making his situation infinitely worse. “I wanted to know what everyone kept talking about.”

“And?” There was a brief pause. Charles looked down at the concrete floor, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I suppose I do look at her quite a lot.”

“A lot?” He immediately attempted to backtrack. “A little.” Several eyebrows rose in perfect unison. “A little?” Charles glanced around the garage, only to find every single mechanic staring back at him with identical expressions of disbelief.

He released another long, resigned sigh. “Fine.” The admission came reluctantly. Painfully. “More than a little.” A satisfied chorus of smiles spread across the garage. “Exactly.”

One mechanic patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. “We’re glad you’ve finally joined us in reality.”

Charles merely buried his face in his hands for the second time that afternoon, the tips of his ears glowing a brilliant shade of scarlet as another wave of laughter echoed through the Ferrari garage.

He muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath in French, earning another chorus of laughter from the mechanics who, despite not understanding a single word, recognised the unmistakable tone of affectionate defeat.

Truthfully… He didn’t even realise he was doing it. That was the problem. If his admiration had been intentional, perhaps he could have hidden it. Controlled it. Disciplined himself into appearing indifferent.

But it wasn’t. It never had been. It happened in the quietest, most unconscious ways imaginable. The moment she entered his field of vision, his eyes found her before his mind had even registered her presence.

His shoulders relaxed. His heartbeat settled into an entirely different rhythm. Something inside him softened.

The frantic noise of the paddock, the pneumatic drills, the whining generators, the shouted strategy discussions, the relentless chorus of photographers calling drivers’ names, receded into little more than distant static.

There was only her. Always her. He had spent years trying to understand why.

Until one evening, long after the garages had emptied and the paddock lights reflected softly across rain-soaked asphalt, she had looked up from the takeaway coffee clasped between her hands and quietly admitted, “Do you know you stare?”

He had nearly choked on his espresso. The coffee caught entirely in the wrong place, forcing him into a fit of coughing as he hastily reached for the glass of water beside him. When he finally managed to recover, he looked at her in utter bewilderment. “What?”

“You stare.” She said it so matter-of-factly that one might have thought she was commenting on the weather. Charles frowned immediately. “I don’t.”

“You do.” Her reply came without the slightest hesitation. There wasn’t even a hint of accusation in her voice, only quiet certainty, as though she were pointing out something so obvious it scarcely required discussion. “I really don’t.”

“You absolutely do.” She smiled gently over the rim of her paper cup before taking another unhurried sip, her eyes never leaving his. Charles shook his head with growing disbelief. “I’ve never stared at you.”

“You are.” The words were spoken so softly that they almost disappeared beneath the gentle hum of the café. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at her. Confused. Then slowly…

Realisation dawned. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “I…” She couldn’t hold it in any longer. A laugh escaped her lips. Not loudly. Never loudly. Her laughter was never the sort that filled a room or demanded attention. It was softer than that. Warm. Light.

The kind of laugh that bubbled up naturally, accompanied by the slightest crinkle at the corners of her eyes and a smile so effortlessly radiant that Charles found himself staring all over again.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, amusement dancing across her features.

“You’ve been looking at me for nearly thirty seconds.” Charles blinked. Once. Twice. Only then did he realise he hadn’t taken his eyes off her even for a moment. A deep flush crept steadily across his cheeks. “Oh.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?” The embarrassment in his expression was so utterly genuine that her smile softened almost instantly into something infinitely more affectionate. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” There wasn’t the faintest trace of discomfort in her voice. If anything, she sounded fond. As though this had become one of those little things about him she had quietly learnt to cherish.

Just that warm, impossibly gentle laugh that always sounded as though sunlight itself had learnt how to exist as music.

She reached across the small café table separating them, her fingers brushing fleetingly against the back of his hand.

Such a tiny gesture. Barely noticeable. Yet it somehow settled every restless corner of his heart. “You always look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Her smile softened into something almost unbearably fond. “As though you’ve forgotten where you are.” Charles lowered his gaze to their intertwined fingertips. The corners of his mouth curved upwards despite himself.

“I suppose…” His voice was scarcely louder than a whisper. “…that’s because I have.”

She hadn’t replied. She hadn’t needed to. The silence between them had spoken far more eloquently than language ever could.

And perhaps that was precisely why hiding their relationship had never truly worked. Not really. They had mastered logistics.

Separate arrivals. Separate departures. Different hotels. No photographs together. No holidays visible on social media. No accidental appearances in one another’s backgrounds.

Years of meticulous caution. Years of protecting something infinitely too precious to surrender to public scrutiny.

On paper, they had been flawless. Yet none of those precautions could disguise the one thing neither of them had ever learnt to control.

The way Charles looked at her.

Because love, however carefully concealed, possessed an irritating tendency to reveal itself in the smallest of moments.

In the unconscious smile that appeared before he even realised she was there. In the gentle softening of his features whenever she laughed. In the quiet reverence with which his gaze lingered upon her, as though committing every expression, every blink, every smile to memory.

It was never dramatic. Never theatrical. Simply true. And cameras, unfortunately for him, had become exceptionally good at recognising the truth.

By now, even the broadcast directors had started treating it as something of a game. Whenever she walked into frame, one camera would instinctively pan towards Charles. Just in case.

Because experience had taught them that if she was anywhere nearby. The best reaction shot was almost always his.

The first time the broadcast director deliberately cut to Charles during one of her interviews, it had happened almost by accident.

The second time… Well. The second time had been entirely intentional. By the tenth, it had become something of an inside joke within the production truck.

The director would glance across the rows of glowing monitors, each displaying a different angle of the paddock, before speaking calmly into his headset.

“Camera Six.” The director’s voice carried calmly through the production truck, barely rising above the constant murmur of engineers calling out timings and producers relaying instructions into their headsets.

A brief pause followed as he studied the wall of monitors illuminating the dimly lit room. “Find Charles.”

The cameraman frowned ever so slightly, instinctively adjusting the focus ring as his camera swept across the paddock. “But he’s not being interviewed.”

“I know.” The reply came without the slightest hesitation, as though that detail were entirely irrelevant. The cameraman didn’t question it.

By now, experience had taught everyone inside the broadcast truck exactly where this was going. They had played this game often enough to know the outcome before it even began.

With a quiet shake of his head and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the cameraman smoothly panned away from the media pen, searching instead for the familiar scarlet race suit somewhere amongst the bustling Ferrari garage.

Sure enough, there he was. Standing several metres away with a bottle of water dangling absent-mindedly from one hand, entirely unaware that one of the television cameras was now trained solely on him.

The director folded his arms, eyes flicking between the monitors. “Just wait.” Nobody spoke. The truck settled into an almost expectant silence.

Five seconds passed. Then ten. One of the producers quietly began counting beneath his breath. “Eight…Nine…Ten…”

As predictably as the sunrise, Charles’ attention drifted. His head turned almost imperceptibly. Not because someone had called his name. Not because anything remarkable had happened. His eyes had simply found her.

The corners of his mouth softened into that now unmistakable smile, the one that appeared so naturally it seemed entirely beyond his control.A collective groan of amusement rippled through the truck. “There it is.”

“I told you.” The director let out a quiet, satisfied laugh before gesturing towards the monitor. “He didn’t even hesitate.”

“Zoom in.” The cameraman obeyed. On the screen, Charles remained completely oblivious to the fact that millions of viewers would soon be watching him instead of the interview taking place several metres away.

He wasn’t paying attention to the driver she was speaking with. He wasn’t listening to the questions.

He wasn’t even aware that a camera had abandoned the interview entirely in favour of filming him. He was simply watching her. As though she were the only thing in the paddock worth looking at.

Experience had taught him better. Sure enough, several seconds later, Charles appeared on the monitor. Standing beside the Ferrari garage.

Halfway through unscrewing the cap of his water bottle. Completely oblivious to the fact that somewhere behind him, she had just begun interviewing another driver. The director waited.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Then, as predictably as the changing of the tides, Charles’ attention drifted. His head turned almost imperceptibly. His eyes found her without hesitation.

There it was. That smile. Small. Soft. Almost imperceptible unless one knew precisely what to look for. Except by now, everyone knew precisely what to look for. The production truck erupted into restrained laughter. “I told you.”

One of the producers pointed triumphantly at the monitor, unable to disguise the smug satisfaction colouring his voice.

“He’s done it again.” Another leaned forward in his chair, shaking his head with a disbelieving laugh as Charles continued watching her with complete, blissful obliviousness. “Zoom in.” The director didn’t even look away from the bank of screens.

The cameraman obliged immediately, slowly tightening the shot until Charles’ face filled the monitor. His expression was almost painfully soft.

There wasn’t the slightest trace of the intensity that had accompanied him moments earlier inside the cockpit. Only quiet admiration.

“Oh, that’s criminal.” The words escaped from somewhere behind the production desk.

One of the producers leaned closer to the screen, squinting as though convinced the camera must somehow be exaggerating what they were seeing. “It genuinely looks like she’s just hung the moon.”

A ripple of laughter travelled through the truck. The director dragged a hand slowly across his face, trying, and failing spectacularly, to suppress the grin threatening to betray his own amusement. “Stay on him.” The cameraman hesitated for the first time. “But she’s asking Oscar a question.”

“I know.” He sounded almost offended that anyone thought this changed the plan.

The cameraman glanced uncertainly between the monitor showing the live interview and the one displaying Charles standing several metres away.

“So…” He frowned. “Why are we filming Charles?” The director finally looked up. A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he folded his arms across his chest. “Because…”

He nodded towards the monitor where Charles, entirely unaware of the attention he himself was attracting, had yet again forgotten the existence of everyone around him. “…he’s infinitely more entertaining.”

That was all the justification anyone needed. Another burst of laughter echoed through the production truck. No one questioned the decision again. After all, experience had taught them one simple truth.

The interview might have been taking place in front of the cameras. But the real story was almost always standing a few metres behind it.

The internet noticed almost immediately. By Sunday evening, clips had already begun circulating. Not of overtly romantic gestures. There were none.

No lingering embraces. No flirtatious comments. No stolen touches. Nothing anyone could reasonably point to as evidence. Just Charles looking.

One viral edit slowed the footage to almost half speed. She was speaking animatedly with Lando, laughing at something he’d said.

Several metres behind them stood Charles. His expression was almost impossibly gentle. There wasn’t a trace of jealousy. Or impatience. Or frustration. Only quiet admiration. Like someone watching their favourite person exist.

The caption simply read: “Nobody has ever looked at me the way Charles Leclerc looks at this interviewer.” Twenty-three million views.

Another account stitched together footage from nearly two years. Race after race. Country after country. The pattern never changed. Australia. Imola. Barcelona. Austria. Singapore. Mexico. Abu Dhabi. Whenever she entered the frame, Charles smiled. Always. Without exception.

The comments became increasingly dramatic.

This man is gone.

Ferrari’s biggest reliability issue is Charles around this woman.

He has exactly two facial expressions: Race Mode and Looking At Her Mode.

Nobody can convince me he’s listening to anything she’s saying because he’s too busy admiring her existence.

The way he looks at her should be classified as public affection.

Someone even created a graph. An actual graph. The horizontal axis measured race weekends. The vertical axis measured what they jokingly referred to as Heart Eyes Intensity.

Charles discovered it while absent-mindedly scrolling through social media one evening. He stared at the graph. Then sighed so deeply it startled Arthur from across the sofa. “What?”

Charles silently held out his phone. Arthur looked. Blinked. Then burst into uncontrollable laughter. “They made statistics?”

Charles stared at the screen in complete disbelief, his expression hovering somewhere between horror and reluctant admiration. “They made statistics.”

Arthur could barely keep a straight face as he nodded solemnly, though the grin threatening to split his face gave him away almost immediately. “They’ve colour-coded it.”

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose before letting out a long, defeated sigh. “I noticed.”

Arthur took the phone from his brother, scrolling further down the thread. The longer he looked, the harder it became to contain himself.

Within seconds, he was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, his shoulders shaking with uncontrollable laughter. “Oh, this is brilliant.”

Charles eyed him suspiciously. “What now?” Arthur turned the screen around, still laughing. “They’ve labelled Monaco as…” He paused, attempting unsuccessfully to compose himself. “‘Catastrophic Eye Contact.’”

Charles made a noise of profound suffering before allowing himself to collapse sideways onto the sofa, burying his face deep into one of the cushions. “I hate everyone.”

“No, you don’t.” Arthur answered without missing a beat, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

Charles remained hidden beneath the cushion for another moment before his muffled voice drifted back across the room. “No.” The admission was accompanied by an exaggerated sigh. “I really don’t.”

Arthur smiled knowingly. “I thought not.” Despite every effort to remain indignant, Charles felt the corners of his mouth betray him, curling into a reluctant smile that the cushion did little to conceal.

After a long pause, he quietly admitted, “It’s actually quite funny.” Arthur looked at him with exaggerated triumph. “There he is.”

“What?” Charles rolled his eyes, though there wasn’t the slightest conviction behind the gesture anymore. “The honesty.”

“They’re still ridiculous.” Charles folded his arms across his chest, attempting to sound thoroughly unconvinced despite the smile still threatening the corners of his mouth. “Mhm.”

Arthur hummed absent-mindedly, continuing to scroll through the endless stream of edits and memes as though this were the most normal thing in the world. “They have far too much free time.”

“Mhm.” Another noncommittal hum. Arthur didn’t even bother looking up. Charles narrowed his eyes. “And I’m not that obvious.”

For the first time, Arthur stopped scrolling. He slowly lifted his head. Then, without uttering a single word, he simply raised one eyebrow.

The silence stretched. Charles held his brother’s gaze for a moment, searching desperately for some hint of agreement. He found none.

Instead, Arthur’s expression remained one of quiet, almost pitying disbelief. The sort of look reserved for someone who had just insisted the sky was green.

Charles lasted approximately three seconds. His shoulders sagged in surrender. “Or am I?” Arthur let out a soft, knowing laugh. “Oh, Charles.”

He turned the phone around once more, holding it out for his brother to see. “Let’s just say…” His grin widened mischievously. “…there’s a reason six million people all reached the exact same conclusion.”

Charles glanced at the screen before immediately dropping his head back against the sofa cushions with a groan of utter defeat. “This is so embarrassing.”

“No.” Arthur chuckled. “The embarrassing part is that you still think you’re being subtle.” Charles dragged both hands down his face. “I genuinely thought I was.”

“I know.” Arthur’s voice softened with unmistakable affection. “That’s what makes it so funny.”

Charles couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. Hopeless. Resigned. “I’m never opening social media again.” Arthur smiled. “You’ll be back on it by tomorrow.”

“And you’ll search your own name.” Charles looked genuinely offended. “I do not do that.” Arthur simply stared at him. “You absolutely do.” A sheepish silence followed. “Only sometimes.”

Arthur burst into laughter all over again. Charles held his gaze for precisely three seconds before his shoulders slumped in surrender.

Arthur didn’t even answer. Instead, he silently turned the phone back around. The graph remained open. A bright red peak stretched dramatically above every other race weekend.

Monaco — Catastrophic Eye Contact.

Charles stared at it for a long moment. Then let out another hopeless groan before dropping his face back into the cushion.

Arthur’s laughter echoed throughout the apartment all over again.

The teasing wasn’t confined to the internet. If anything, the paddock was considerably worse. Drivers, mechanics, engineers, journalists…

Nobody spared him. Carlos was undoubtedly the most relentless. He’d been one of the first to notice. Not because Charles had confessed anything. Charles had been far too private for that.

But because Carlos had spent enough years beside him to recognise the smallest shifts in his behaviour.

It was the smile. That was what gave him away. Charles smiled differently around her. Softer. Warmer. As though every carefully erected wall around his heart quietly dissolved the moment she appeared.

Carlos noticed. Naturally. Carlos weaponised that knowledge immediately. Thursday. Media day.

They had just finished a sponsor appearance when she walked across the paddock, deep in conversation with another journalist.

Carlos followed Charles’ line of sight almost absent-mindedly.

His eyes travelled across the paddock before settling on the very person Charles had been quietly watching.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “You know.” Charles reacted almost instantaneously. His gaze snapped away with such suspicious speed that it only confirmed Carlos’ suspicions.

“I don’t know anything.” The denial came far too quickly. Far too defensively. Carlos had known Charles long enough to recognise exactly what that meant. “Oh?” A laugh tugged at the corners of his lips. “You haven’t blinked.”

“I have.” Charles protested immediately. “When?” The word lingered uncertainly in the air. “I…” Charles searched desperately for an answer that refused to arrive. Carlos simply folded his arms across his chest, one eyebrow arching with almost theatrical patience. “Exactly.” Charles sighed through his nose. “I was looking at something else.”

“Mhm.” Carlos nodded with exaggerated seriousness, as though the explanation were perfectly reasonable. “The hospitality unit.”

“Interesting.” Charles frowned. “What?” Carlos gestured vaguely towards the opposite side of the paddock. “The hospitality unit appears to be walking.” Charles blinked. “What?”

“So does it usually laugh?” Carlos pointed ever so casually. Instinct overrode common sense. Charles turned to look.

She had just thrown her head back in laughter at something another journalist had said, sunlight catching against her smile as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

Without even realising it, Charles smiled too. Only a fraction. Only for a heartbeat. But it was enough. The moment he looked back at Carlos, he knew.

He had walked directly into the trap. Carlos was already grinning like a man who had just won the lottery. “Caught.” Charles let out a long, theatrical groan, dropping his head towards the ground in surrender.

“I walked into that one.” Carlos laughed, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. “You didn’t walk.” He shook his head, still chuckling to himself. “You absolutely sprinted.”

Lando wasn’t much better. Unlike Carlos, however, Lando possessed absolutely no sense of restraint.

He delighted in embarrassing Charles whenever the opportunity presented itself. Which, unfortunately for Charles, was often.

One afternoon after qualifying, Charles was waiting near the media pen, a bottle of isotonic drink dangling loosely from his fingertips.

She was interviewing Lewis a short distance away. Charles hadn’t intended to watch. Honestly. He hadn’t. He’d simply glanced over for a moment. One moment became two. Two became five. Five became. Well. Long enough.

Lando wandered over, following Charles’ unwavering gaze. He looked at her. Then at Charles. Then back at her again. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. “Oh.” Charles hummed absent-mindedly. “Mhm?”

“I see.” Lando stepped directly into Charles’ line of sight. Nothing. Charles leaned slightly to one side. Lando moved with him. Charles frowned. “Lando.” No response.

Lando, however, made no attempt to move. Instead, he simply stood there with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his race suit, a grin steadily spreading across his face as he watched Charles’ growing frustration. “Lando.”

“Hm?” His response was infuriatingly innocent. “Move.” Lando tilted his head ever so slightly. “Why?” Charles let out a quiet sigh, as though the answer should have been painfully obvious.

“Because you’re blocking my view.” The words escaped before his brain had the opportunity to intercept them. Silence. Lando didn’t move. He simply blinked. Then, very slowly, one eyebrow climbed towards his hairline. “Your view?”

Charles froze. Every muscle in his body seemed to lock at once. The sentence replayed itself inside his head with horrifying clarity.

Because you’re blocking my view.

His eyes widened. “I meant—” Lando’s grin became positively diabolical. “Oh, no.” He folded his arms, delight sparkling across his face. “I completely understand.” Charles already knew this conversation was beyond saving.

“Your view.” Lando repeated the words with infuriating slowness, savouring every syllable as though it were the funniest sentence ever uttered in the Formula One paddock. “I didn’t—”

“Your.”

“Lando.”

“View.”

Charles stared at him for a long, hopeless moment before dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, my God.”

His voice was muffled behind his palm, carrying all the quiet despair of a man who knew, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he had just handed Lando Norris enough ammunition to torment him for the foreseeable future.

Lando doubled over laughing. Not the polite sort of laugh one offered at a mildly amusing joke. The kind that stole the air from his lungs.

The kind that forced him to brace both hands against his knees as he struggled to remain standing. “I’m telling everyone.” Charles’ head snapped up immediately. “No.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely telling everyone.”

“You are not.”

“I already have.”

Charles blinked. “What?” Lando’s grin somehow widened. Without a trace of remorse, he casually held up his phone.

The mechanics’ group chat was already open. At the very top sat one brand-new message. Charles just called her “my view.”

Charles felt the colour drain from his face. “No…” As though perfectly timed, three tiny dots appeared beneath the message. Then another. Then several more. The replies began flooding in almost instantly.

HE SAID WHAT?

NO HE DIDN’T.

SCREENSHOT.

SOMEONE CHECK IF HE’S STILL ALIVE.

I’M CRYING.

CHARLES, YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT.

Charles lunged instinctively for the phone. “Lando!” Lando, anticipating the attempt long before it happened, skipped neatly out of reach with the ease of someone who had spent years avoiding overenthusiastic mechanics after practical jokes.

“Oh, no you don’t.” He held the phone triumphantly above his head like a trophy. Charles reached again. Missed. “Lando!”

“This…” Lando could barely speak through his laughter. “…this is historical.”

“I’m begging you.” The words escaped Charles before pride had a chance to intervene. Lando froze theatrically. His eyebrows shot upwards.

“You are?” Charles stopped mid-step. Silence. He replayed his own sentence in his head. “Did I just say begging?”

“You did.” Lando nodded with immense satisfaction, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “You actually begged me.”

Charles let out a defeated groan, dropping his head backwards towards the sky as though appealing to the universe itself for mercy. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Oh, no.” Lando shook his head, still laughing so hard his shoulders trembled. “This…” He held up the phone once more as fresh notifications continued lighting up the screen. “…is the best day of mine.”

Charles could only stare at him in utter resignation. “I hate you.” Lando smiled brightly. “No, you don’t.” Charles sighed. “No, I really don’t.”

“Exactly.” Lando slung an arm casually over Charles’ shoulders as they began walking back towards the paddock. “But for what it’s worth…”

He looked sideways at his friend, an irrepressible grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “…‘My view’ is probably the most romantic thing you’ve ever accidentally said.”

Charles groaned so dramatically that several nearby journalists turned to look. “I was trying to say you were standing in the way.” Charles spoke with the earnest desperation of a man attempting to salvage the last remaining fragments of his dignity.

“Mhm.” Lando nodded absent-mindedly, though the grin stretching across his face made it abundantly clear he believed precisely none of it. “I wasn’t talking about her.”

“Mhm.” Another thoughtful nod. Another completely unconvinced hum. Charles let out a slow, exasperated breath. “Lando.”

“Hm?” Finally, Lando glanced sideways at him, looking far too innocent for someone who had been relentlessly tormenting him for the past five minutes.

Charles searched his face for even the faintest trace of sympathy. He found absolutely none. “You don’t believe a single word I’m saying, do you?”

Lando considered the question with exaggerated seriousness, pretending to weigh the evidence. “No.” Charles closed his eyes. “I thought so.”

Lando laughed, giving his shoulder a light pat as they continued walking through the paddock. “To be fair,” he grinned. “You’ve made this incredibly difficult to believe.” Charles muttered something distinctly French beneath his breath. “I heard that.”

“I’m counting on you not understanding it.” Lando’s smile somehow widened. “I don’t. But I’m fairly confident it wasn’t complimentary.” Charles sighed in defeat. “It wasn’t.”

“I thought as much.” For a moment, they walked in companionable silence. Then Lando’s grin returned with renewed mischief. “So…” Charles didn’t even look at him. “No.”

“I haven’t asked anything yet.” Lando protested with exaggerated innocence, holding both hands up in surrender despite the unmistakable mischief dancing in his eyes.

“You don’t need to.” Charles didn’t even spare him a glance. The weary resignation in his voice suggested he already knew exactly where this conversation was headed. “I was just wondering—”

“No.” The answer arrived so quickly that Lando barely managed three words before being interrupted. “—if she’s still your view.”

The sentence was delivered with the kind of smug satisfaction that only Lando Norris seemed capable of achieving. Charles stopped walking altogether.

The bustle of the paddock continued around them, engineers hurrying between garages and photographers weaving through the crowds, but for one long moment he remained rooted to the spot.

Very slowly, he turned his head to look at Lando. The expression on his face was one of profound disappointment. “I’m going home.”

Lando blinked once before another fit of laughter escaped him. “We’re in Italy.” He gestured broadly towards the Ferrari motorhome, as though the surrounding sea of scarlet should have been obvious enough.

Charles considered this for precisely half a second. “I’ll swim if I have to.” He sounded completely serious. Which, somehow, only made the statement infinitely funnier.

Lando doubled over once again, laughing so hard he had to brace a hand against Charles’ shoulder just to remain upright.

“I can’t breathe…” Charles simply watched him with all the patience of a man questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment. When Lando finally managed to recover, Charles narrowed his eyes. “You’re insufferable.” Lando’s grin only widened. “So I’ve been told.”

He shrugged with absolutely no remorse. “Usually by you.” Charles let out one final, theatrical sigh before shaking his head. “One day, I’m going to stop talking to you.” Lando laughed, slinging an arm comfortably around his shoulders as they resumed walking. “No, you won’t.”

“Because then who else would remind you that she’s your view?” Charles groaned so loudly that several nearby mechanics looked up from the Ferrari garage.

Lando, meanwhile, looked positively delighted with himself. By the time they reached the Ferrari garage, half the mechanics were already waiting for Charles with expressions that suggested the group chat had been very, very active.

By the time Charles was finally called over for his own interview, half the Ferrari garage was already trying, and failing miserably, to suppress their laughter.

She looked between the mechanics. Then at Charles. Then back again. A tiny crease appeared between her brows. “Should I be concerned?”

Charles opened his mouth. Before he could answer, one of the mechanics muttered just loudly enough to be heard. “He misses his view.” The entire garage exploded. Charles shut his eyes. Very briefly.

As though perhaps, if he wished hard enough, the earth might kindly split open beneath his feet and spare him the embarrassment.

She blinked once. Twice. Then, slowly, realisation dawned. Her lips trembled. She bit the inside of her cheek. It didn’t help. A soft laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Not loud. Not mocking. Just impossibly fond.

Charles looked up. Their eyes met for only a heartbeat. She offered him the smallest, most apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry.” Charles offered the apology with genuine sincerity, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, bashful gesture everyone in the paddock had long since learnt to associate with him.

“You aren’t.” She regarded him with a knowing smile, one eyebrow lifting just enough to challenge the authenticity of his remorse.

Charles held her gaze for a heartbeat before the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “No.” The admission slipped out accompanied by a sheepish smile.

Another tiny laugh escaped her. Soft. Warm. The sort of laugh that always seemed to settle somewhere beneath his ribs and make his heart feel impossibly light.

“I’m really not.” She finally confessed, unable to suppress the amusement dancing across her features. “I’ve been trying very hard not to laugh this entire time.”

Charles let out a quiet, breathless chuckle of his own, shaking his head in defeat. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already established that isn’t true.” A grin spread across his face despite himself. “Fair point.”

For a brief moment, they simply looked at one another, both smiling with the effortless familiarity of two people who knew each other far better than anyone around them realised.

Neither of them noticed the Ferrari mechanics exchanging yet another round of thoroughly unconvinced glances from only a few metres away.

His own embarrassment dissolved almost instantly. Because if laughing meant that smile remained on her face. Perhaps being teased wasn’t quite so terrible after all.

If there was one thing Charles prided himself on, it was composure. Inside the cockpit, he had built an entire career upon it.

The ability to silence every unnecessary thought. To compartmentalise fear. To suppress frustration. To calculate risks in fractions of a second while travelling at speeds most people could scarcely comprehend.

His race engineer often remarked that Charles possessed one of the calmest minds on the grid.

Nothing rattled him. Not changing weather. Not championship pressure. Not screaming crowds. Not even the relentless scrutiny that accompanied driving in scarlet.

Yet all of that composure seemed to evaporate the moment she appeared with a microphone in her hand.

It became almost laughably predictable. The Ferrari mechanics had even begun placing bets. Not on whether Charles would stare. That outcome had long since been accepted as inevitable. The wager concerned something else entirely.

How many times would he completely forget the existence of the outside world? “Twenty seconds.” One of the mechanics folded his arms with complete confidence, glancing down at the stopwatch already poised in his hand. “No chance.” Another immediately shook his head. “You’re underestimating him.”

“I’m saying thirty.” He nodded towards Charles, who was still blissfully unaware that he had once again become the subject of an entirely unnecessary betting pool. “Thirty?” A third mechanic let out an incredulous laugh. “That’s optimistic.”

“Monaco was nearly forty.” The reminder was delivered with the solemnity of someone citing an important historical event.

Several heads nodded in agreement. “That’s because she smiled.” One engineer pointed out the obvious, as though it explained absolutely everything. “She always smiles.” There was a brief pause. Then every pair of eyes slowly turned towards the speaker. “Exactly.”

The reply came in perfect unison. A ripple of laughter spread through the garage. One mechanic sighed dramatically as he tucked another note into the growing pile of bets. “The poor bloke never stood a chance.”

“Not the moment she walked into the paddock.” Someone else glanced towards the media pen, where she had just appeared with a microphone tucked neatly beneath one arm. “Should we start the stopwatch now?”

“No.” The oldest mechanic in the group shook his head wisely. “Wait until they make eye contact.”

“Why?” The younger one piped out. “Because that’s when he actually stops functioning.” The entire garage burst into another round of laughter.

One of the engineers quietly slid a ten-euro note across the workbench. “I’m putting money on twenty-five.”

Charles happened to walk past at precisely the wrong moment. “What are you betting on?” The entire group froze. Nobody answered. Charles looked between them suspiciously. “Should I be worried?”

A mechanic cleared his throat. “No.” Another nodded far too enthusiastically. “Not at all.”

“You’re terrible liars.” Finally, one of the younger mechanics sighed dramatically. “We’re timing you.” Charles frowned. “Timing me doing what?”

“When you zone out.” One of the mechanics answered far too quickly, as though the response had been prepared long before Charles had even asked the question.

“I don’t zone out.” Charles frowned, genuinely baffled by the accusation. The entire garage fell silent. Every mechanic looked at him. Not a single person appeared remotely convinced.

“Charles.” One engineer spoke his name with the patient tone usually reserved for someone refusing to acknowledge an indisputable fact. “I don’t.” Charles insisted, shaking his head with surprising confidence. “Mate.” Another mechanic sighed, folding his arms across his chest. “I genuinely don’t.”

Fred Vasseur chose that exact moment to wander into the garage, an espresso balanced casually in one hand as he glanced between the gathered mechanics with mild curiosity. “What are we discussing?”

One of the engineers didn’t hesitate. “Charles thinks he doesn’t zone out.” Fred’s gaze shifted slowly towards his driver. Then back to the mechanics. Then to Charles again. For a long moment, he simply stared. “He’s joking.”

“I’m not.” Charles answered immediately, sounding almost offended by the suggestion. Fred blinked once. Slowly. Then took another unhurried sip of his coffee. “You’ve forgotten your own engineer was speaking to you because she walked past.”

Charles opened his mouth to defend himself. Nothing came out. He closed it again. Thought for another second. “Once.”

“Five times.” One of the mechanics corrected him without missing a beat. Charles looked genuinely alarmed. “Five?”

“Five.” The reply came in perfect unison. Around the garage, heads nodded with almost ceremonial solemnity. Charles rubbed a weary hand across his face, letting out a long sigh of defeat. “I really need people to stop counting.”

“We would.” Fred answered calmly, lowering his coffee cup just enough to look Charles directly in the eye. “If you gave us anything else to count.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung over the garage. Then the mechanics erupted into laughter once more.

Charles simply stood there, staring at the floor with the expression of a man who had reluctantly accepted that he was never going to live this down.

It was that day during the Japanese Grand Prix weekend that Charles finally realised just how conspicuous he had become.

He had just climbed out of the car after qualifying, still flushed from the exertion of wrestling the Ferrari around Suzuka’s sweeping corners.

Helmet tucked beneath one arm. Balaclava half removed. Hair damp with perspiration. He had barely taken three steps into parc fermé before the familiar chorus began.

“There she is.” Charles instinctively looked up. “Where?” The words escaped before he could stop them. Silence. Behind him, someone let out a triumphant laugh. “Oh, he didn’t even think.” Another mechanic doubled over.

“He actually asked where she was.” One of the mechanics doubled over laughing, pointing accusingly at Charles as though he had just witnessed the greatest piece of evidence imaginable.

Charles stood frozen for a heartbeat. Then, with mounting horror, he replayed the last few seconds in his mind. Where? His expression crumpled. He had walked straight into it. “Forget I said that.”

He rubbed both hands over his face, already knowing the request was hopeless. “No.” The reply came immediately. Without hesitation.

“Please.” Charles looked around the garage with genuine desperation, hoping someone, anyone, might show him a sliver of mercy. Instead, he was met by a sea of thoroughly amused faces. Another mechanic shook his head. “No.”

Charles tipped his head back dramatically, directing a long, suffering sigh towards the heavens as though silently questioning every decision that had led him to this precise moment. “I walked into that.”

“You didn’t.” The mechanic grinned, barely able to contain another laugh. “You sprinted.” A chorus of agreement immediately followed. “You absolutely sprinted. There wasn’t even a speed limit. You practically announced it.”

The laughter that echoed through the Ferrari garage was so loud that several engineers from neighbouring bays looked over to see what had happened.

Charles merely closed his eyes for a brief moment before letting out another defeated groan. “I’m surrounded by terrible people.”

“No.” One mechanic slung an arm around his shoulders with an infuriatingly sympathetic smile. “You’re surrounded by witnesses.” That only made everyone laugh harder.

The truth was. He genuinely wasn’t trying to find her. Not consciously. His eyes simply looked. The same way sunflowers instinctively turned towards sunlight. The comparison would have horrified him.

Unfortunately, it was also painfully accurate. Even she had started noticing. She would catch him watching from across the paddock. Sometimes during interviews. Sometimes while speaking with engineers.

Sometimes whilst she was doing nothing more remarkable than walking from one hospitality unit to another with a stack of cue cards tucked beneath her arm.

Every time their eyes met, his expression softened. Without fail. It was never exaggerated. Never dramatic. Simply home. That was the only word she had ever found capable of describing it.

As though his gaze settled upon her with the quiet certainty of someone arriving exactly where he had always belonged. It made her heart ache. Because she knew precisely how difficult he found public displays of emotion.

Charles loved privately. Wholeheartedly. Endlessly. But privately. He guarded the people he loved with extraordinary care. His family. His closest friends. Her. Especially her.

Which made it all the more devastating that he couldn’t seem to hide this one thing. Not because he lacked discipline.

But because love was, quite simply, stronger than habit.

One afternoon in Belgium, the media pen had descended into organised chaos. Rain clouds threatened overhead. Engineers hurried between garages carrying laptops shielded beneath jackets.

Journalists shuffled hastily through pages of hastily rewritten interview notes after yet another delayed session.

She stood beneath the awning, headset resting comfortably against one ear as a producer counted her down. “Thirty seconds.” She nodded. “Got it.”

A makeup artist hurried over, gently brushing away a stray raindrop that had settled upon her cheek.

Nearby, Charles waited for his own interview slot. He wasn’t particularly paying attention. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

She adjusted the earpiece. Smoothed a loose strand of hair behind one ear. Checked her notes one final time. Nothing remarkable. Nothing anyone else would have noticed. Charles watched every tiny movement with quiet fascination.

There was something almost mesmerising about the confidence with which she carried herself. The effortless professionalism. The grace threaded through even the simplest gestures. He loved watching her prepare. Loved seeing the transformation as she slipped seamlessly into presenter mode.

The producer pointed. “You’re live in three.” She inhaled slowly. Then smiled. The smile was different. Still unmistakably hers. But polished. Confident. Ready for the camera. Charles felt himself smiling too.

He didn’t even realise he was doing it. Several metres away, Carlos did. He elbowed Lewis. Lewis followed his gaze. “Again?” Carlos nodded. “Again.”

Lewis watched Charles for a long, thoughtful moment, his eyes lingering on the unmistakably softened expression settled across the Ferrari driver’s face.

A smile tugged gently at the corners of his own lips. “He looks proud.” Carlos turned to him, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Proud?”

“Mhm.” Lewis nodded almost absent-mindedly, still watching Charles from across the paddock. There was a quiet certainty in his voice.

Carlos tilted his head, considering the observation more carefully. “Actually.” A slow smile spread across his face as he looked back towards Charles. Lewis let out a soft chuckle. “That’s exactly what that is.”

Neither of them made any attempt to interrupt him. There was something strangely endearing about the entire scene. Charles wasn’t staring because he wanted attention. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He wasn’t attempting to flirt.

If anything, he seemed completely oblivious to the cameras, the journalists, and the dozens of people wandering through the paddock around him.

He simply looked content. Perfectly, quietly content. Like a man watching someone he loved doing something she excelled at. There was an unmistakable sense of admiration in his eyes. Not the fleeting admiration reserved for a talented colleague. Something infinitely gentler. Infinitely deeper.

Lewis found himself smiling almost unconsciously. “I hope whoever she’s dating knows how lucky they are.” The words were spoken more to himself than anyone else. Carlos let out an involuntary laugh. “If only you knew.”

The sentence escaped before he had the opportunity to stop it. The smile vanished from his face almost immediately. Lewis frowned. “What?”

Carlos blinked. Realisation crashed over him with alarming speed. “Nothing.” Lewis looked at him expectantly. “What do you mean, nothing?”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly finding the concrete beneath his trainers intensely fascinating. “I mean…” He searched desperately for an explanation that didn’t exist. “Forget I spoke.”

Lewis narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. He had known Carlos for years. Long enough to recognise exactly what that awkward hesitation meant.

Carlos, for all his many talents, was an absolutely dreadful liar. Lewis continued watching him for another moment before a slow, knowing smile began to form. “Carlos.”

“You’re hiding something.” Carlos forced a laugh that sounded considerably less convincing than he’d hoped. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Lewis didn’t reply.

He simply looked back towards Charles. Then towards her. Then back to Carlos again. The pieces didn’t quite fit together. Not yet. But somewhere, at the very back of his mind, a tiny seed of suspicion quietly planted itself.

But before he could press any further, she began speaking into the camera. The conversation dissolved. Charles remained exactly where he was. Listening. Watching. Admiring.

Entirely unaware that, from the opposite side of the paddock, three separate broadcast cameras had already found him.

One focused on her. One on the driver she was interviewing. And one, entirely dedicated to Charles Leclerc. The cameraman quietly zoomed in. The image on the monitor was almost absurdly tender.

Charles wasn’t looking at the interview. He was looking at her. The tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth whenever she listened.

The animated gestures of her hands. The concentration reflected in her eyes. Every now and then, she would tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

Each time, Charles’ expression somehow softened even further. The cameraman exhaled a slow laugh. Into his headset, he murmured, “We’ve got him.”

Inside the production truck, the director didn’t even need to ask which ‘him’ he meant. He glanced towards the monitor.

There Charles was. Completely enchanted. The director smiled to himself. “Keep rolling.” No one in the truck said it aloud. They didn’t need to. Because every single person watching that monitor had the exact same thought.

That wasn’t the look of a man admiring a journalist. It wasn’t admiration reserved for a colleague. Nor the fleeting fondness of friendship. It was infinitely quieter than that. Infinitely deeper. The unmistakable, almost reverent gaze of someone hopelessly in love.

None of them knew with whom. Not yet. But somewhere, just beyond the reach of every camera lens and every speculative headline, the truth had been quietly unfolding for years.

And it was becoming more difficult to hide with every race weekend that passed.

By the middle of the season, interviewing Charles Leclerc had become difficult. Not because he gave poor answers. Quite the opposite.

When his attention was entirely on the conversation, Charles was one of the most articulate drivers on the grid. Thoughtful, analytical, generous with his explanations and always gracious towards the journalists asking the questions.

The problem was keeping his attention there. Or rather, keeping his attention anywhere except on her.She had long since developed a routine for it.

Step one. Ask the question. Step two. Wait. Step three. Watch Charles become completely distracted.

It happened so consistently that she could practically predict it.

He would begin by listening attentively, his head tilted ever so slightly as she spoke. Then she would finish the question. A beat of silence. His eyes would meet hers. And almost visibly, his thoughts would wander.

Not elsewhere. Towards her. It was written all over his face. His shoulders loosened. The determined concentration that had carried him through seventy laps dissolved into something impossibly gentle.

His lips curved into the smallest smile. The sort that arrived before he even realised he was smiling. Then came the blink. One slow blink. As though his mind had quietly forgotten there was an interview taking place at all.

“Charles?” Every time. Without fail. He blinked again. “Oh.” The familiar bashful laugh. “I’m sorry.” She would lower the microphone slightly, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling too obviously.

“It’s alright.” Her voice remained as warm and reassuring as ever, accompanied by a small smile that immediately eased some of the embarrassment written so plainly across his face.

“I’m listening.” Charles straightened almost instinctively, nodding with the earnest determination of someone genuinely intent on redeeming himself.

“I know.” There wasn’t a hint of impatience in her reply. If anything, her smile softened ever so slightly. She had long since grown accustomed to these little moments. “Could you ask that again?”

The request was accompanied by one of those sheepish, breathless laughs that never failed to betray just how flustered he felt.

His hand found the back of his neck once more, fingers rubbing absent-mindedly at the warm skin there as a faint blush crept steadily across the tops of his ears.

She bit lightly against the inside of her cheek, doing her absolute best to maintain a professional expression. “Of course.” Without teasing him further, she calmly repeated the question exactly as before.

This time, Charles listened with almost comical concentration, his blue-green eyes fixed firmly on her cue cards rather than her face, as though looking anywhere else might prove dangerously distracting.

The moment she finished, he answered immediately. Flawlessly. Several journalists standing nearby exchanged knowing smiles.

One quietly murmured to another, “Second time’s always the charm.” The other nodded, unable to suppress a grin. “Only with Charles.”

Neither of them noticed the tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she thanked him and moved on to the next question.

It became such a regular occurrence that even the producers started accounting for it.

Inside the broadcast truck, someone had quietly created a bingo card.

Charles apologises.

Charles laughs awkwardly.

Question repeated.

Charles rubs the back of his neck.

Charles says “Sorry, I was thinking.”

The square in the very centre simply read:

Charles stares.

It was always crossed off first.

One afternoon after qualifying, the producer glanced down at the clipboard. “We’re one apology away from a full house.”

The cameraman didn’t even look up from his viewfinder. “Give it ten seconds.” She asked Charles about tyre degradation. He looked at her. Silence. “Charles?”

“Oh.” A laugh. “I’m sorry.” The cameraman triumphantly pointed towards the bingo card. “There! Bingo!”

“Ladies and gentlemen…” The producer dramatically drew a thick line through the final square. “We have another winner.” The truck erupted into applause.

Unfortunately for Charles, the drivers had also begun noticing the pattern.

George Russell was perhaps the most merciless. He’d watched enough interviews to realise they all unfolded exactly the same way.

After one particularly amusing media session in Hungary, George wandered over just as Charles finished speaking with her. “So…” Charles looked up. “So?”

“What colour were her eyes today?” Charles frowned. “Blue.” George folded his arms. “You answered that suspiciously quickly.” Charles immediately realised his mistake. “I mean—”

“You hesitated for three seconds answering a question about your front wing.” George grinned. “But somehow you know the exact shade of her eyes.” Charles stared at him. “They’re very blue.” George threw his head back laughing. “Oh, mate.” Charles sighed. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

“Magnificently.” George smiled with mock sympathy. “You’re never beating these allegations.”

On the other hand, Oscar was subtler. Far subtler. He simply observed. One weekend in Austria, he happened to be standing beside her while she prepared for Charles’ interview.

Oscar watched Charles approach from the Ferrari garage. He noticed something immediately. Charles wasn’t looking where he was walking. He was looking at her. Not intensely. Not dramatically. Just automatically. Like breathing.

Oscar glanced sideways. “Does he always smile like that?” She looked up from her notes. “Hm?”

“When he sees you.” She followed Oscar’s gaze. Charles was still walking towards them, completely unaware that he had already been noticed.

Sure enough. There it was. That smile again. Warm. Unconscious. Almost boyishly happy. She felt her own heart betray her with a tiny flutter.

“I don’t know.” She glanced briefly towards Charles before looking back at Oscar, carefully schooling her features into one of polite uncertainty.

Oscar hummed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting between the two of them. “I think he likes talking to you.”

Before she had the chance to respond, Charles reached them, the familiar smile already finding its way onto his face the moment he drew close.

“Hello.” His greeting was warm, almost instinctively so. “Hi, Charles.” She smiled back just as naturally. The expression softened his almost immediately. Perhaps a little wider than necessary.

“How are you?” There was a quiet sincerity in the question, as though he genuinely wanted to know rather than merely making conversation. “I’m good.” Her smile lingered. “Congratulations on today.”

“Thank you.” His voice was gentle, accompanied by the faintest flush creeping across his cheeks beneath her praise.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. Quite the opposite. It settled comfortably between them, filled by nothing more than shared smiles and an effortless familiarity that neither seemed eager to interrupt.

Oscar looked from Charles to her. Then back again. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. Very slowly, with the expression of a man deciding he was no longer required, he took a careful step backwards.

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Charles blinked, looking genuinely puzzled. “What?” Oscar’s lips twitched. “Oh, nothing.” He offered them both an entirely innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one.

“You two seem busy.” Before either of them could protest, he turned on his heel and wandered away, quietly shaking his head to himself.

Only once he was out of earshot did Charles glance back at her. “Why do I feel like he knows something?” She looked down at her cue cards, hiding the smile threatening to spread across her face. “I’ve absolutely no idea.” They were both lying. Terribly. Charles blinked.

Max Verstappen, meanwhile, possessed all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

He happened to walk past midway through another interview. Charles had once again become distracted. She had once again repeated the question.

Max slowed to a stop. Watched the exchange. Watched Charles apologise. Watched him smile. Then continued walking without breaking stride.

As he passed Lando, he remarked in the flattest voice imaginable, “It’s actually painful.” Lando laughed. “What is?”

“He is.” Max jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve seen people with better concentration after a concussion.” Lando nearly choked on his water.

Lewis noticed something else entirely. It wasn’t the staring. Or the forgotten questions. It was the way she looked back. Most people focused on Charles. How could they not? His expression was almost impossible to ignore.

But Lewis had spent enough years under the spotlight to recognise the subtler side of affection.

He noticed the tiny smile she reserved only for him. The softness in her voice whenever she repeated a question. The way she never seemed remotely irritated when he lost his train of thought.

One evening, after media duties had finally ended, Lewis found himself walking beside her towards the paddock entrance. “You know…” She glanced across. “Hm?”

“You’re very patient with Charles.” Lewis spoke with the easy warmth that had always characterised him, adjusting the strap of his backpack as the two of them strolled side by side through the gradually quietening paddock.

She let out a soft laugh. “He makes my job interesting.” There was unmistakable fondness in her voice, though she hoped it sounded no different from the affection any interviewer might have for a particularly entertaining driver.

“I’m sure.” Lewis smiled to himself, as though the answer had merely confirmed something he’d already suspected.

“I think you’re his favourite interviewer.” Her heartbeat stumbled painfully against her ribs. For one terrifying moment, she was certain he could hear it. She forced herself to maintain the same composed smile she wore on camera every weekend. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” Lewis nodded absent-mindedly, adjusting the strap of his backpack more comfortably across his shoulder. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone else the way he looks at you.”

The words landed with startling gentleness. For the briefest moment, she forgot how to breathe. Her mind emptied.

Years of carefully rehearsed professionalism threatened to crumble beneath one simple observation.

Fortunately, Lewis continued speaking before the silence had the chance to become suspicious. “It’s sweet.” A fond smile touched the corners of his mouth. “He seems genuinely comfortable around you.”

She swallowed quietly, willing herself to remain composed. “I hope whoever he’s dating treats him well.”

Lewis spoke the words almost absent-mindedly, looking out across the paddock as mechanics wheeled equipment back towards their garages.

She lowered her gaze. A smile, small, tender and impossibly fond, curved gently across her lips before she had the chance to stop it.

“I hope so too.” The reply was scarcely louder than a whisper. Barely four words. Yet they carried the weight of years. If Lewis noticed the emotion quietly woven through them, he was far too gracious to acknowledge it. Instead, he simply smiled.

“See you next weekend.” His voice was warm, accompanied by a friendly nod. “See you.” She returned the smile just as warmly, watching him disappear into the steadily thinning crowd of engineers, mechanics and journalists before finally allowing herself to exhale the breath she’d unknowingly been holding.

Only then did she dare glance across the paddock. Almost as though he had sensed her looking, Charles lifted his head from the conversation he was having with one of the Ferrari mechanics.

Their eyes met. Across dozens of people. Across the endless bustle of another race weekend. His face softened instantly. And there it was again.

That smile. The one the cameras always found. The one the internet endlessly analysed. The one that belonged only to her.

She smiled back. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for him to see it. Then they both looked away again. Two professionals carrying on with their work. Nothing more. At least, that was what everyone still believed.

She watched him disappear into the evening crowd before releasing the breath she’d unknowingly been holding.

And yet neither of them noticed the photographer standing several metres away. He frowned at the image he’d just captured. Charles wasn’t posing. Neither was she.

They weren’t touching. They weren’t even standing together. They were simply looking at one another from opposite ends of the paddock.

Yet somehow, it was the most intimate photograph he’d taken all season. He couldn’t quite explain why. Only that there was something in the way they smiled.

The sort of smile that only ever belonged to people who already knew what home looked like.

By the time the championship reached its European summer stretch, the entire paddock had accepted one indisputable truth.

Charles Leclerc had a hopelessly obvious crush. Nobody knew what he intended to do about it. Nobody knew whether she felt the same. But absolutely everybody agreed on one thing. The man was catastrophically down bad.

It became such common knowledge that journalists from entirely different broadcasters would quietly gather near the media pen whenever Charles was scheduled for an interview.

Not because they needed another quote. Not because Ferrari had unveiled some revolutionary upgrade. Simply because there was a reasonably high probability that Charles would accidentally provide the paddock with another moment to laugh about over dinner.

“He’s due in two minutes.” One journalist glanced down at the schedule on his phone before looking expectantly towards the Ferrari garage.

“You think he’ll forget the question again?” Another adjusted the camera slung over his shoulder, a grin already spreading across his face.

“I’m betting on it.” The confidence in his voice suggested he had absolutely no intention of losing that wager. “No.” A photographer shook his head, folding his arms. “Today he’ll answer the wrong one.”

Several nearby journalists laughed in agreement. “What odds are we getting?” Someone leaned against the media barrier, looking thoroughly invested in a betting pool that really had no business existing.

“Very favourable.” The reply came immediately. “Unless she smiles first.” A ripple of laughter spread through the group.

Someone else chuckled, glancing towards the opposite end of the paddock where she had just appeared with a microphone tucked neatly beneath one arm.

“If she laughs before the interview even starts…” He let the sentence hang dramatically in the air for a moment. “He’s finished.”

A chorus of amused hums rippled through the group as everyone offered their own increasingly confident predictions.

“Completely.” One photographer nodded with absolute certainty. “Won’t even hear the question.” Another journalist folded his arms, sounding as though he were reciting a well-established fact rather than making a guess. “He’ll apologise at least twice.”

“And rub the back of his neck.” A producer mimed the familiar gesture, prompting another round of laughter. “Don’t forget the nervous laugh.”

Someone else chimed in from the back of the group, lifting a finger as though reminding everyone of a crucial detail.

The journalists exchanged knowing smiles before collectively nodding in agreement. It was, by now, simply part of the routine.

By now, Charles Leclerc interviews had become so wonderfully predictable that half the media pen could practically recite them from memory.

All that remained was to wait for the star of the show to arrive.

She, blissfully, or perhaps deliberately, ignorant of the betting pools forming around her interviews, adjusted the earpiece resting against one ear.

“Audio?” She adjusted the earpiece resting comfortably against one ear, pressing a fingertip lightly against it as she waited for the response from the production truck. “Loud and clear.” The producer’s voice crackled reassuringly through her headset. “Perfect.”

She nodded to herself, taking one slow, steady breath before glancing down at the neatly arranged cue cards in her hands, mentally preparing for yet another interview she already suspected would not go quite according to plan.

“Charles is on his way.” She inhaled slowly. Professional. Composed. Calm. Just another interview. Except, it never really felt like just another interview anymore.

Not for her. She had spent years perfecting the art of separating her professional life from her private one. It wasn’t easy dating someone whose face appeared on billboards, magazine covers and television screens across the world.

Especially when your own career required you to stand opposite him with cameras broadcasting every expression to millions of viewers.

There were rules. Invisible ones. Never touch him. Never linger after the interview. Never look too familiar. Never smile for too long. Never let your eyes soften the way they naturally wanted to. Never allow yourself to forget there were cameras watching.

Most days, she managed. Most days. Today, however, became considerably more difficult the moment Charles rounded the corner.

He was still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to his waist, the fireproof undershirt clinging to him after another physically gruelling afternoon.

His curls were hopelessly messy from where he’d dragged a hand through them after climbing from the cockpit.

There was the faintest flush colouring his cheeks. He looked exhausted. He also looked ridiculously handsome.

Their eyes met. Immediately. His face lit up with that same involuntary smile she’d fallen in love with years ago. There it is, she thought helplessly. Every single time.

She felt the corners of her own mouth lift despite every effort to stop them. Professional. Remember you’re at work. Charles reached her. “Hello.”

His voice was softer than usual. Almost relieved. “Hi.” She smiled. “Good session?” He nodded. “I think so.” Another pause. Entirely unnecessary. Entirely avoidable. Yet neither of them seemed inclined to break it.

Around them, several journalists exchanged quietly amused glances, the corners of their mouths already beginning to twitch with barely concealed smiles.

One photographer leaned subtly towards the colleague beside him, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. “They’re doing it again.”

“What?” The second photographer frowned, following his line of sight. “The smiling.”

“What smiling?” He looked between Charles and her, apparently missing the point entirely. “They always spend about five seconds just looking at each other.”

Sure enough. Neither Charles nor she had spoken another word. Neither seemed particularly concerned by the silence stretching comfortably between them.

They were simply smiling. Not broadly. Not flirtatiously. Not in any way that could reasonably be called inappropriate. Just. Fondly.

The sort of quiet, unconscious smile that appeared only upon seeing someone whose company made the world feel a little lighter.

Like two people who had unexpectedly run into the very person they’d secretly been hoping to see all day.

The producer’s voice suddenly crackled through her earpiece, jolting her back to reality. “We’re live.” She blinked, momentarily startled. “Oh.”

Charles let out a soft laugh, unable to resist the opportunity. “So professional.” She shot him a mock glare, though the smile threatening the corners of her mouth ruined any attempt at looking genuinely annoyed.

“You are literally the distraction.” Charles lifted both hands innocently. “I’ve done nothing.”

“You’ve been standing there smiling.” She gestured vaguely in his direction, trying, and failing, to sound accusatory.

Charles tilted his head ever so slightly. “So have you.” She opened her mouth, entirely prepared with what she was certain would be an excellent rebuttal.

Nothing came. After a brief pause, she quietly closed it again. “Fair point.” Charles’ grin widened just a fraction.

Several nearby journalists immediately looked away, pretending to be fascinated by literally anything else.

The cameraman, meanwhile, bit down firmly on the inside of his cheek. If he laughed loudly enough for the microphones to pick it up, he’d never hear the end of it from the production team.

Professionalism demanded silence. Unfortunately, Charles and she were making that professionalism increasingly difficult to maintain.

She cleared her throat. “Charles, congratulations on another strong qualifying performance. Just talk us through that final lap and how much confidence the car gave you in Sector Two.”

Charles nodded. “Mhm.” He looked every bit the attentive interviewee, his gaze fixed earnestly on her as though he had absorbed every word she had just said.

Silence. She waited patiently, expecting him to elaborate. He continued nodding. Nothing else. “Charles?”

“Hm?” He looked at her with genuine innocence. “My question?” He blinked once. “Oh.” Then twice. A flicker of realisation crossed his features. Right. The interview.

“I…” A sheepish laugh escaped him as one hand instinctively found the back of his neck, rubbing it with the now painfully familiar gesture everyone in the paddock had come to associate with his embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” Several journalists lowered their heads almost in unison, biting the insides of their cheeks in a valiant attempt to suppress their laughter.

Someone quietly muttered from somewhere near the back of the media pen, “There’s the apology.” She glanced up at him, amusement dancing unmistakably in her eyes. “You weren’t listening.”

“I was.” His denial came automatically. Firm. Confident. Entirely unconvincing. “No.” She smiled knowingly. “Mostly.”

Charles amended after a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting into another helpless grin.

She raised a single eyebrow. “What did I ask?” Charles looked genuinely thoughtful. His brows knitted together as though he were searching every corner of his memory for the missing question.

“Something about…” A pause. Long enough for several nearby journalists to exchange anticipatory glances. “The car?” The entire media pen dissolved into silent laughter. One photographer physically had to lower his camera as his shoulders began shaking.

She folded her cue cards lightly against her chest. “I asked about Sector Two.” Charles winced. “That was going to be my second guess.”

“It wasn’t.” She didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah no.” He sighed dramatically. “It really wasn’t.” Another warm, breathless laugh escaped him. “I’m sorry.”

This time, when their eyes met, there was something almost pleading in his expression. “I’m listening now.” Her heart did something deeply inconvenient.

She smiled despite herself. “I know.” Without another word, she repeated the question exactly as before.

Charles listened with almost exaggerated concentration this time, answering the moment she finished speaking. His response was everything one would expect from Charles Leclerc. Detailed. Insightful. Measured.

He explained tyre temperatures, braking confidence and the balance of the car with the effortless precision of someone who understood every nuance of his machinery.

Several journalists exchanged amused smiles. There he was. The Charles they all knew. The interview continued without further incident.

Until… “Looking ahead to tomorrow,” she asked, “Where do you think your biggest challenge will be?” Charles answered immediately. “The race pace should be—”

He stopped. She had absent-mindedly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so small. So utterly insignificant. She hadn’t even realised she’d done it.

Charles, however, noticed. Instantly. His sentence dissolved somewhere between thought and speech. Gone. Completely gone.

His eyes lingered on her for perhaps a second longer than they should have. Then another. Then. “Charles?” He blinked. “Oh.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh escaped him. “I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t help herself anymore. A quiet laugh slipped free before she could stop it. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t mocking. Just warm enough to make the tips of Charles’ ears turn an unmistakable shade of pink all over again.

“Again?” There was unmistakable amusement in her voice now. Charles gave an apologetic smile. “I’m trying.”

“I can see that.” She replied with a smile that was equal parts amused and reassuring, her tone gentle enough to ease at least a fraction of his embarrassment.

“I promise I know things about racing.” Charles looked at her with such earnest sincerity that, for a fleeting moment, it almost sounded as though he genuinely felt the need to defend his credibility.

His expression was so hopelessly distressed that several nearby journalists had to look away again, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

“I’ve never doubted it.” Her smile softened as she spoke, the warmth in her voice making him feel marginally less mortified.

“It’s just…” Charles hesitated. His lips parted. Closed again. For one dangerous heartbeat, it seemed as though he might actually say what was on his mind.

His eyes remained fixed on hers, every sensible thought abandoning him all over again.

Just what? Just that you’re distracting? Just that you’re beautiful? Just that every time I look at you I forget my own name?

His lips parted ever so slightly before he thought better of it. Whatever confession had almost escaped remained safely locked behind his teeth. Instead, he settled for a sheepish smile. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Mhm.” She nodded with exaggerated seriousness, as though carefully considering the explanation. “A very long day.” Charles smiled. He knew she didn’t believe him. She knew he knew. Neither of them acknowledged it. Neither needed to.

After the interview ended, Charles thanked her politely before walking back towards the Ferrari garage.

He’d barely taken ten steps when he heard someone call his name. “Charles.” He turned.

George. Arms folded. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yes?” George smiled. “I’ve got a question.” Charles immediately became suspicious. “What?”

“When she tucked her hair behind her ear…” George began innocently enough, though the unmistakable glint in his eyes suggested he already knew exactly where this conversation was going.

Charles’ expression froze. Every muscle in his face seemed to lock into place. “What about it?” He attempted to sound casual. He failed rather spectacularly.

George folded his arms. “What happened?” Silence. Charles blinked once, searching desperately for an answer that didn’t immediately incriminate him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

George laughed. Not because the excuse was convincing. Quite the opposite. “You stopped speaking.”

“I lost my train of thought.” Charles shrugged weakly, as though that perfectly ordinary explanation ought to settle the matter.

“Mhm.” George nodded with exaggerated understanding. “That happens.”

“It does.” Charles seized upon the opportunity immediately, sounding almost relieved. George nodded again. “Of course.” He paused just long enough to let Charles believe he had escaped.

Then, “I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact you were staring at her again.” Charles tipped his head back towards the sky, releasing a long, theatrical sigh that drew an amused smile from several nearby mechanics.

“I wasn’t staring.” George didn’t say a word. He simply looked at him. Patiently. Knowingly. “Charles.” The single word carried enough disbelief to make any further denial feel entirely pointless.

Charles held his gaze for another moment before his shoulders sagged in surrender. “Fine.” A grin spread triumphantly across George’s face. “I knew it.”

“I looked.” Charles admitted quietly, rubbing the back of his neck in defeat. “For how long?” George asked with entirely too much curiosity. Charles actually stopped to think about it. His brow furrowed as he mentally replayed the moment. “Longer than intended.”

George threw his head back, laughter escaping him before he could stop it. “I genuinely don’t know how you’ve managed to keep this crush a secret.”

Charles smiled to himself. It was a small smile. Private. Almost impossibly fond. If only you knew. The thought lingered quietly in his mind. He said nothing. And somehow, the silence revealed even more than any words ever could.

Simply shook his head, muttering something under his breath in French as he walked away. George watched him disappear before turning to Alex Albon, who had witnessed the entire exchange. “I'll give it another month.” Alex frowned. “For what?”

“For one of them to accidentally confess.” Alex considered everything he’d seen over the past several race weekends. The smiles. The forgotten questions. The lingering glances. The way Charles seemed incapable of functioning whenever she was nearby. Then he nodded thoughtfully. “Honestly?”

“I’ll be surprised if they make it that long.” Neither of them realised how frighteningly accurate that prediction would prove to be.

Because somewhere in the not-so-distant future. Under the blazing Italian sun. In front of thousands upon thousands of jubilant Tifosi. With every television camera in Formula One pointed directly at him, Charles Leclerc was going to forget himself completely.

And with one hopelessly honest sentence, he would accidentally tell the entire world exactly who had possessed his heart all along.

Monza. There were race victories. And then there were victories at Monza. Nothing, not championships, not records, not statistics, could ever truly prepare a Ferrari driver for the sound of the Tifosi when one of their own crossed the finish line first.

It was not merely cheering. It was a living thing. A tidal wave of emotion that crashed through the grandstands, rolled across the circuit and shook the very foundations of the ancient temple of speed.

Scarlet flags rippled like an endless sea. Smoke flares painted the late afternoon sky crimson.

The grandstands trembled beneath thousands upon thousands of jubilant voices chanting one name. “Charles! Charles! Charles!”

Inside the cockpit, Charles barely heard them. His visor had long since fogged with tears. “P1, Charles! P1! You have won the Italian Grand Prix!” Bryan’s voice cracked over the radio.

For several seconds, Charles couldn’t answer. His chest rose sharply beneath the belts. His hands remained wrapped around the steering wheel, trembling ever so slightly.

When he finally spoke, his voice was scarcely recognisable. “We did it.” A shaky breath. “We actually did it.”

The Ferrari garage erupted. Mechanics threw their arms around one another. Engineers openly cried.

Fred Vasseur removed his glasses to discreetly wipe his eyes before anyone could notice. Monza. They had given Monza back to Ferrari.

The celebrations blurred together. Champagne soaked through his race suit. His mother embraced him so tightly he thought she might never let go.

Arthur refused to stop smiling. Lorenzo slapped him on the back so hard he nearly dropped the trophy. Everywhere he turned, scarlet. Laughter. Music. Italian voices singing at the tops of their lungs. It felt almost unreal. Like standing inside someone else’s dream.

Eventually, a Ferrari press officer gently touched his shoulder. “Media.” Charles nodded. “Right.” He inhaled deeply. Collected himself as best he could. Then made his way towards the media pen.

She was already waiting. Microphone resting lightly in one hand. Broadcast notes tucked beneath the other arm. The afternoon sun caught the edge of her hair, turning loose strands to spun gold.

She had watched every lap. Every overtake. Every defensive manoeuvre. She had cried when he crossed the line. She had simply been fortunate enough that television cameras were pointed elsewhere.

Now she had exactly one job. Be professional. She repeated the words silently to herself. Professional. Nothing more. Charles stepped into view. The moment their eyes met, everything else quietly disappeared.

His smile arrived first. Slow. Soft. Utterly exhausted. The sort of smile reserved only for home. Her own answer before she could stop it. The producer counted them in.

“Three…Two…One…” A red light blinked alive. She lifted the microphone. “Charles—” Her voice faltered for only the briefest heartbeat before recovering. “Congratulations.”

He never took his eyes off her. “A home victory.” She smiled. “In front of the Tifosi.” Another pause. “What does this moment mean to you?” Silence. She waited.

Charles simply looked at her. The cameras caught everything. His impossibly bright blue-green eyes. The champagne still glistening across his curls. The emotion lingering openly upon his face.

He wasn’t listening. Not because he didn’t care. Because after one of the most emotional afternoons of his life, his heart no longer possessed the strength to pretend.

She spoke again, amusement creeping gently into her voice. “Charles?” Nothing. A photographer quietly lowered his camera. Another journalist exchanged a knowing smile with the person beside him.

Someone whispered, “He’s doing it again.” She couldn’t suppress the tiny laugh escaping her. “Charles.” He blinked. “Oh.” The colour drained from his face. “I’m…” He laughed breathlessly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m so sorry.” The paddock smiled almost collectively. There it was again. The apology. “I completely forgot the question.”

“I noticed.” He laughed again. Then, before his exhausted mind could stop his mouth, “You look…” His eyes swept over her face. The sunlight dancing across her lashes. The smile she was trying so desperately to hide. “…so beautiful today.”

Silence. His own words seemed to catch up with him a second later. “I…” He stopped. Her heart lurched. Around them, the paddock froze.

Even the photographers forgot to press their shutters. Charles swallowed. “I couldn’t…” Another helpless laugh. “I couldn’t concentrate.” The silence became almost deafening.

The cameraman physically lowered his camera for a split second before remembering they were broadcasting live.

Fred slowly closed his eyes. “Oh, Charles…” She could feel the heat rushing into her cheeks. Years. They had hidden this for years.

She somehow forced herself to repeat the question. Charles answered. Perfectly. He spoke about Ferrari. The fans. The team. His family. Every answer was articulate. Heartfelt. Professional. The interview drew naturally towards its conclusion.

She smiled warmly, every trace of professionalism returning to her expression despite the lingering blush still colouring her cheeks. “Charles, congratulations once again.”

“Thank you.” His smile was softer now, calmer, though his eyes never quite left hers. “And enjoy celebrating with the team.”

“I will.” There was a quiet sincerity in his reply that made her heart tighten all over again. Slowly, she lowered the microphone, signalling the end of the interview. “Thank you for your time.”

“My pleasure.” A beat of silence settled between them. The cameras were still rolling. Neither of them moved. Then, almost simultaneously, they seemed to remember where they were.

There. Finished. The interview was over. No accidental confessions. No slipped endearments. No suspicious lingering touches. They had survived. Or so they thought.

He smiled at her one final time before turning to leave. One step. Then another. Then, without thinking, without even looking back. He spoke with the effortless familiarity of a man ending an ordinary conversation at home. “I’ll see you tonight, amour.”

Everything stopped. Charles took one more step. Then froze. His eyes slowly widened. No. No, no, no. Behind him was absolute silence.

The kind of silence that only exists after something impossible has just happened. He turned around with almost painful slowness. She was still standing exactly where he’d left her.

Microphone hanging uselessly at her side. Eyes impossibly wide. One hand instinctively covering her mouth. Every colour had drained from her face.

The producer’s voice exploded through her earpiece. “Don’t cut!” Another voice shouted, “Stay live!”

Around them, the media pen had fallen into a stunned, almost unnatural silence.

Journalists stood frozen where they were, staring between Charles and her in complete disbelief, as though none of them quite trusted what they had just heard.

One photographer slowly lowered his camera from his eye. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Did he just say—”

“Amour.” The colleague beside him answered automatically, still looking utterly dumbfounded. “He called her amour.”

A third journalist shook his head in disbelief, convinced he must have misheard. “No…”

Another swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the pair standing in the middle of the media pen. “…He did.”

A beat of stunned silence followed. Then, almost as one, every head in the media pen snapped back towards Charles.

Nobody was thinking about Ferrari’s victory anymore. Fred buried his face in both hands. The Ferrari mechanics looked at one another.

Then simultaneously burst into helpless laughter. Carlos closed his eyes. “I knew he’d be the one.” Lando slapped both hands over his mouth before doubling over.

“I cannot believe he actually did it.” George looked as though Christmas had arrived six months early. “I TOLD YOU!”

Charles stood rooted to the spot. His mind had completely emptied. Years. Years of careful planning. Years of separate hotels. Separate flights. Never once holding her hand in public. Never allowing even the smallest slip. And he had undone every single precaution. With one word. One tiny, habitual word.

She looked at him. Then, despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, she laughed. Quietly at first. Then harder. Because the expression on his face was one she had never seen before. Pure, unfiltered horror.

Charles finally managed, “I…” Nothing came out. She shook her head fondly. Still laughing through her embarrassment. “It’s alright.”

“No…” Charles let out a slow, defeated breath, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as another small, hopelessly nervous laugh escaped him.

Another followed almost immediately. The sound was soft. Disbelieving. “I don’t think it is.” The words had scarcely left his mouth before the media pen exploded into life.

Months, years, of speculation suddenly demanded answers. Questions came from every direction at once, voices overlapping until they became almost impossible to distinguish.

Questions erupted from every direction, overlapping into a cacophony of astonished voices as journalists abandoned every trace of professional composure.

“Since when?” One reporter called out, microphone already thrust towards them. “Are you together?” Another voice immediately followed, louder than the first. “How long?” A third journalist stepped forward, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Charles!” Someone else simply shouted his name, hoping for any sort of explanation. More voices joined the frenzy.

Cameras clicked so rapidly that they sounded almost like rainfall. Microphones crowded towards them from every direction.

For the first time in years, the media pen wasn’t interested in lap times, strategy or Ferrari. They wanted only one story. And it was standing right in front of them.

Photographers forgot entirely about maintaining orderly positions, all scrambling for the perfect angle of the moment every single one of them knew would become Formula One history.

Charles stood frozen. Then, almost instinctively, he looked towards her. It was the same look he had worn countless times before.

The same quiet, trusting glance he always gave whenever he found himself hopelessly out of his depth.

The look that silently asked, Help. She met his eyes. And smiled. Not the polished smile reserved for television. Not the professional smile she’d perfected over years in front of a camera. This one belonged only to him.

It was so full of quiet affection, unwavering reassurance and unmistakable love that, in that instant, every carefully constructed wall they’d spent years building simply ceased to matter.

There was no point pretending anymore. Not after this. Not after amour. She took a single step towards him. Just one. Enough to close the distance that had always existed between them in public.

Close enough that the world around them blurred into little more than indistinct noise. Close enough that only he could hear her.

“You’ve already said it.” Charles closed his eyes briefly before giving the smallest, weakest nod. “I know.” There was no panic left in his voice now. Only resignation. “So…” Her own smile softened even further.

She lifted one hand. With the lightest touch imaginable, she smoothed an imaginary crease from the collar of his Ferrari race suit. The gesture was so ordinary. So domestic. So instinctive.

Yet somehow, it spoke louder than any declaration either of them could ever have made. “Come here.”

There wasn’t the slightest hesitation. Charles obeyed immediately. As naturally as breathing. She rose onto the tips of her toes. He instinctively bent down to meet her. Their foreheads touched first. Gently.

The familiar gesture drew a collective gasp from somewhere within the crowd of journalists. Neither of them heard it. Charles smiled. The sort of smile that had never belonged to cameras.

Only to her. She closed the final inch between them. Her lips met his in a kiss so impossibly soft that it almost seemed too intimate for the thousands of people standing around them.

There was nothing theatrical about it. Nothing performed. Nothing designed for the cameras. It wasn’t a triumphant kiss. Nor a dramatic one. It was simply love.

The kind of kiss exchanged by two people who had spent years stealing moments in empty hotel corridors, quiet airport lounges and late-night phone calls.

The kind of kiss that said I’ve missed you without uttering a single word. For one fleeting heartbeat, the world disappeared. There were no television cameras.

No journalists. No mechanics. No championship. No Ferrari. No expectations. Only the quiet certainty of finding one another after another race weekend.

When they finally parted, Charles didn’t move far. He rested his forehead lightly against hers, his eyes fluttering closed for the briefest moment.

A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “I suppose…” He let out another tiny, breathless laugh. “the secret’s out.”

She laughed softly, tears of relief and amusement shimmering unmistakably in her eyes. The sound made Charles smile even wider. “I suppose it is.”

Behind them. Pandemonium. The paddock erupted into absolute chaos. Questions were shouted from every direction. Someone in the broadcast truck could be heard yelling,

“Don’t cut! Keep rolling!” Ferrari mechanics stared at one another before simultaneously bursting into triumphant laughter. Carlos buried his face in his hands. “I knew it.”

“I am never letting him live this down.” George simply threw both hands into the air. “I told you all!”

Even Fred Vasseur, who had suspected something long before anyone else, merely sighed, shook his head, and smiled with the fond exasperation of a man watching two hopelessly lovestruck idiots finally stop making life unnecessarily difficult for themselves.

Across social media, clips began spreading before the interview had even finished broadcasting.

One showed Charles forgetting every interview she’d ever conducted. Another compiled years of lingering glances. Another simply zoomed in on the way his face softened every time she entered the frame.

Suddenly. Everything made sense. The forgotten questions. The shy smiles. The nervous laughter. The way Charles always seemed to find her in a crowded paddock. The way she had never once looked annoyed when he forgot what he’d been saying. The way they smiled at one another as though nobody else existed.

The internet had spent years believing they were watching a driver with an embarrassingly obvious crush on his favourite interviewer.

They couldn’t have been more wrong. They had been watching something infinitely rarer. A love story. One that had unfolded quietly, patiently and beautifully in plain sight.

And all it had taken to reveal it was one absent-minded little word.

Amour.

You had first met Charles at an event you were performing at - one of those glittery, too-polished, industry-meets-sports charity galas where everyone pretends they’re not intimidated by the guest list. You’d just come offstage, lungs still raw from belting, adrenaline buzzing through your bloodstream like carbonation. 

You were wiping sweat off your brow when someone tapped your shoulder.

You turned around and nearly swallowed your tongue. 

Charles Leclerc stood behind you, hands tucked casually into the pockets of a suit tailored so perfectly it looked like it had been built directly onto him. His smile made you understand why people said the phrase weak in the knees with religious reverence. 

“Hi,” he’d said, completely oblivious he was triggering a small, personal apocalypse inside your body “I wanted to tell you, your performance was incredible.”

You blinked at him. Inhumanely slowly. Like a malfunctioning robot. 

“Oh,” you’d said brilliantly. “Cool.”

You would spend the next six months wanting to fling yourself into the sun every time the memory resurfaced. 

But somehow, he didn’t seem to mind your complete lack of social grace. He ended up in your circle that whole night. Leaning against a bar counter, laughing softly when you made a joke. Asking you about your tour. Teasing you when you got flustered because he said your name in that soft, melodic accent.

You left the event absolutely determined never to think about him again. 

You failed spectacularly. 

You wrote one lyric as a joke. Just to bully yourself about how ridiculous your crush was. A throwaway line that came to you at 3 a.m. while you were eating dry cereal from the box and replaying his smile like an idiot.

But then you wrote another. 

And another. 

And suddenly, your notes app was a graveyard of confessions you would rather eat glass than say out loud. Tiny what-ifs. Snippets of imagined conversations. One embarrassingly detailed hypothetical about a beach honeymoon you’d sworn you’d delete and then… didn’t. 

The song became a catchy, clever little thing. A wink at your own delusion. Something you could hide behind. Something that sounded like a joke until you listened too closely and heard the sincerity woven beneath. 

The plan - your very solid, well thought-out, extremely reasonable plan - was that it was never going to see the light of day. It would live and die in your voice memos. It was going to stay as one of those B-side lost and forgotten demos that people question if it was actually you or some AI generated slop. 

But of course, nothing in your career had ever gone according to plan. 

Your producer found it. 

Not because you showed it to him - you would sooner commit tax fraud on live television - but because you left your phone connected to the studio Bluetooth a second too long. One moment, the song you had intended to be the lead single was playing. The next, your breathy, unpolished demo was echoing through the monitors like a confession you’d left wide open on the kitchen table. 

You’d nearly thrown yourself through the soundproof glass. Your untuned guitar. Your scratch vocals. The line about Mai Tais. 

But he didn’t stop the track. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look surprised. 

When it ended, he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and said. “Yeah that needs to go on the album.”

You almost bit him.

“Absolutely not,” you snapped. “It’s - stupid. And embarrassing. And hypothetical. None of that ever happened.”

“And good,” he added, annoyingly calm. “Really good.”

You tried every excuse in the book - “it’s too personal,” “it’s too unserious,” “It’s not even finished,” “It’s literally a joke” - but he just kept looking at you like he’d already won. 

And he had. 

Because eventually, the label got a hold of it. And the label loved it. 

And suddenly, the “little joke song you wrote at 3 a.m. while delusionally imagining a hypothetical honeymoon with a Monegasque race car driver with dimples” was now the lead single of your new era. 

You should’ve run away to a remote cabin in the mountains. Somewhere unreachable. Somewhere with no internet. Somewhere where the words “Charles Leclerc reacts to viral new single” could never find you. 

Instead, you agreed to the press cycle from hell. 

Which was how you found yourself sitting under hot studio lights, smiling like your teeth weren’t seconds away from shattering, pretending your soul wasn’t peeling itself out of your body every time a journalist so much as breathed in the direction of your inspiration. 

The chair beneath you was unforgiving, so stiff no human being could have actually designed it. Your palms were sweating. Your knee bounced like it was hired to generate renewable energy. Your team stood off-camera wearing brittle, please-don’t-say-something-insane smiles.

“So,” one interviewer said, crossing her legs with the smooth precision of someone who smelled panic and intended to feast on it. Her eyes glimmered, playful but sharp. Predatory in the way journalists got when they knew something delicious was buried under your composure. “This song… it feels personal. Was there someone specific on your mind while writing it?”

You lied. Badly. 

“No! No, no, no. God, no. Absolutely not.” You laughed. A little too loud. A deranged circus clown sound. “I mean - it’s just a song. Totally fictional. Silly. Hypothetical. I don’t even - like - know any race car drivers personally.”

The interviewer blinked at you like she was quietly praying for your dignity. The cameraman muttered something under his breath about how his toddler lied more convincingly. 

A clip of your answer went viral within four hours. 

“I DON’T KNOW ANY RACE CAR DRIVERS” became a meme template. People stitched reaction videos. Edits of Charles to your song flooded TikTok. Fans made PowerPoint presentations analyzing every micro-expression on your face like it was the Zapruder film.

One tweet read: 

“Look at her EAR, she lies through her ear my god it TURNED RED.”

“I can’t believe she looked directly at the camera while lying like that,” another said. “That wasn’t even a lie, that was art.”

And fine. Whatever. Embarrassment was temporary. Mortification was survivable. You’d lived through worse, like the one Grammy’s performance where you tripped on live television and pretended it was part of your choreography. (It was not.)

But the part that made your stomach twist every night, was that Charles saw it. 

You knew he did. Because you checked. 

Not deliberately. Not obsessively. (You were lying again, even to yourself.)

He’d seen the clip. He’d liked the post. 

And you didn’t know what it meant. Did he think it was funny? Did he think you were pathetic? Did he know that the song was about him? Or was he just humoring the internet? Did he think you had the emotional stability of a piece of wet lettuce? 

You’d spent the next three days oscillating between spiraling doom and furious denial. 

Then, just when you were halfway through rehearsing the song, you got the text. From your manager.

He’s going to be at your concert this weekend. Don’t freak out.

You stared at the screen. Freaking out was your default state. 

Your hands went cold. Then hot. Then cold again. 

You set your phone down, took a deep breath, and did what any reasonable adult would do in a moment like this:

You paced a hole into the studio floor. 

“He’s going to be there,” you muttered to yourself, hand flying to your forehead like you were in some Victorian tragedy. “He’s going to be there and I’m going to die.” 

Your guitarist looked up from tuning, eyebrows raised. “Everything okay?”

“No,” you said immediately. “Everything is - nothing is - Charles Leclerc is -”

He blinked twice. “Oh. The song guy.”

“The song guy,” you echoed, shoulders slumped for half a second. “The guy from the song. The guy the hypothetical song isn’t hypothetically about because it’s fictional and theoretical and -” You threw your hands up. “I’m fucking going to jail.”

“For what?” he asked, deadpan.

“Emotional slander.”

He shrugged. “Well, you’ll be the prettiest inmate.”

You threw a guitar pick at him with deadly accuracy. He dodged, barely. And grinned.

The night of the concert arrived far too quickly. 

Soundcheck went by without a single mention, sight or thought of Charles, which honestly was the only reason you survived it. If anyone had even whispered his name, your vocal cords would’ve packed their things and fled your body. 

But then came the hours. 

An hour to get changed, to let hairstylists tug and smooth, to let makeup artists dust and blend, to let someone physically tape your mic pack to your outfit so it wouldn’t go flying mid-chorus.

Another hour backstage, trying to convince yourself you were fine, like some kind of delusional mantra. 

And another ten minutes arguing with your reflection, blaming your mirror image for every life decision that had led you to this exact moment. 

But then call time hit. The lights dimmed. The crowd shifted. And suddenly, avoiding the thought of him became impossible. 

Because you were backstage, arms slightly lifted as a tech tightened the last clip of your mic pack, when your manager cleared his throat with the kind of ominous gravity usually reserved for funeral announcements. 

“Don’t panic,” he began. Which, of course, guaranteed that every cell in your body prepared to do exactly that. “But he’s here.”

Your pulse short-circuited. 

“He?” you echoed, voice pitching high enough that the audio tech winced. 

“He,” your manager repeated, eyes locked on his tablet like he could avoid responsibility by not making direct eye contact. “Is currently in the VIP tent. Smiling. Being charming. The usual. I don’t know where his seat is tonight and it might be for the best that I don't.”

Your stomach folded in on itself like cheap lawn furniture. 

You nodded stiffly, the motion jerky and robotic. “Okay. Cool. Fine. I don’t care. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m normal.”

“I never said you weren’t,” he replied. Which was generous, considering you absolutely were not. 

The makeup artist that was doing last minute touch ups gave you a shoulder a pitying pat before stepping away to let you breathe, which you were decidedly not doing. 

Because now all you could picture was him. Charles. Somewhere in the stadium. Probably lighting up a room just by existing, looking stupidly handsome and stupidly friendly and stupidly… everything.

You were staring at your own reflection - glazed eyes, tight jaw, a person bracing for the emotional equivalent of a natural disaster - when your bassist waltzed up beside you. 

“Heard he’s here,” she said casually, like she wasn’t actively detonating your internal organs. 

You glared weakly. “Why is everyone telling me this?”

“Because,” she said, smirking, “your face is going to do something hilarious the moment you see him, and we want to be emotionally prepared.”

You groaned into your hands. “I hate all of you.”

But beneath the dread pooling in your chest, hope flickered. Because the part of you that wrote a love song disguised as a joke, wondered what it would be like for him to hear it live. That part wondered if he’d understand. That part wondered if he’d notice the way your voice softened on the lines only meant for him. 

Your stage manager appeared in the doorway, headset crooked, clipboard in hand. “Five minutes.”

Five minutes until you sang the song that you had sworn would never see the light of day. Five minutes until you stood in front of thousands and pretended you weren’t in love with a man who probably didn’t think of you at all. Five minutes until the emotional guillotine. 

You stood, smoothed your outfit, took one breath - which somehow made it worse - and followed the crew toward the stage entrance. The rest of your band was already standing there waiting for the group huddle. 

Each of you wrapped your arms around each other, forming a loose, swaying circle - a ritual you’d done before every show, every performance, but tonight it felt impossibly fragile. 

Your drummer squeezed your shoulder. “Hey. Deep breaths. You’re gonna kill it.”

Your guitarist nodded. “And if you pass out onstage, we’ll drag your unconscious body through the performance. Band loyalty.”

Your bassist hummed thoughtfully. “Actually, if she passes out, maybe we shouldn’t make her sing the Charles song-”

“Stop calling it that!” you hissed 

They all burst out laughing, and as annoying as it was, somehow it settled the shakiness inside you. Not all of it, but most.

“Alright,” your stage manager called from the wings, “places!”

You stepped back from the huddle, shaking out your hands, rolling your shoulders, doing anything to keep your body from combusting under the pressure of what you were about to do. 

The lights dimmed even further as the preshow video played on the screen, hyping the crowd up. 

The roar of the audience slammed into you like a wave, blinding and exhilarating all at once. The stage lights hit you full force, warming your skin, soaking you back into the version of yourself who could survive anything. Except maybe the man currently somewhere in the stadium. 

You sang the opening track flawlessly. You performed like you’d never had a panic attack backstage. You hit every note, every mark.  

Between the quick changes, joking with your band, laughing with your dancers, you almost forgot Charles was even there.

Almost.

Because when the applause faded after the last upbeat number and the lighting tech slid everything into the soft blue reserved for the acoustic session… your stomach dropped straight into your shoes. 

Your guitarist shot you a sympathetic wince. Your drummer raised her brows like are you sure you don’t want to fake a medical emergency? Your bassist mouthed, good luck. 

You shifted the strap of your guitar, stepped forward into the center mic and spoke. 

“This next song… this next song is something I never thought I’d be playing. I wrote it at three in the morning when I should’ve been asleep.”

The crowd laughed. You did not. 

Your throat tightened as you continued, “It started as a joke, just something stupid I wrote because I couldn’t stop thinking about a very hypothetical situation.”

A scream tore through the first few rows: “IS IT ABOUT THE FERRARI GUY?”

You nearly choked on your own breath. 

“Absolutely not,” you deadpanned into the mic, which only made the crowd laugh harder. 

You shook your head, settled your fingers settled on the strings of your guitar, and exhaled. 

“And anyway… here it is”

The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. You strummed the first upbeat yet vulnerable chord, and hoped to God he didn’t hear the truth hiding in every line. 

By some miracle, you survived the acoustic session, along with the rest of the concert. After the fireworks and ending bows, you found yourself backstage, finally able to release the knot in your shoulders. 

For approximately three seconds. 

Because the moment the curtains fell behind you, your entire team exhaled like they had been holding their breath through the whole show - then immediately started gossiping like old church ladies. 

“Oh my god her face during the outro,” your drummer wheezed, clutching a bottle of water as if it were the only thing keeping her alive.

“She was making eye contact with the crowd like she was in pain,” your guitarist said, eyes sparkling with the malicious joy only a best friend could have. 

“That wasn’t pain,” your bassist corrected, already pulling off her in-ears. “That was Charles-induced heart failure.”

You threw a sweaty towel at her head. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” she said, ducking as it flew past her. “But not as much as you love-”

“Finish that sentence,” you warmed, “and I’m writing you out of the next album.”

They ducked away laughing, leaving you alone near the water coolers, gulping down air, cold water, and relief. Your chest had been tight since the moment you walked onstage, but now it finally loosened, breath coming easier, muscle unclenching. You made it. You didn’t combust. You didn’t faint. You didn’t accidentally confess your undying love into a live microphone. 

You survived.

Your manager approached with his clipboard tucked against his chest, wearing the kind of smile that said he knew something and you weren’t going to like what he knew. 

“So,” he said casually, “before you run away and hide in your dressing room forever…”

“Oh God,” you closed your eyes. “What now?”

“Someone’s waiting to congratulate you.”

You blinked. “Who?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. 

Because your guitarist reappeared behind him, making frantic, wordless hand gestures that could only be described as incoming disaster alert.

Then you heard it. Your name. Spoken softly. With an accent that did violent things to your heart rate. 

You froze. 

Your manager stepped aside. 

And there he was. Charles Leclerc. 

He stood under the backstage floodlights in the most ordinary outfit imaginable, but somehow he looked like he’d been sculpted perfectly to ruin your night, your life, and your emotional equilibrium. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times out of nerves. His smile was boyishly warm. 

“Hi,” he said 

You tried to speak. You failed. Your vocal cords unionized and went on strike. 

He took a few steps closer, eyes softening like he was walking toward a startled woodland creature that might bolt. 

“I didn’t wanna interrupt earlier,” he paused, searching your face with an earnest sincerity that made your knees feel suspiciously unreliable. “But I wanted to tell you your concert was incredible.”

You made a noise. 

Not a word. Not a sentence. A noise. Somewhere between a dying radiator and a confused pigeon.

“Oh.” You cleared your throat. Tried again. “Cool.”

The urge to wander into the woods and never return had never been higher than what it was in that moment. 

A slow smile tugged at his lips, the exact same smile he’d given you the night you met. “You said that last time, too.”

Dear God. Kill you now.

You let out a strangled, pained laugh. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I’m very… eloquent.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “No, I like it. It’s honest.”

Your brain short circuited for the second time that night. 

Then his eyes flicked, just barely, toward the stage you had just walked off of. “And the new song…” His expression shifted into something tender. “It was lovely.”

Your lungs gave up. Filed for divorce. Packed their bags and left.

He stepped a little closer. Close enough that you could smell his cologne - clean, warm, expensive enough that your future children might smell it through your memories. 

“How’d you know I like Mai Tais?” he asked, eyes twinkling with mischief

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. 

Because absolutely not. There was no universe in which Charles Leclerc was quoting that line back to you.

Your mouth opened, but again nothing - absolutely nothing - came out. Your brain was a snowglobe someone had just shaken violently. 

He smiled wider at your silence, the corner of his mouth lifting with a hint of mischief. “What?” he asked innocently. “That part made me chuckle.”

Chuckle. He chuckled. At the verse where you jokingly painted a picture of a beach honeymoon with a mystery man who definitely wasn’t him (except it was absolutely him).

“I - I didn’t - I mean, that was just -” You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck. “It was hypothetical.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly, playfully. “Of course.”

You hated how gentle he sounded. Like he knew you were lying but wasn’t going to expose you unless you gave him permission. 

You hated how soft he was being. You loved how soft he was being.

Your voice cracked on the next word. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, a light shrug came from his shoulders. “Maybe I’ve hypothetically thought about it too.”

Your heartbeat stopped completely. Someone should’ve checked your pulse because there was no way you were still functioning as a living organism after that. 

“What?” you breathed, the word barely existing. 

Charles’ gaze held yours. “The beach. The drink. The idea of holding you while you’re floating.” His smile went soft, as if he knew exactly how reckless he was being and had chosen recklessness anyway. “It was cute.”

Cute. You were going to pass out. Or ascend. Or dissolve into mist. 

“I wasn’t-” You gestured vaguely at the air between you. “It wasn’t about… anyone… really”

He nodded again, slower this time, his lashes lowering slightly as if he were debating something. You watched the moment he decided. The moment the switch flipped. 

“Maybe not,” he murmured, “but I recognized myself in it.”

Your breath hitched so sharply you almost choked on it. 

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. The universe handed you a live grenade and this man was lighting the fuse with his dimples. 

“You’re… you’re doing this on purpose” Your voice barely a whisper

“Mmm,” he hummed, eyes dropping to your mouth for one catastrophic second before flicking back up. “Maybe.”

Heat flashed through you so fast you had to grip the water cooler behind you to stay upright. “Charles…”

He tilted his head, studying you with that same gentle intensity he’d had the night you first met. As if you were something fragile, precious, and maybe a little bit dangerous. 

“You know,” he said, voice warm, “I almost messaged you after that night.”

“You what now?” You blinked. The memory of that night came flooding back. You had been scrolling through social media aimlessly, looking for any distraction from Charles, when the man himself started following you on almost every platform. 

“I didn’t,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “I chickened out.” Then his eyes softened even more. “But standing here now, I’m wishing I hadn’t.”

You forgot how to breathe. Yet again. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly boyish in a way that made your heart spin. 

“Is it okay,” he asked gently, “if I’m honest with you?”

You nodded because speaking was no longer a skill you possessed. He took a breath, steadying himself. 

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The world tilted. Your stomach abandoned you. Your soul evaporated. 

Before you could form real, actual words, someone shouted in the distance:

“AFTERPARTY STARTING! SECURITY NEEDS YOU BY THE EAST EXIT!”

The spell snapped. Reality crashed in like a cymbal dropped in an empty room.

You both glanced toward the commotion, then back at each other. An apologetic smile crawled on your lips.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” you said softly

His expression flickered - understanding, disappointment, something warm trying not to dim. 

“Of course,” he said immediately, stepping back enough to let you breathe, but not so far that the distance didn’t ache. “Duty calls.”

You hesitated, shifting your weight, the part of you that had waited months for this moment screaming not to let it die here. “I - um - I’ll see you later? Maybe?”

It came out tentative, hopeful, a little too naked for your comfort. 

Charles’ smile returned, “I’d like that.” Then, almost shyly, “If you want to.”

“I do,” you blurted before your brain could shield you. “Want to.”

His eyes warmed instantly. “Good,” he said, relief threading through the single word. “Then… don’t disappear, okay?”

You huffed a laugh, already backing away, already mourning the space opening between you. “No promises.”

He chuckled, low, quiet, the exact sound your stupid song had been written about, and shook his head like you were impossible in the best way. 

“Go,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway. “Before they yell your name next.”

You turned to leave, but stopped halfway, pulse hammering. You looked back. 

He was still watching you. Still smiling. Still soft around the edges to the point it made something inside you trip over itself. 

“I meant it,” he added quietly when your eyes met again. “What I said.”

“I know,” you whispered. 

And then you forced yourself to walk away - fast, before you did something insane like kiss him right there between a water cooler and a stack of folding chairs. 

The afterparty was held in some too-expensive, dimly lit lounges where the lighting was designed exclusively to hide people’s sins and the music was loud enough to drown out regret. By the time you got there, it was already alive. The bar glowed pink, trays of drinks drifted through crowds, and the air smelled like sweat, perfume and the faint buzz of fame. 

Instantly, people swarmed you. 

“You killed it tonight-”

“The bridges of your songs are insane-”

“Will you sign this-?”

“Did you see Charles in the crowd-?”

You choked on your own breath. “Ha! Nope. Never met him. Don’t know her.”

“Her?”

“Hey, you never know. I don’t judge,” you said, stepping past them with the grace of a malfunctioning Roomba. 

Eventually, you made it to a high-top table near the bar. It was quieter there, lit by a soft blue LED glow. You grabbed a drink and tried to will your heart down from the stratosphere. 

Three sips in, your drummer slid into the seat across from you. 

“So,” she grinned, “What was going on with you and Ferrari boy?”

You glared at him. “I’m either going to drown you or myself in this drink.” 

“As long as you make it dramatic so we can use it for the tour documentary,” she chuckled before her face softened. “But seriously, how’re you doing with all of it?”

Your eyes were glued to your glass as you aimlessly stirred your drink. “Okay, I guess, kinda had a bomb dropped on me right after the show today.”

Her eyes narrowed and head cocked slightly. “What do you mean?”

“He wanted to see me after the show, and he told me he knew the song was about him and the fact he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me” You rushed out. 

The shit-eating grin that formed on your drummer’s face told you everything you needed to know before anything had left her mouth. 

“Dude, I knew he was into you!” Palm slammed onto the tabletop as she spoke. 

“Oh dear god” you muttered 

“I won’t tell the rest of them,” she said, reaching out her pinky. You interlaced yours in hers for a moment, before she continued. “But why are you sulking all alone when the man of your dreams literally admitted he likes you?”

“Because I can’t function around him,” you started, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Every single time I try to talk to him it’s like I forget how to be a normal human being.” 

Your drummer barked out a laugh loud enough that a few people over at the bar glanced over. “Babe, you barely function around any guy you find even remotely cute.” 

“That is not true.” 

She gave you an aggressive, slow blink. “You once forgot your own last name when a bouncer checked your ID.” 

“That was one time,” you protested 

“And Charles is…” she waved her hands vaguely in the air, trying to find the right words. “Not one time.” 

You groaned, dropping your forehead onto the table for a second before lifting it again. “I just - he looks at me like -“ You gestured helplessly. “Like I'm someone he wants.” 

“That’s because you are something he wants” 

You glared. “Stop being supportive. It’s making it worse.” 

She kicked your foot under the table. “Okay fine. Let’s say you remain a malfunctioning robot every time he’s in a ten foot radius. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I embarrass myself again. Repeatedly.” You made a face. “And I really like him. Like… like him like him.” 

“Wow,” she said, leaning back dramatically. “A poet. Truly.” 

You flipped her off. She grinned. 

But then her expression truly softened, true-friend mode activated. 

“Look,” she said gently. “I’ve seen you crush on people before. From your flings to musicians who were absolutely not worth a single one of your brain cells. But this?” She tapped the table. “You’re different about this one.”

You swallowed, heat crawling up your throat again. “I know.” 

“And he’s different about you too,” she added, nodding in the general direction of where you came in, the hallway that led to backstage. “Do you know how many celebrities show up front row and then leave after three songs? You weren’t watching, but that man stayed in the VIP tent, eyes locked on you for the entire set. And waited afterward. And then told you he hadn’t stopped thinking about you. And then-“

“Okay!” you hissed. “I get it!”

She smirked “You sure?”

You dragged your hand down your face. “I just never expected any of this. Him. Or me reacting like - like a Victorian maiden fainting over an ankle.” 

Your drummer snorted so loudly she almost choked on her drink. “You mean to tell me the woman who just performed in front of forty thousand people is terrified of a race car driver who smiles too much?”

“Yes,” you said flatly. “Because forty thousand people aren’t trying to kiss me.” 

She choked again. “Is he?”

The pause you let hang in the air gave her all the information she needed. 

“OH MY GOD-“

“Shhhh!” You lunged across the table, slapping your hand over her mouth. “Shut up!”

She mumbled something against your palm, eyes huge and delighted. You pulled your hand back as if she had burned you. 

“He-he didn’t actually kiss me,” you insisted. “But he-“ You gestured in a frantic motion. “Did the thing - the look.” 

Your drummer froze, mid-sip, eyes wide like you had just told her you murdered someone backstage. 

“Oh,” she breathed, setting her glass down with huge exaggerated care. “The look.”

You groaned. “Don’t say it like that.” 

“No because I need to be absolutely sure,” she said, leaning in, elbows on the table. “Was it the ‘I’m debating whether or not to ruin your life politely’ look? Or the ‘I could kiss you right now and neither of us would regret it’ look?”

You buried your hands in your face. “Can we not?!”

She ignored you completely. “Because if it was the second one, you need to leave this table immediately and go find him.” 

“It was,” you whispered through your fingers.

A squeal of an inhuman pitch and intensity left her throat that one of the bartenders physically flinched. You shot her a murderous glare as she slapped both hands over her mouth like that would undo all of the damage. 

“Sorry,” she whispered dramatically. “I’m composed. I’m calm. I’m chill.”

“You’re none of those things.” 

She nodded solemnly in agreement. “In my defense, neither are you.” 

You sagged back into your chair. “I just don’t know what to do. He said all of that, then security yelled for me, and I had to walk away before my brain melted to the floor.” 

“And now?” she asked gently

“Now I’m sitting here drinking something neon blue trying not to panic.” 

Your drummer glanced over your shoulder, doing a sweep of the room before looking back at you with a mischievous glint. “Well it looks like the universe is ready to bully you again.” 

You blinked. “What?”

She nodded her head in a subtle direction behind you. “Don’t look. Actually, no, absolutely look.” 

You whipped your head around so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. 

Charles. Across the room. Standing near the edge of the dance floor like he wasn’t sure whether he should stay or bolt. His eyes found yours instantly, like he had been searching for you the entire time. 

Your breath vanished. 

Your drummer let out a low whistle. “Yeah. That man is about three seconds from walking over here.” 

“Holy shit,” you whispered, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat.

“Yup.” She stood up, patting your shoulder. “And on that note, I’m leaving so I don’t witness whatever romantic comedy nonsense is about to happen. Good luck, princess.” 

You barely managed to glare at her before she waltzed away, abandoning you to your fate. 

When you turned back toward the room, Charles had been pushed - quite literally - by his friends… and brother. 

It happened in real time, painfully visible. One of them nudged his shoulder. Another gave him a shove between his shoulder blades. His brother mouthed something that suspiciously looked like go, you idiot.

Charles shot them a would you please grow up look, but it didn’t matter - momentum had already betrayed him. He stumbled one involuntary step. Then another. And then he was too close to pretend he hadn’t been aiming for you this entire time. 

You had approximately half a second to school your expression before he stopped at your table, cheeks lightly flushed from embarrassment or the heat of the room - or both. 

He cleared his throat. “Hi.” 

His entourage across the room immediately erupted into silent, chaotic celebration - fist pumps, thumbs up, obnoxious grins. Arthur even mimed blowing a kiss. 

Charles shot them a death glare that promised future retribution. 

You felt a laugh bubble up, unexpected and breathless, “Hi,” you echoed, somehow keeping your voice steady when everything inside you was doing somersaults.

He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding your eyes for the first time since he’d walked toward you. “They, uh… they’re idiots.” 

“Mmm,” you hummed. “Looked more like emotional support.” 

His gaze snapped up to yours, warm and a little shy for once. “I didn’t need support. I was already coming over.”

Oh. 

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. 

His voice softened. “I didn’t wanna interrupt earlier. I just…” He hesitated, searching your face. “Didn’t want the conversation to end there.” 

“Same,” you whispered 

He exhaled like he’d been holding that in. Then quietly, gently, asked. “Are you free to talk? Somewhere quieter?”

This time, you didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’m free.” 

He offered an arm - not grabbing, not assuming, simply giving you the choice. 

You slid off the stool and stepped towards him. 

The electric shift in his eyes told you that he felt it too. 

“Come,” he said softly. 

You followed, heart hammering, as he led you to the private lounge tucked in the back of the place, each step heavier with the weight of everything that might finally be said. 

The private lounge was dim, quiet, and mercifully empty, just a soft pool of amber light over a low velvet couch and a table stocked with untouched waters and finger foods. The bass from the party outside thumped faintly through the walls, but in there the air felt still. Suspended.

Charles let the door fall shut behind you with a soft click. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

He stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, chest rising with a slow, steady breath like he was trying to ground himself. His eyes found yours - hesitant, warm, a little nervous in a way that made your stomach turn over. 

“You okay?” he asked 

You laughed under your breath. “No.”

His lips curved. “Me neither.”

There was something comforting about admitting it at the same time, like you both were stepping blindfolded, but at least you were doing it together. 

He took a step closer. 

Then another. 

Until you could smell his cologne. It was clean, understated, and familiar in a way you didn’t understand. As if it was a song you’d had stuck in your head for days. 

“I wanted to say this earlier,” he murmured, voice low. “But it wasn’t… the right moment.”

You swallowed. Your pulse thrummed in your wrists. 

“Say what?” 

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before his honesty caught up to him. 

“That I meant it,” he said. “Everything I’ve told you backstage today and months ago. I didn’t just… get caught up in the moment or the crowd or your performance.” His jaw flexed, vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about you. For a long time.”

Your lungs forgot their job again. 

He watched your reaction carefully, almost like he was afraid you’d bolt. 

“And you don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just didn’t want you to leave tonight without knowing I’m not confused. I’m not guessing. “ His voice softened. “I like you.”

You let the words settle. Warm. Terrifying. 

“I like you too,” you said quietly. 

You hadn’t meant to admit it so plainly, but it tumbled out anyway. 

Relief washed over his face like a tide coming in, slow and soft. 

“Yeah?” he asked. 

You nodded. 

He moved closer, enough that your knees brushed when he stepped between them. His hand hovered near your waist, but not touching, giving you every escape route. 

“Can I…” he asked, barely audible, “be closer?”

Your breath stuttered. “Yes.”

His fingers found your waist, light as the question he’d asked. You felt it everywhere, like your whole body lit up at his touch. 

“I didn’t want to do this outside,” he said, voice low, almost husky. “Not with everyone watching.”

“Do what?” you whispered. 

His forehead dipped toward yours. Not quite touching. Just close enough that your breaths tangled. 

“This.”

And then slowly, his nose brushed yours. 

Your heart lurched. 

But right as the moment teetered toward something irrevocable, you heard the muffled roar of the crowd outside spike. Someone had opened the lounge door just far enough for the noise to leak in. 

Charles sighted, the closeness shifting into exasperated amusement. “We’re never going to get two minutes alone tonight.”

You laughed - nervous, breathy, overwhelmed. “Probably not.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked softly. “I can take you home. Only if you want.”

There was no pressure in his voice, no assumption. Just a genuine offer. A way to step out of the noise and nerves and limelight. 

You nodded before your brain even formed the thought. 

tonight was the premiere of one of the biggest movies of 2025. you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of your dress for what felt like the hundredth time. your stomach twisted with nerves—tonight wasn’t just a premiere. it was the first time you and charles would be seen together, the first time the world would form opinions about a relationship that had belonged only to the two of you.

what if they don’t like you? what if rumors started immediately? what if being with him in public changes everything?

you took a slow breath, trying to shake off the thoughts swirling in your mind, when the door opened. charles stepped inside, already dressed for the night, his tie slightly loosened the way it always was before he got nervous (though he’d never admit it.)

“you’re quiet. talk to me amour.” he said gently, walking closer to you.

you looked down at the floor, unsure of how to put your feelings into words, but before you could try, he slipped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulders. 

“i know you’re worried,” he murmured, his voice warm and calm, “but you don’t have to be. whatever happens, we’ll go through it all together okay? i’m right here y/n” his arms tightened just a little and he gently placed a kiss on your temple. 

for the first time all evening, the knot in your chest loosened. with him beside you, maybe tonight didn’t feel so scary after all.

—

the red carpet was lined with photographers, flashing cameras catching every moment as A-listers posed and mingled with each other. but as you stood there, hand in hand with charles, the world around you felt like it had faded into the background.

this was it. the moment when everything changed. for months, you and charles had kept your relationship private, only sharing it with close family and friends. your heart was racing at the thought of how people would react.

charles squeezed your hand and offered a reassuring smile to calm your nerves. his eyes locked with yours. “you ready?” he whispered. you nodded at him and smiled.

the flash of cameras grew louder as you both walked onto the carpet, and suddenly, everything felt real. this wasn’t just a night for movie stars—it was a night for you and charles,a night to finally let the world in on what you’d been building in private. 

charles kept his hand wrapped firmly around yours, his confidence irresistible, but you could feel your heart racing as you moved forward. 

“charles!! over here! y/n can we get a smile?” the voices of the paparazzi cut through the noise, but you tried to stay focused, focusing on the feeling of charles’ hand, the warmth of his presence beside you. you glanced at him, meeting his eyes for a brief second. he gave you a smile, just enough to remind you that he was in this with you.

as you reached the main interview section, an interviewer approached you guys with a microphone, the questions already flying.

“charles, y/n!! it’s unbelievable to see you both out together. how long have you guys been dating?” you felt your stomach flip, the weight of the question hitting you immediately. but charles squeezed your hand, calming you down.

he smiled and turned to you, his voice easy and calm. “it’s been a while,” he said, his tone light, almost playful. “but we’ve kept it private you know? some things are just better that way.” the interviewer nodded as he spoke. “so tonight’s your first public appearance together as a couple. what made you guys decide to go public now?” charles tilted his head, as if considering how to answer, then glanced at you, his gaze soft.

“we’ve been talking about it for a while,” he began, his voice sincere. “and when you’re with someone who means so much to you, it just.. feels right to share it with the world.” the interviewer, eyes landing on you, leaned forward. “do you think the spotlight will change things for you, y/n?”

your heart pounded in your chest. you knew the media would pick apart every word, every gesture. charles looked at you and squeezed your hand, as if he was saying everything’s going to be okay. you took a quick breath. “what’s important is that we’re happy. that’s what really matters. the rest doesn’t change that.”

as the interview wrapped up, the flashing lights continued to pop around you, but the noise seemed quieter now. you were still standing on the carpet, still in the middle of all the attention, but charles standing beside you made it feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be, with him.

in that moment, you realized that the world could look and judge and ask all the questions they wanted. but at the end of the night, it was you and charles, and that was enough.

as the interviewer thanked you guys and stepped away, charles laced his fingers with yours and leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.

“you’re doing amazing, chérie.” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“i didn’t think i’d survive this” you whispered back with a laugh. he smiled and gently kissed your forehead. “we’re in this together.”

a handler motioned for you both to continue down the carpet, and charles guided you forward, always half a step behind you, like he wanted the world to see you first. it was subtle, but you noticed it, and it sent waves of warmth in you immediately.

fans called out his name from behind the barricades, waving posters and flags, but a few called out for you too. everything felt surreal. you glanced at charles, unsure of how to react. he caught your expression and gave you a soft nudge. “go on,” he whispered. “say hi.”

so you did. you turned toward the crowd, laughing as you waved, and their cheers rose even louder. it wasn’t as scary as you thought. not with his hand steady in yours. you took photos with the fans and signed anything that was given to you. 

after a few minutes, you and charles started walking back. when you turned to him, he was already looking at you, eyes warm and proud, like he was seeing the moment you finally relaxed.

“see?” he said quietly. “they already adore you.”

you rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “they adore you.” he shook his head just a little. “tonight, they adore us.”

—

inside the theater, the noise of the red carpet faded into a soft hum. the lights were dim, celebrities whispering as they found their seats. charles guided you through the aisle, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. when you finally sat down, he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“you okay?” he whispered. you nodded, letting your hand rest against his his for a second. “i am now.”

throughout the movie, he kept your hand in his lap, thumb tracing circles across your knuckles. every so often, he’d glance over at you, and each time, the soft glow from the big screen caught the admiration in his eyes.

when the credits rolled and lights came back up, he looked at you and asked, “ready?”

you weren’t sure if he meant ready to leave the theater or ready for the world outside after tonight, but either way, you nodded.

security guards led you two outside the theater and towards the car waiting for you both. the atmosphere was a lot calmer. most of the press had left, leaving only lingering fans and soft chatter. charles slipped an arm around your waist as you walked. 

the second the car door shut, you exhaled a very long breath. charles noticed immediately.

“you did so well tonight” he said, turning toward you and placing his hand on your leg.

“i survived.” you laughed softly.

“you did more than that. i’m proud of you, ma chérie.”

the drive was quiet but peaceful, city lights passing in streaks outside the window. your head drifted onto his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer.

no cameras, no noise, no stress. just him.

—

when you finally reached home, he held the door for you, letting you step inside first. the second the door clicked shut, you kicked off your shoes and melted into the peace of your shared house.

charles walked up to you, his arms circling your waist as he pressed a kiss on your lips. his voice low and soothing, “i told you we would make it.”

you let out a soft laugh, the tension finally leaving your body. you leaned back in his arms, looking up at him. “yeah, we did. i really didn’t think i would be able to handle tonight.” 

he smiled, the same way you’d grown to love over the months, the one that made you feel safe, no matter what. “i told you you’d be fine. you were more than perfect out there, you know.” 

you rolled your eyes and grinned. “i was not perfect. i was a nervous wreck. you know i almost tripped on the carpet halfway down??” 

he laughed, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “i saw, but you didn’t. and you looked beautiful doing it.” his eyes softened. “toute la nuit, tu étais magnifique.” (all night long, you looked gorgeous)

you smiled at the compliment, but there was something else in your voice when you spoke. “i’m still kind of surprised. that was.. a lot. i thought i’d be freaking out the whole time, but with you there..” you paused, a little embarrassed about it. “it didn’t feel so scary. i felt like, if it was too much, i could just glance at you and everything would be okay.”

charles’ expression softened. his hand lingered at the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “you’re never going to have to do anything alone, y/n. i’m here. whether it’s just us or the whole world is watching. we’re in this together, always.”

you leaned into his touch, feeling a quiet smile tug at your lips. “i know. i guess.. i guess i just didn’t realize how much i needed that reminder till tonight. it feels different now, out in the open like this. like everyone’s watching, trying to figure us out.”

he chuckled softly, pulling you closer. “let them watch. they can say whatever they want, but they’ll never understand what we have. they’re not us.” he kissed the top of your head. “and honestly, i’m not worried about what they think. as long as we’re happy, that’s all that matters to me.”

the comfort of his words washed over you. “yeah, you’re right. i just needed to hear you say it. it’s easy to get caught up in everything else, and forget that it’s us.”

charles stepped back a little, looking at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “you’re always so serious when you’re thinking about stuff like this.” he cupped your chin, tilting your face up to his. “how about we don’t think about it anymore? just you and me, here. no cameras, no fans. just us.”

—

you both walked into the bedroom, the weight of the night melted away. no cameras, no press, just the soft comfort of your own shared space. charles changed into a pair of sweatpants and you had put on one of his old shirts, which practically swallowed you. 

“next time we do a public event, maybe we can aim for something where i don’t have to wear a suit. i was struggling to breathe in that thing”he joked.

you giggled. “next time, we’ll pick something where you can wear jeans and a t-shirt, okay?”

he laughed. “perfect!”

after turning off the lights, you crawled into bed, the cool sheets welcoming you as you settled in besides him. he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, his heartbeat steady against your ear.

for a moment, neither of you said anything—just the sound of your breathing, slow and calming. his hand traced circles on your back, each touch gentle and reassuring, like a reminder that everything was alright now.

“i’m glad we did this,” you whispered, your voice barley audible in the dark. “going public and everything.”

charles tightened his grip around you slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your heard. “me too. it feels good, doesn’t it?” his voice was soft and sleepy. “but right now, it’s just you and me.”

“yeah. just us 2.” you sighed contentedly, snuggling closer. in the quiet darkness, with nothing but the sound of your breaths syncing together, you finally allowed yourself to relax completely.

You slid into parc ferme along with the rest of the midfield, barely able to get out of the car and reconnect your steering wheel fast enough. Sprinting down parc ferme, you found Charles celebrating with his team and family. When he eventually wriggled his way out of their grasp, you were able to approach him. 

“Congrats Charlie. Well deserved man” You said, embracing him in a hug 

“Thank you, thank you” Was all he was able to get out. 

As the podium celebration ensued, you and Max made your way to the media pen. Dozens of news outlets were scattered around the barrier, prompting you to separate from your teammate. The interviewer greeted you before going through the standard questions of what went wrong in the race. 

“Now let’s talk about something that happened after the race” The interviewer spoke, leading you to raise an eyebrow. “I think everyone who wasn’t looking at Leclerc was watching you run down parc ferme to greet him. Can you tell me a bit about that?” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle. At the time, you didn’t think twice about doing it, but being asked about your actions, you probably looked crazy doing it. “Yeah I mean it’s always exciting watching someone win their home race. It’s something I’ve dreamed of since I started watching Formula One as a little girl” 

A pause took over for a moment as you decided on the best way to word your next thoughts. “Charles is a very good friend of mine. He’s someone who welcomed me to the championship with open arms last year. On track I always want to give him a good fight if possible, but off the track I’m always going to support him.” 

Now Charles wasn’t usually one to eavesdrop on interviews. Most of the drivers said the same things over and over again, occasionally rephrasing. But whenever he heard your sweet southern accent, he couldn’t help but to listen in on what you had to say. 

When your words hit his ears, he could feel his heart stop. He wasn’t expecting you to confess a secret crush that no one knew you had to some interviewer, but a guy could dream. Instead, you very publicly friendzoned the Monegasque. 

Little did he know, you did in fact have a massive secret crush that only one person knew about. That one person was your teammate. And boy did he know a lot about it. 

“Did I just friendzone Charles with that?” You asked as the two of you walked towards the Red Bull garage for the team meeting. 

“Honestly maybe” Max said “Depends on if Charles is smart enough to realize you said it because you weren’t stupid enough to reveal your emotions to the media” 

“So then I definitely friendzoned him. Got it” You sighed

You weren’t sure if it was just how boring the entire day was, but the team meeting felt like it was dragging on. While you were zoning in and out of listening to Horner and Marko explain every single thing that was wrong with how you drove, you spotted Max next to you on his phone. 

“What are you doing?” You whispered 

Max’s head snapped up to look at you, quickly turning off his phone as he did so. “Oh, uh nothing” 

You shrugged, not thinking anything of Max’s reaction. He was always a private person, and you understood not wanting anyone to know your private conversations. 

Later that night, you traded your fireproofs for a little black top and jeans, as you and the grid were going out to celebrate Charles’ win. You were the last of the drivers to arrive, all of the boys jokingly blaming it on the fact you took longer to get ready, but in reality you needed the time to calm your nerves. 

You had gone to the club with the grid plenty of times before, but none of them revolved around Charles being the center of attention. You knew he was going to be bouncing around the group, spending time with everyone, and you were sure you didn’t want to make a fool out of yourself. 

Meanwhile, Charles was worrying about himself. When he drank, he got flirty. He knew it, Max knew it, even the fans knew it. The only person he was sure didn’t know was you. And that was only because he never drank as much as he usually does when he’s around you. 

He was already a few drinks deep when you finally showed up. He was near the back of the room, but he could spot your figure from a mile away. As you navigated through the sweaty bodies and sticky floors, Charles was easily able to get your attention by a wave of his hand. 

That wave turned into a hug, followed by a kiss on either cheek from the Monegasque. You realized it was just a cultural difference, and that’s how he greeted all of his female friends, but that didn’t stop your heart from fluttering. 

“Congrats again Charlie” You said finally spoke 

“Thank you mon amour, why don't I get you a drink to celebrate?” He asked, his words already starting to slur a bit 

“I can pay for myself. If anything so should be getting you a drink, for the winner after all” You replied. 

“No, no, no. Let me get it for you.” He insisted “You wouldn’t want to disappoint the winner, now would you?” 

You knew you weren’t going to win this round, so you let him buy you a drink. He followed you up to the bar where he easily got the attention of the bartender. 

“Moscow mule and a vodka redbull, blue edition” He ordered

Your head snapped to look at him, surprised he knew what you wanted. Regardless of how many times you’ve gone out drinking with him, you knew you never told him what your usual was. 

“You know my drink order?” You asked 

“I’m just that good” He shrugged as the bartender handed him the beverages. Charles handed you the vodka redbull as the two of you walked away from the bar. “Feel free to put the rest of your drinks on my tab tonight” 

It was a no-brainer that Charles was going to be the center of attention all night. Not even thirty seconds after you got your drinks, his childhood friends whisked him away. Then it was his friends from Ferrari. And then his brothers. And then those people who claimed they were friends with him, but only got close with him after he became famous. 

But no matter how many times he got carried away, he always found his way back to you. Even if it was just for a second, Charles made sure he checked on you throughout the night. 

The majority of your night was spent with Max, Logan and Oscar. You were lucky you got along well with your teammate, and you, Logan, and Oscar all grew close due to being the rookies the season prior. It also helped that Logan was the only other American on the grid. 

“So what’s going on between you and Charles?” Oscar asked 

“Oh uh nothing. We’re just friends” You said, hoping the Aussie would drop the topic 

Unfortunately for you, Logan decided to call you out. “Oh bullshit. I overheard him insisting on buying your drinks tonight, and we all saw you sprinting earlier to congratulate him” 

“Charles is too drunk to realize what he’s offering” You quickly dismissed 

“Still doesn’t explain your actions in parc ferme” Logan reminded

You looked to Max for help, only for the Dutchman to shrug.

“You are no help” You told him as you turned to the two others “I may have a small crush on him” 

Max almost did a spit take when he registered your words. “Small? You were doodling both of your initials together during the team meeting today.”

“Details, details. How about another round?” You suggested, quickly changing the subject. 

The four of you had just finished a round of shots when you saw Charles approaching from behind Max. The Monagasque rested his arm on Max’s shoulder, clearly needing stability. His eyes widened and a goofy smile formed on his face when he saw you. 

“There you are!” Charles slurred, moving his arm from Max’s shoulders to yours 

“Oooohkayy, I think it’s time for you to go home” You said, shifting to support his weight better “C’mon Charlie”

“Ooo Charlie” Logan teased 

You shot the American a glare, mouthing the words “not now”. Charles somehow got himself off of you, only to wrap his arms around himself, embracing his own body in a hug. 

“Uh, are you good?” Oscar asked Charles, his voice filled with concern 

“Yes, just thanking myself for coming out tonight. I picked a great bar” Charles answered with a goofy grin forming on his face. His eyes were shut as he swayed back and forth, almost knocking into a poor girl behind him. 

Apologies quickly fell out of your mouth to the girl. As you turned back to the group, all of the boys except Charles had worry plastered on their faces. Both Max and Oscar offered to help you take Charles home, but you turned them down. His place was only a few blocks away, and your hotel was about the same. You slung Charles’ arm over your shoulder, before bidding goodbye to your friends. 

“Bye Charlieeee” Logan teased his fingers waving goodbye. Another glare was shot from your eyes before Charles was carried out to the street. 

It didn’t take long to get Charles to his apartment. You insisted he sit down as you got him a glass of water, knowing he was too far from sober to do it without breaking or hurting something. Once he downed his first non alcoholic beverage in who knows how long, he changed and you put him to bed. 

You were sober and comfortable enough to walk yourself home, so once Charles was tucked in, you slipped your shoes on. Before you could get near the door though, you heard Charles calling your name. 

“What’s up?” You whispered as you opened the door to his bedroom. 

His eyes mimicked a puppy dog, pleading and full of concern. “I don’t want this to sound weird, but do you want to stay in the guest room tonight? I just don’t want you walking alone in the dark” 

Even though you knew you’d be fine walking home, you knew Charles would blame himself if something did happen to you. So, you agreed. You changed into one of Charles’s shirts that he insisted on you sleeping in, and made your way to the guest room. 

Neither of you dared to bring up what happened in Monaco. Not that anything bad happened, it was simply you didn’t know how the other felt, and it wasn’t a line either of you were comfortable crossing yet. 

Going into media day, you knew the press conference was going to be boring. It was Monza weekend, and your media group consisted of Lando, Pierre, Franco, and Charles. Having the attention on Charles was fine by you. You would be fine without the media taking your words out of context. 

With each question directed at Charles, you zoned out more and more. Thoughts of what you were going to do during the three week break crossed your mind. While traveling around the world for work was fun, home truly was where your heart lived. Your thoughts were cut off by someone tapping you. Looking to your right, Franco’s eyes met yours.

You had made some small talk with Franco throughout the day, wanting to welcome him into the league the same way you were last year. It was painful to receive the news that Logan was being replaced, but you couldn’t resent the newcomer, he just happened to be the one that was promoted.

“Is this usually this insufferable?” He whispered, genuine concern lacing his voice 

You stifled a laugh, careful not to interrupt Charles “Not this bad usually, but yeah it’s bad” 

“Great” He muttered “Thought I escaped it when I got promoted” 

The press room grew silent, leading you and Franco to press pause on your conversation. All eyes were on the two of you, while you guys gave blank stares back. 

“Did you hear the question?” The interviewer asked 

Franco chuckled awkwardly as he brought the microphone to his mouth. “Honestly? No. Bad first impression, so sorry” 

“No worries. Welcome to F1 Franco.” The interviewer said “For a fun question for the drivers: is there a certain trait that another driver has that you wish you had?” 

Franco thought for a second before opening his mouth to speak “Y/n’s friendliness I think. She was the first of the drivers to welcome me into F1, going out of her way to go to the Williams garage and introduce herself. So uh yeah, her friendliness” 

Warmth ran to your cheeks as the Argentinian turned to look at you. His smile was captivating, making your rosy glow even worse. 

“Wow, that was really sweet. Thank you Franco” You whispered before clearing your throat and picking the microphone up.

Your eyes landed on each of the drivers in the room, trying to think of any trait you would want from any of them. Charles’ ability to learn on the fly came to mind, but you couldn’t rave about Charles without revealing your feelings. 

“Ummmm, this may be team bias, but I’m probably going to have to pick Max.” You finally answered “His ability to perform under immense pressure is admirable. Going into last season as a rookie, I don’t think I could have asked for a better partner, or a better person to learn from.” 

The press conference wrapped up, the news stations leaving before the drivers could. You sat and talked to Franco a bit more, getting to know the newest driver better. Charles watched from the other side of the couch, trying not to make it too obvious. 

“Earth to Charles” Lando said, waving his hand in front of the Monegasque’s face

“Wha-what’s up?” Charles asked, snapping his head to look at Lando

“You were staring. Badly.” Lando pointed out 

“Not staring,” Charles defended, but the pink in his cheeks gave him away “Just…observing” 

“Sure, mate.” Lando smirked as he stood up, “You know, if you actually told her how you feel, you wouldn’t have to watch from a distance like a creep” 

“Really? I had no idea” Charles mumbled. He was relieved to see you didn’t hear what Lando had just said, as you were too engulfed in your conversation with Franco. 

“Just saying” The Brit continued “Everyone can see the chemistry between you two”

Charles adjusted his hat as he stood up next to his friend. “I just don’t want to ruin the friendship. What if it goes wrong?” 

Lando rolled his eyes. “Or it could go right. Look at how she talks to you, how she lights up around you. That’s not just a friendship, mate. She clearly likes you.”

Charles stole another glance at you, your eyes still focused on Franco. With one last sigh, he left the conference room, almost slamming the door behind him.

“What was that all about?” Franco asked you as he looked at the now shut door across the room

“I have no idea” You admitted  “Whatever it is, he’ll get over it”

The Austin sun blazed through the sky as you entered the paddock. You always loved being back home, and of course you went all out for it. You had your hair in two braided pigtails with your favorite cowboy hat resting on top, and a matching pair of boots tucked under your blue jeans. 

Most of the other drivers played into the gimmicks that Texas brought, even if they didn’t do them right. Some donned backwards cowboy hats while others tucked their jeans into their boots, both leading you to wince. Some, like Charles, did both.

“You look absolutely ridiculous” You yelled down the paddock as you spotted Charles in the middle of a media scrum

From what you could tell, they were in the middle of an unboxing of some sorts. Plastic and paper wrapping littered the area as a box was cracked open. Both Charles and the media turned to watch you walk over. 

“What are you talking about? I look fabulous” Charles said, showing off his new hat 

“Yeah,” You replied as you approached him “Except for the fact your hat’s the wrong way and your jeans are tucked in.” 

Before Charles could protest, you took the hat off of his head (from the crown of course, you weren’t an animal) and flipped it. His cheeks grew hot, both from embarrassment and how close you were to him. 

“Thank you” He whispered before untucking his jeans 

Saturday went perfectly for Red Bull. Max won the sprint, while you took second, giving the team a few more points in the Constructor’s race. 

As your day in the paddock came to a close, there was only one thing on your mind: the Texas/Georgia game. Growing up right outside the city meant your Saturdays were spent cheering on the Longhorns, and today was no different. 

You found Charles leaving the paddock at the exact same time you were, giving you the perfect opportunity to ask if he wanted to join you. While you knew he knew nothing about football, it at least gave you an excuse to spend a little extra time with him during the weekend. 

“What’s the chance you’re not doing anything tonight?” You asked as you caught up to him.

“Easily 100%. Do you have something in mind?” He replied 

“I have an extra VIP ticket to the game tonight and a spare jersey. Wanna join?” 

“You know I don’t know anything about American football” He reminded you. Charles truly wanted to go, but he didn’t want to bring your experience down because he was an idiot.  

“Pleaseeee” You begged, flashing him a fake pout “I promise you’ll have fun” 

Charles ran his hand through his hair before sighing “Okay. But this better not ruin my race tomorrow” 

You were right, Charles did have fun. Most of the time was spent on the sidelines, getting up close to the action. Charles didn’t understand a lick of what was going on, but that didn’t mean he didn’t try to. You walked him through all of the basic things he should know, like touchdowns, field goals, and extra points. 

And Charles would let you talk for days if he could. He was captivated by how your intonation changed as you explained the difference between a pass, a rush, and a kick attempt. Did any of what you said stick in his head? Absolutely not. But that didn’t matter. He was with you, and you were with him, and about 100,000 other people in the stadium.    

The rest of the weekend only got better for you. Not only were you working your way into Charles’ heart, you made your way to the top step of the podium. You knew Max was going to be aggressive going into turn one, giving you ample opportunity to sneak into the lead, where you stayed for the rest of the race. Both Charles and Max were on the podium with you, P2 and P3 respectively. 

“So would you say last night affected your race?” You asked Charles once you got to the cool down room. You quickly swapped the helmet in your hands for a towel and the Pirelli cap that were waiting for you. 

Charles chuckled “Maybe, I coulda ended up on the top step” 

You shrugged as you took your seat in the middle of the two boys. “Guess we’ll never know” 

After the formalities and shenanigans of the podium ceremony, you found yourself in the back of the media pen waiting for your turn for an open interviewer. You could feel a presence walking up to you, causing you to turn. Of all people, Franco was the one to approach. The two of you were decent friends, you being one of the first people to welcome him to the F1 grid. 

“Congrats on the win, amiga” Franco said, bringing you in for a hug 

“Thank you, thank you” You replied, “How was your first race at COTA?” 

“It was good! Definitely glad to be racing closer to home. I can’t wait for the next three in the Americas” He said 

As you and Franco made small talk, Charles was watching you like a hawk from across the pen. He listened to every laugh that came out of your mouth from something Franco said, analyzed every light hearted touch of the arm. Max was next to him, well aware of the events of the night prior. It was hard for him to not know about it, you would not stop talking about it in the paddock. 

“The way he held me? I felt like the only girl in the stadium” “He let me explain football to him, Max. No one ever lets me do that around here” “Are you sure he feels the same way about me?” Were all phrases that left your mouth earlier in the day. 

Max was positive Charles felt the same way about you that you did about him. Any of the few remaining doubts flew out the window as he listened to Charles whine. 

“Whatever he said cannot be that funny, right?” Charles asked “Like there’s no way”

Max muttered a “mhm” as he took a sip of the Red Bull in his hand. 

“I just don’t get how he does it so easily! What is it about him that makes him that likeable?” Charles asked “Is it the accent?” 

“Maybe it’s because he’s a natural flirt.” Max said “You couldn’t flirt with a brick if you tried” 

Charles’ glare left Franco and turned to the Dutchman next to him “You didn’t need to say that.” Max threw his hands up in defense.

“But what am I supposed to do if she can’t understand my flirting?” Charles asked 

“Just tell her how you feel. Ask her out on a date” Max suggested as if it was obvious. 

“That’s just asking for her to run me off the track in the next race” The Monagasque said. He ignored Lando’s advice in Monza, and he was likely to do the same to Max. 

A frustrated groan left Max’s mouth as he smacked the back side of his friend’s head. “Oh my god. Do I have to spell it out? She likes you.” 

Charles’ eyebrows furrowed as he watched you say goodbye to the Argentenian. A spot had opened up in the media pen, and Charles’ eyes followed you as you greeted the interviewer. 

“How do you know that?” He asked 

“Mate, she took you to the Texas game yesterday.  She doesn’t take just anyone. I’ve known her for years and I still haven’t gotten an invite.” He explained “In the garage, she wouldn’t shut up about how much fun she had with you last night.” 

“Really?” Charles asked. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his friend’s mouth. 

“Yes, really. Now if you don’t tell her how you feel, I’m going to do it for you.” Max threatened as he walked towards the next open interviewer.

The bar buzzed with excitement as the sun dipped below the horizon. It being your home race, you ordered both your friends on and off the grid to join in the celebrations. Most of the guys were already there, already a few rounds deep, but it wasn’t until a certain Ferrari driver walked in that you relaxed. 

Charles navigated the crowd, his eyes scanning the room for any signs of you. When he spotted you at the bar, a grin spread across his face. He made his way over, squeezing through the sea of fans and drivers. 

“There you are!” he exclaimed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I've been looking for the race winner!” 

“Yeah, you’ve been avoiding me since the podium” you teased, crossing your arms 

“Right, totally” He fake agreed “Now, drinks on me?” 

A playful smile broke onto your lips as you turned to face the driver. “Actually, I believe it’s my turn. You got me in Monaco, it’s only fair” 

Charles opened his mouth to protest, but you already had gotten the attention of the bartender. He watched as you put up two fingers, and the bartender quickly got to work. As he waited, he was able to catch snippets of chatter and laughter from the rest of the people in the bar. Logan made the trip out to Austin, and was in deep conversation with Oscar and Alex, while Max and Lando were cracking jokes about their battle during the race. 

You handed Charles one of the two drinks you had received “To a dominant 1-2 finish” you toasted, clinking your glass against yours

He took a sip, the refreshing taste of the cocktail invigorating “This is really good. What is it?” He asked, looking at his drink 

“Texas Cactus Water” You answered “Tequila, lime juice, and Topo Chico”

The night wore on, and with each passing drink, the atmosphere became more lively. You were in your element, charming everyone around you. You were sure to spread your attention out to everyone who came to celebrate your win, but you always found yourself going back to him.

“Want another round?” he asked after the two of you finished your drinks.

“Yeah, sure. Put it on my tab” You ordered, knowing he would have said the same to you. 

As Charles approached the bar, Franco suddenly appeared by your side, a broad grin on his face. “Looks like you’ve got quite the fan club” he joked, nodding toward Charles, who was deep in conversation with the bartender. 

“He’s just being nice” You replied, not wanting to think too much about the flutter in your stomach at Charles’ attention “He bought my drinks in Monaco, so I’ve been returning the favor.

Franco raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe he likes you a little more than just ‘nice’,” he said, smirking.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Please, we’re just friends. He’s friendly with everyone.”

“Yeah, but he looks at you differently. Just saying,” Franco teased, nudging your arm before slipping away to join some other drivers.

When Charles returned with another round of drinks, he slid next to you, his arm casually draped over the back of your chair. “What’s got you smiling like that?” he asked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity.

“Oh, just Franco being... well, Franco,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah? What did he say?” Charles pressed, his expression shifting to one of interest.

“Nothing important. Just... you know, how great it is to be back in Austin,” you deflected, not wanting to reveal the fluttering thoughts swirling in your mind.

Charles studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. “You sure? Because I could always tell him to back off if he’s bothering you,” he offered, his protectiveness shining through.

You laughed lightly. “I appreciate that, but really, it’s fine.”

As the night progressed, Charles seemed to loosen up even more, the drinks giving him a playful edge. He began to get a bit flirtier, leaning closer and making exaggerated gestures as he animatedly recounted his day.

At one point, he casually brushed your arm while reaching for his drink. The simple touch sent a rush of warmth through you. You could sense the tension building between you two, an electricity that was impossible to ignore.

You tried to focus on what he was saying, but the lingering sensation from his touch was hard to shake off. Each time he leaned closer, you felt that flutter in your stomach intensify, battling with the excitement of the moment. 

“So, what’s your strategy for Mexico City?” you asked, hoping to redirect the conversation and distract yourself from the undeniable chemistry brewing between you

Charles grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Honestly? Just to keep up with you. I’ve seen how competitive you can be, and I want to push myself more.” 

You smirked, leaning close enough in to get a whiff of his cologne “Is that so? You better be prepared for a good fight” 

He laughed, the sound deep and warm, and for a moment, the world around you faded. “I’d expect nothing less” he replied. His voice was low, and you could see a flicker of something deeper in his gaze. 

Just then, Max, Lando and Logan rejoined you, breaking the spell. 

“What were you two whispering about?” Lando asked, a mischievous grin on his face 

“Just race strategies” you said quickly, shooting a glance at Charles. The Monagasque nodded, playing along, but you could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes at the interruption

“Strategies for what? How to sneak out of here without us noticing?” Logan chimed in. You shot him a glare in response. 

“Oh come on” Charles said, his eyes rolling but amusement still danced on his face “We’re just having a good time” 

Max leaned in, the smell of alcohol on his lips as he smirked “Just make sure you keep it PG, yeah? Red Bull doesn’t need any headlines about you sleeping with the enemy” 

You lightly punched your teammate, causing him to flinch. “I can handle my own headlines, thank you very much” 

The group continued to joke and banter, but you couldn’t help stealing glances at Charles. He was laughing and enjoying himself, but every so often, his gaze would flicker back to you, that intensity returning.

As the night wore on, the playful atmosphere shifted to something more intimate when the music slowed down. You found yourself back at the bar with Charles, the noise of the party around you dimming to a soft buzz. Both of you had too many drinks, and it was evident by the conversation you were having. 

“Do you ever think what happens after this?” he asked, his tone serious

You looked up at him, surprised. “After what? The day? The season?”

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “I mean, after all this. When we’re not racing anymore. What do you want?” 

Charles’ question caught you off guard. It was a vulnerability you weren’t expecting. “I-” you started, then paused, choosing your words carefully. “I guess I want to keep doing what I love. Traveling, meeting new people, but also taking the time to enjoy moments like this.” 

He nodded, absorbing your words. “Yeah, me too. I’ve realized these moments are what make the job worth it” 

You could feel the tension building again, that electric connection almost palpable. “So what do we do about it?” you asked, your heart racing

Charles looked at you, his expression softening, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the world around you disappeared again. “Maybe we should stop pretending and just see where this goes?” He suggested, finally confronting the elephant in the room

The sincerity in his voice made your heart skip “You mean…?” 

He wasn’t sure where the sudden confidence was coming from. Maybe it was the amount of drinks, or maybe it was due to your true feelings finally being on display tonight. “Yeah, I mean if we both feel it, why not explore it?” 

You felt a rush of emotions - excitement, fear, hope. “I’d like that” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Before you could process what was happening, Charles leaned down, pressing his lips against yours. It took a second to kiss him back, but when you did, it was everything you had dreamed of since you first met him. 

Suddenly, a loud cheer erupted from the other side of the bar, pulling you away from each other. All of the other drivers were staring at you, each pair of eyes matched with a shit eating grin. 

“You wanna get out of here?” You asked 

“Yeah, I’d like that” Charles said, taking your hand 

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