#ok byee

tonight’s rooftop party, held in honor of something neither you nor anyone else here can quite remember, is not dull. or, well, it was dull, during the speeches and the ribbon-cutting and whatever other ceremonial fluff they threw in for tax write-offs, but now that the formalities are out of the way and the music is pulsing low and smooth over monaco’s glittering skyline, it’s your time to shine.

you’ve already introduced two people to each other with suspiciously compatible net worths and made at least three people laugh so hard they nearly choked on foie gras— by all accounts, a successful evening.

and then he arrives.

you spot him before he spots you, because of course you do. you’re observant like that. and besides, he walks like someone who doesn’t want to be noticed but knows he always will be— shoulders tense under a linen shirt, hand half-raising in greeting to someone he vaguely knows before quickly pocketing it.

he’s scanning the place like he isn’t sure why he’s here, like he’s looking for an exit. or someone to anchor to.

so, naturally, you make yourself the anchor.

“charlu!” you call, loud enough to cut through the music. it’s instinct, from your lycée days, back when everyone had a nickname and his was the only one you liked saying out loud. it makes him wince, just slightly, and you laugh.

“tu es la seule personne encore vivante qui m’appelle ça.” he says when he reaches you, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “i should’ve banned it after lycée.”

“but then who would i even be?” you flutter your lashes and link your arm through his without asking.  “you missed all the speeches,” you scold him cheerfully. “someone very important thanked someone else very important for donating something expensive. you’ll be devastated to know you weren’t there for it.”

“merde. truly heartbreaking,” he says, dryly. “you look very... you.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment!” you wink, and then, “congratulations on monaco, by the way,” you’re beaming now, because you mean it. “i was at the afterparty. you probably didn’t see me— crowded, obviously— but i was there. hiding behind a fern.”

he huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, and you know he doesn’t quite know what to do with your brand of honesty, which is exactly why you do it. “you should’ve said hi.”

“i did! to the fern.”

he runs a hand through his hair, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “it was a bit of a blur.”

“well, you deserved it. bien joué.” you tap him lightly on the chest, where the ferrari logo would usually be stitched. “you made everyone cry. even my mother. and she barely cries at funerals.”

soon enough you’ve dragged him— okay, maybe not dragged, maybe coaxed— over to the side with the couches: low, plush things overlooking the glittering coastline. the breeze is warm, sticky with the ghost of sea salt, and your heels sink slightly into the deck but you’re used to it. charles settles beside you, easy and relaxed, shoulders less tense, eyes softer.

you fill the silence, as always. telling him about the vague cause the party is attached to— something about art therapy and yachts (you think) which doesn’t make any sense but sounded noble enough. you tell him to try the hors d’oeuvres before the good ones run out and shove a glass of champagne into his hand and ask him how the season is, if he’s exhausted yet, if he’s tired of podiums yet. you’re buzzing from the night, from the air, from the champagne, and it’s easy to talk to him. always has been.

he listens, leaning back a little, that lazy half-smile playing on his lips like he’s amused by your very existence. which— to be extremely fair— you are very amusing.

“so,” he says eventually, eyes glinting, “are you here for the art... yachts... thing? or something else?”

you blink at him, caught. “what, can’t i just support a good cause?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“okay, fine,” you admit, mock-scandalized. “i’m matchmaking. there’s this heiress from antibes and a hotelier from seoul who would be so perfect for each other, and they’re both here tonight. i’m just trying to give fate a little push.”

he laughs. genuinely. “you’re still doing that?”

you tilt your head, grinning. “you remember?”

“of course. you matched madame corbet with monsieur delano. they started dating and stopped assigning us joint essays every week.”

“hmm,” you say, coy. “must’ve been fate.”

he gives you a look. “that was you.”

you smirk into your champagne, don’t confirm or deny. you don’t have to. he knows. of course he knows.

you lose track of time— like, really lose track of it. one moment you’re laughing about someone’s disastrous attempt at dating an heiress, and the next you’re glancing at your phone and realizing it’s been nearly three hours and the rooftop’s mostly emptied out. the couple you paired off earlier have disappeared— successfully, if you’re any judge of chemistry, and you are— and the air is cooler now, sea breeze curling around your ankles.

“it’s late,” charles says, rising to his feet. “fancy a ride home?”

you blink up at him, then smirk. “what, looking for a scandal, leclerc?” he goes visibly pink, which is delightful, and you reach for your clutch. “kidding. what’s a ride home between old friends?”

you don’t notice the way his expression tightens when you say that— friends— because someone walks past and presses a kiss to your cheek, murmurs something about brunch next week, and by the time you look back at him, the frown’s already gone. or at least, hidden well enough.

the ride home is quiet in that comfortable, late-night way, the usually crowded streets of monte carlo empty. the city blurs past in golds and silvers, and when he pulls up outside your building, you lean over and kiss him on the cheek, lipstick just barely grazing his skin, though enough to leave a bit of a mark. you like annoying him in that way.

“merci, charlu,” you whisper, already halfway out the door. “à bientôt?”

and then you’re gone, breezing through the lobby, heels clicking against marble, leaving him in the car, still watching the door long after it closes behind you.

the thing about garden dinners in monaco is that they always look prettier than they actually are— string lights twisted around tree branches like they were grown that way, champagne coupes catching the light just so, the scent of jasmine and something faintly overpriced wafting from the catered centerpieces. and you don’t even want to be here, really, but lucie asked, and she’s sweet, and matchmaking is your god-given talent (your words, not god’s), and besides, you haven’t had foie gras in like three days, so you said yes.

what you didn’t expect, though, was charles.

“we’re not doing this again,” you say as he approaches. “are you following me?”

“i could ask you the same thing,” he says, grinning. “you’re everywhere.”

“because i’m popular. and very pretty.”

“and humble.”

you roll your eyes, fondly. “we’re sitting together.” you declare, like a pact, like he isn’t allowed to say no— because he isn’t, by the way. allowed to say no to you. you’ve decided. “i don’t know most of these people.”

he gives you a look. “but you just said you’re popular.”

“popular doesn’t mean omniscient, charlu.” you say sweetly. he cringes again at the nickname.

the thing is, neither of you really know why you’re here. it’s one of those dinners organized by someone’s friend’s cousin who married into wealth and whatever. aside from lucie you recognize eight people— maybe nine— and charles recognizes even fewer, so when you both happen to arrive at the same time, something unspoken settles between you.

“truce?” you murmur as you step inside the garden, low lighting casting everything in soft golden shadows.

“sit next to me and i won’t abandon you.” he says, extending his arm in mock-chivalry.

“how romantic,” you deadpan, looping your arm through his.

the table is long and sprawling, and thankfully you and charles find seats in the middle of it all. perfect. your favorite arrangement, you think. there's a guy a year ahead of you from lycée— adrien something, still has that smug look like he thinks you’ll remember his last name— and lucie, who was a few years below you, sweet, nervous, always had braids and a pen clipped to her uniform.

you’re in your element, as usual. the dinner starts and so does your running commentary— leaning in every few minutes to tell charles who’s who. the couple at the end of the table is newly engaged but already cheating on each other. the woman to your right’s had three husbands, all wealthier than the last. the man making the toast used to be a minor celebrity in the early 2000s and has recently reinvented himself as a tech investor.

someone at the head of the table— adrien, of course— stands up to give a speech, something about community and heritage and the importance of connection. you’d already warned charles that adrien loves hearing himself talk. he, thankfully, doesn’t comment that you’re probably the same.

“this is so moving,” he whispers, deadpan. “i might cry.”

you choke on your wine, giggling into your napkin, and someone shushes you from further down the table but you don’t care. you’ve got a good seat, good food, and good company. let them glare. they’re not sitting next to the charles leclerc.

by the time dessert arrives— little plates of tarte tropézienne and candied orange peels— you’re flushed with wine and delight and maybe a little too proud of yourself, which is when you decide it’s time to share your master plan.

“so,” you say, licking sugar from your thumb, “you wanna know why i’m really here?”

charles raises an eyebrow, and you miss the way his eyes flutter down just so, following the movement of your tongue on the pad of your thumb. he looks up, finishes his champagne. “not just for the sugar coma?”

“i’m here for lucie,” you say, motioning toward the girl across the table, currently locked in a shy conversation with adrien. “i’ve been trying to set them up for months. they’re perfect for each other, they just don’t know it yet.”

he blinks. “you’re matchmaking them?”

“mmhmm,” you hum, proud. “she’s sweet and smart and needs someone grounded. he’s— well— annoying, but he’s oddly sincere, i suppose. or at least that’s what she tells me.”

he laughs, low and amused. “and people pay you for this?”

“oh, charles,” you say, mock-offended. “they pay so much. but, well, lucie’s an old friend— we were neighbors, once upon a time— so this is more of me just… helping.”

you excuse yourself after that, slipping into social butterfly mode as soon as the plates are cleared. you glide through the garden like you belong to it, make your way to lucie with a soft hand on her back and a whispered compliment about her earrings before nudging her into a conversation with adrien. it takes less than five minutes. you’re good at this. you always have been.

when you make it back to charles, he’s half-lounging on a couch, half-listening to someone explain cryptocurrency. he looks relieved when you interrupt, holding a second flute of champagne you assume is for you.

“i’m back!” you sing-song, grabbing your flute just as the other person leaves. “tell me you missed me—”

he arches a brow. “how’d it go with your experiment?”

“i think i have some progress. i give them until september.”

you slide back into the seat beside him, smoothing your dress under your thighs. he doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you in that maddeningly unreadable way he does sometimes— like you’ve said something profound even when you haven’t spoken at all.

he drapes his arm over the back of your chair, casual but not casual at all. it’s warm behind you, not quite touching but almost, like a breath you’re only half aware of. you lean back slightly, thinking nothing of it, too caught up in how arnaud looked at camille when she laughed to notice the way charles shifts just the slightest bit closer. almost imperceptibly. like gravity, not intent.

you’re mid-sentence, explaining your strategy— how lucie just needs affirmation, confidence and adrien just needs to get over himself— when you notice him nodding, not really at what you’re saying, but just… at you.

he says your name, once, quietly, just to get your attention, and it startles you a little, the way it sits in the air between you. he tilts his head. “you talk about love like it’s for other people.”

you blink. the breeze picks up, ruffles the hem of your dress, and for a moment, you can’t find something flippant to say. that’s rare. it makes you uncomfortable.

“not everyone gets the happy ending,” you say finally, shrugging. “some of us just get to help make them happen.”

he doesn’t say anything, and for once, you don’t fill the silence.

and maybe you do what you always do— you smooth the discomfort over with charm, say something vaguely philosophical and deflective, let it pass like the summer breeze through your hair. he doesn’t press, and you’re grateful, even if you don’t know why.

but after that, he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

you’re speaking again, you think. saying something about the next event, about the way people keep mistaking you for some american tiktok influencer, of all people! you’re gesturing, grinning, tapping the couch as you talk, and he’s still looking at you like you’ve carved out some kind of private orbit just for the two of you to exist in.

the night ends ends. someone claps. people begin to shift, stand, stretch, hug. the spell breaks.

“i can give you a ride,” he offers, too quickly.

you smile. press a hand to his cheek, affectionate but breezy. “that’s sweet, but i’m going home with lucie. debrief, you know. girl stuff.”

you lean in and kiss him on the cheek, the same way you always do, the same exact spot. “we’ll probably stumble into each other again at some other function. monaco’s good like that.”

he nods, but says nothing. just watches you go.

you don’t look back. not really. but you feel his eyes on you the whole way.

the thing about monaco is that it’s always something— someone’s birthday, someone else’s anniversary, a vague charity for the conservation of something endangered and luxurious, a yacht party for a friend of a friend of a friend where you aren’t exactly sure what you’re celebrating, but there’s champagne and a dress code and that’s usually enough. you don’t question it. this is just your life. a calendar of curated events and invitations, garden dinners followed by terrace cocktails followed by midnight boat rides. it’s exhausting if you think too hard about it, so you don’t. you like it more than you don’t, anyway.

this one’s a yacht party—anniversary, maybe. you’re not quite sure. it’s for a friend of a friend of someone who once tried to date you, which basically means: standard. you arrive just as the sky starts to bleed into twilight, hair curled to casual perfection, dress cinched in just the right places, already smiling because you know half the crowd and they know you. someone hands you a glass of prosecco. someone else kisses both your cheeks. you glide.

you’re halfway through scanning the guest list— internally, of course, not literally— when you spot him. charles, leaning against the railing like he’s thinking about something far away, or maybe pretending to. it’s unfair, you think, how good he looks like that, like he belongs on yachts and in soft golden lighting and nowhere else.

he turns just as you approach, eyes crinkling. again, you think, so, so unfairly handsome.

“charlu,” you greet, already smiling, “monaco really is trying to tell us something, don’t you think? third time in what— two weeks?”

he hums, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, the slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers curl around his wine glass like he’s holding back words.

“fate,” you say brightly, before he can answer. “it’s obviously fate.”

“peut-être que oui,” he says softly, but you’re already sliding into place beside him, back pressed to the railing, eyes on the crowd.

“you know what this means,” you continue, already mapping the party in your mind. “i’m supposed to set you up. that’s what fate wants.”

he lets out a small laugh, barely audible over the water lapping against the side of the boat. “i don’t think fate wants that.”

“what’s your type, again?” you ask, like he’s a client, like he’s filled out your intake form. “blondes? redheads? or more like quiet girls who read on the beach and don’t care about racing? oh! maybe dancers. no— wait, models. definitely models.”

he looks at you like he wants to say something, anything to derail the train of thought barreling down the tracks, but he doesn’t. just watches. just lets you talk like he always does.

“i thiiiiiiink—” you drawl out the words, putting your hands on his shoulders to maneuvre him around, pointing discreetly, “—yooooooou might like her. that’s nicoletta. she models for some italian label i always forget the name of. she’s sooo sweet. i talked to her once at a dinner and she said something about growing up in a vineyard, which, you know, very chic.”

charles follows your gaze, slow. patient. “you think i’d like her?”

you shrug. “she’s beautiful. you’re beautiful. i think the symmetry works.”

he doesn’t say anything. just sips his drink and looks at you.

“imagine the life!” you tease. “coordinating outfits, vacations in sardinia, interviews where you say things like he’s just a normal guy to me.”

he looks at you. really looks at you. eyes shining a little too much in the party lights. “would you want that?” he asks.

you blink. “what?”

“that kind of life,” he says, tone quiet all of a sudden, almost testing the weight of the words in his mouth. “would you want it?”

you laugh, waving a hand at him— it’s not dismissive, you think. “unless you have anyone in that— ah, how do you say it again? grid? grid.” a scrunch of your nose, finally finding the right word. “unless if you’re dying to introduce me to someone, i don’t think i’m there yet.”

he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

you wave a hand and gesture toward nicoletta. “go! talk to her. please, just for me, charlu? she’s lovely, i swear.”

he hesitates, and it’s almost funny, how reluctant he looks to leave your side like a little puppy, but you push him gently, hands on his shoulders, toward nicoletta.

and he goes, sort of. you watch him walk over. watch her smile. watch them talk. and then you keep watching.

you tell yourself it’s because you want to see how your setup goes. it’s part of your process. analysis. data collection. notes for your post-match debrief, nothing more.

but you’re frowning. and you don’t know why.

or, no— you do know why, but you’re not going to say it. because jealousy is an ugly feeling and you only ever feel beautiful, always. you decide it’s not that. it can’t be that. you’re not the kind of girl who gets jealous over a setup she orchestrated. you’re the one who puts people together, not the one who falls apart watching them click.

you turn away before you can think too much about it.

you’re still watching when adrien finds you.

“there you are,” he says, smiling, wine glass tilted. “trying to disappear?”

ugh, he is the last person you want to talk to right now. but whatever, it keeps your mind off of charles— which, again, is weird, you’re always fairly confident in your matches. “no, just where i always need to be, it seems.” you say, mustering up a polite smile, not really putting that much effort in, because knowing adrien, he probably doesn’t even notice. “are you here with lucie today?”

“oh, god, no. why would i be?” he chuckles, too smug. “she’s a bit dull, isn’t she?”

you blink. once. twice. “what?”

“you know,” he continues, swirling his wine like he’s holding court, “all she talks about is art and her dog. bit simple, no?”

your hand twitches. you take his wine, smile a little too sharply, and throw it in his face. he gasps, sputtering, wiping sauvignon blanc from his forehead.

“ugh, you are a snob and a half!”  you step closer, furious. “lucie is intelligent, kind, and has more soul in one freckle than you do in your entire overpriced, underwhelming personality. if you can’t appreciate her, the least you could do is not insult her when she’s not here to defend herself.”

you don’t wait for a comeback. you turn on your heel, intending to disappear into the yacht and evaporate entirely. the only problem is— you’re on a yacht. and you barely make it two steps before you crash directly into someone’s chest.

and of course it’s charles.

your glass, somehow still in your hand, tips slightly. red splashes onto your dress. his shirt too. you stare down at the stain for a beat. then up at him. then back down again.

“oh,” you say, loudly, almost mournfully. “this was loro piana!”

the wine has soaked through both of your clothes and into your pride. it’s fine. everything’s fine. you’ve survived worse— like that time your heel snapped at the monte-carlo opera gala and you had to limp across the marble floor while everyone watched. at least here, no one saw the wine explosion except adrien, who deserved it, and charles, who… is charles.

“there’s probably guest room below deck,” he says, already steering you down the sleek, too-white hallway like he’s been on a thousand yachts before this one, which, let’s be honest, he probably has. he knocks once on a random door, doesn’t wait for a response, then opens it to reveal the kind of ensuite situation that looks like it was designed by a bored interior architect with a vendetta against beige. marble counters. minimalist furniture. a towel folded into the shape of a swan.

anyway, you’ve seen worse things in your life than a wine stain across the chest of a two-thousand-euro dress, but in the moment, it feels catastrophic. mostly because it’s this dress. and also because he is here. watching you try to claw red wine out of cream cashmere.

“at least i can say it’s the new trend,” you mutter, dabbing aggressively at your sternum in the yacht’s ensuite bathroom, shoulders hunched, hair pinned back with a clip you found by the sink (thank god for women— girls supporting girls and whatnot). “ very spring/summer 2025.”

you don’t look up at first when you leave the bathroom. you’re too busy pulling at the damp fabric to see how bad the damage is, already composing the ‘it’s just fashion’ excuse in your head. but when you do look up—

you short circuit.

because there he is. charles leclerc. shirtless. just. standing in the middle of a stranger’s yacht’s guest bedroom.

you knew he was attractive. objectively. you’ve been saying it for years. it’s one of your fun party tricks, how easily you can say, “oh, charles? yeah, we were in lycée together. very handsome face. better hair now.” — like it’s not that serious!

except now you’re staring at his very handsome everything. chest. arms. abs. shoulders. the whole absurd deal.

“you’re staring,” he says, and you immediately tear your gaze away, focusing very intently on a spot on the wall that might be a light switch or might be a shadow. you’re not sure. you’re actually not sure of anything anymore.

“i wasn’t,” you lie. it’s a bad lie. you’re usually better than this. you’re usually great at this. “i was just… observing. objectively.”

“mm.” he doesn’t argue, just gives you that soft, smug, totally irritating look that says he knows exactly what effect he has and enjoys making you squirm with it.

you sit down on the edge of the bed like it’s a punishment and fold your hands in your lap, like you’ve suddenly been transported to finishing school.

he disappears into the bathroom. you stare straight ahead. do not think about his back. or his arms. or his face when he—

the door opens again.

he’s put the shirt back on. but it’s unbuttoned. of course it’s unbuttoned. god hates you.

he drops next to you on the mattress, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin and the faint scent of something citrusy— probably whatever soap this yacht is stocked with— but you do not comment. you are strong. you are composed. you are not about to be undone by his chest, of all things.

“so,” you say, attempting normalcy. “how was your conversation with manon?”

he looks over, amused. “short.”

“good short or tragic short?”

he shrugs. “she’s no you.”

which— is unfair, really. totally, utterly unfair that he’s being like this when he’s practically half-dressed and god, you’re even in a bedroom like some totally cliché, b-list-starring rom-com. and the thing about you is that you are anything but a cliché.

so instead you laugh, forced and casual. “well, no one is.”

“i know.”

the silence is a little too heavy after that. you pivot. god bless your ability to pivot.

“oh.” you glance at him. “well, she’s lovely. i really think she’d be good for you. if you let me play with your profile a bit, we could have something solid by autumn. maybe even a november vacation soft-launch.”

he laughs, soft. “and what about you?”

you blink. “what about me?”

“no matchmaking? no november soft-launch for you?”

you roll your eyes. “we’ve had this conversation.”

“humor me.”

you cross your legs, fingers tightening around the edge of the bed. “i don’t need the launch. i’m the one who builds the rocket.”

he turns toward you, just slightly. “you said something like that in school once.”

you glance at him. “i did?”

“mhm. you tried to set up chloe with rené, remember? during finals week. you made her give him her notes.”

you blink at him, surprised. “you remember that?”

“yeah.” he says it like it’s obvious. like of course he remembers everything you’ve ever said.

you laugh, a little too loud. deflect. “don’t worry about me, leclerc. i’m the love architect. everyone else gets the penthouse. i’m happy in the planning office.”

he doesn’t laugh. just looks at you.

you look away.

the stain on your dress is still wet. the air in the room is quiet. you can hear the party music upstairs like a muffled heartbeat. and beside you, charles exhales, long and slow, and you feel it more than you hear it.

neither of you says anything for a beat too long.

you shift, pretending to fix your hem, and say brightly, “well. i suppose we’ll have to go back upstairs at some point, unless you’re hoping for your own soft-launch rumor.”

you don’t see the way he looks at you then. or maybe you do. but you don’t let it in.

the date is awful.

not even a funny-awful or a well-at-least-he-was-hot awful. no. it is tech bro new money awful. the kind of awful that orders for you at dinner because “women always love seafood,” then proceeds to explain blockchain to you even after you say, twice, that you actually majored in economics that one time you decided on doing a university stint— at cambridge, no less. he has the audacity to own a lambo, but not a tailor. the watch is too shiny. the opinions are too loud. the energy screams i made my first million by accident and have been insufferable ever since. oh, and i’ll probably lose all of it in an NFT scam anyway.

you ignore all the warning signs because you’ve been trying to prove a point. to the universe, to yourself, to— ugh— charles, who— just for the record— should know that you do. you go on dates. regularly. often, even. because contrary to what charles leclerc’s stupid, all-knowing, softly-curled hair, annoyingly-handsome face might suggest, you are not a lonely cat lady in training, nor a self-immolating romantic martyr, nor someone who cries at night to sappy romcoms while swiping left on anyone with a fish photo. you are a functioning, beautiful, incredibly well-dressed person who gets asked out a lot. and sometimes, when the mood strikes, you say yes.

and now here you are. on the side of a road, at the edge of monaco, because tech boy got pissy after you suggested maybe, possibly, shutting up for five minutes.  he dropped you off mid-sentence. well— he kind of dropped you off while you were telling him off, but that’s semantics.

the real issue is that now you have to figure out how to get home. except— you don’t drive. never needed to. you once took a driver’s ed seminar at lycée and promptly forgot everything because your best friend elodie’s chauffeur was always around and anyway, and someone almost always offers to drive you home, and monaco is the size of a postage stamp. it’s never been a problem.

calling a friend would be— embarrassing. like admitting defeat. and the bus? the bus? what are you, fourteen and late for math class again?

you tell yourself it’s intentional. you’re taking the scenic route. monaco is beautiful at night. safe. charming, even. you’re a local. you know the hills like the back of your hand. except not really, because your calves are screaming and your tabi pumps are maison margiela and the cobblestone is out for blood. no amount of posture lessons or balance drills from childhood ballet is preparing you for this incline.

which is, of course, when fate decides to interrupt. again.

a car slows to a crawl beside you. sleek. dark. obnoxiously familiar. you already know it’s him before he rolls the window down.

“tu te promènes seule maintenant?” charles says, voice all silk and amusement, leaning across the console with that face. you hate his face. his face is mean.

you straighten your posture. “i’m taking the scenic route.”

he lifts a brow. “in tabis?”

you hesitate. just long enough for the betrayal in your arches to pulse again.

“they’re versatile,” you say, which is a lie, and you know it, and he knows it.

he glances toward the incline you’ve just barely conquered. “get in.”

you roll your eyes. world-famous driver or no, he’s not bossing you around that easily.  “you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

there’s a laugh, so charming and melodic and so, so annoyingly undoing, “your mother would tell you to call a chauffeur.”

well. that gets you; can’t really argue there. so you sigh. dramatically. then open the door and slide in like the saint you are, like it’s a blessing to him that you’ve decided to grace his car with your presence. which it is.

he pulls back into the road smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually on the gearshift, and you hate that he always looks like he belongs behind the wheel of something expensive.

“so,” he says after a moment, “are we pretending this wasn’t a date gone wrong or—”

you groan. “don’t.”

“just curious.”

you shoot him a look. “he got pissy after i corrected his french, twice.”

he winces. “et tu as duré combien de temps avec lui?”

you pause, then shrug. “longer than i care to admit. i didn’t want to waste the reservation.”

“obviously.”

“you’re very smug right now.”

“i’m never smug,” he says, in the most smug voice you’ve ever heard.

you roll your eyes and lean back against the seat, the city lights casting lines across your legs. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. for a moment, it’s just the sound of the road beneath you and the unspoken weight of something neither of you have named.

“you know,” you say, clearing your throat, “you could have had your own dinner date tonight. if you let me work my magic.”

he glances at you, smile just there at the corner of his mouth. “mm. still determined to set me up?”

“obviously. it’s my brand. i’ll find you someone stunning.”

“and what about someone who already knows me?” he says, eyes still on the road, voice deceptively light.

you blink. “like who?”

he shrugs. “someone from school. someone you’ve already vetted.”

you raise an eyebrow. “charlu.”

he glances at you, not even wincing at the nickname. his expression is unreadable. “just a thought.”

you don’t answer. you don’t want to. because that ugly, sour thing is back in your chest, and you don’t like it. you’ve spent your whole life designing happy endings for other people. you’re not entirely sure you believe in one for yourself.

he pulls up in front of your building.

you unbuckle, pause, and lean over to kiss him on the cheek, as always. except— except you linger. just a second longer. and so does he.

and then, a horn honks behind you. sharp. loud. rude.

you pull away quickly, blink, heart hammering way too much for someone who does not care. you climb out of the car. the air feels warmer than it did before. “i’ll text you,” you say, because you’re nothing if not composed. “i have someone in mind.”

he gives you a look you can’t quite read.

you smile too brightly. “to set you up with, obviously.”

then you turn on your heel and walk into your building, telling yourself that the tightness in your chest is just from the walk and totally not from him.

the thing is— and this is something you are only just beginning to admit to yourself, quietly, privately, in the part of your brain where you file away tax receipts and your one irrational fear of escalators— you can’t really find anyone for charles.

your record is impeccable, which is why the fact that you have not— cannot, apparently— find a single eligible human being for charles freaking leclerc is starting to feel like an administrative failure.

not that it means anything. it’s not weird. it’s just that your brain is being uncooperative, throwing out red flags at people who are, frankly, green-light certified. you see someone who might work and then five minutes later your brain’s like hmm, she blinked weird, and that gave me the ick, and you’re like okay! cool! loving this neutrality!

you’re trying not to think about it. you’re trying so hard, in fact, that you’ve forced yourself into full-service friend mode, dragging lucie out of bed and into the sun for brunch because fresh air cures all and she’s been mourning her situationship with adrien like it was an oscar-worthy romance and not, as you have repeatedly pointed out, a terrible idea from day one.

“he’s a sleaze,” you say, definitively.

lucie stirs her coffee. “you suggested him.”

“yes, well,” you wave a hand, “at the time i thought he was one of the good ones. which, in hindsight, was incredibly generous of me.”

lucie smiles, but it’s a little tired, and she shifts the conversation back to the guy she was talking to before adrien— theo something, tall, clean-cut, wore ankle socks with loafers in an unironic way. a banker. or maybe in stock market trading. you weren’t listening too closely at the time because he had a very boring watch and referred to himself as “a doggo dad” unprompted.

you wrinkle your nose. “theo didn’t even know what an amaretto sour was.”

“he was sweet,” lucie says, “and smart.”

“he wore shirts from zara.”

“so do most people.”

“not in my life,” you say, horrified.

lucie laughs into her croissant and you’re about to make a joke about sartorial red flags when a familiar voice cuts in.

“brunch without me?”

you look up and there he is, of course— charles, in a pale button-down and sunglasses, and he’s slightly flushed from the sun and you hate that you notice that, hate that your first thought isn’t what is he doing here but why does he look so good like this.

“don’t you remember lucie from lycée?” you say, because you’re nothing if not a gracious hostess, gesturing to the empty seat on your right. “we saw her at the dinner party. i told you.”

charles looks at lucie, takes off his sunglasses, and smiles. “i remember.”

lucie smiles back, a little surprised. “you have a good memory.”

he sits down. just like that. and the thing is, you don’t even mind, except that he’s being so... charming. to lucie. and lucie, who snorts when she laughs and flushes all too quickly, is suddenly being charming back. and suddenly you’re sitting at a table where the conversation is happening entirely without you.

you try to jump in twice, maybe three times. first to make a comment about the juice selection (ignored), then to reference a yacht party that neither of them had been at but you’d assumed lucie had at least seen on instagram (derailed), and then to make a joke about how monaco brunch menus all look the same anyway, which, again, no one hears. or maybe they do and just don’t respond. you can’t decide which is worse.

and then, as if things couldn’t get more annoying, charles and lucie realize they’re both attending the same charity gala next weekend. the one you and lucie had discussed not going to because the hosts are terribly disorganized and the champagne last year was warm.

“oh, it’s a shame you can’t go with us,” lucie says, genuinely sweet, turning to you.

you smile, thin. thin. “actually,” you say, too quickly, “i think my schedule just opened up.”

charles raises an eyebrow. “really?”

“mmhmm,” you say, sipping your mimosa like it hasn’t turned acidic. “wouldn’t miss it.”

you don’t look at either of them for the next full minute.

your mimosa is almost gone. the sun is suddenly too hot. and you are starting to think— very seriously, in the same breathless, breathy part of your brain that usually only activates during designer sample sales— that maybe your problem isn’t that you can’t find someone for charles.

maybe the problem is that you don’t want to.

the charity gala is exactly the kind of event you normally live for.  held in a centuries-old villa somewhere just uphill from the port— gilded mirrors, candlelight flickering off antique chandeliers, and full of the same ten people you see at every other event in monaco, rotating outfits and partners like a very expensive game of musical chairs. there are at least four different media personalities in attendance whom you've previously set up with heirs, at the very least.

you wear something dramatic and silky and backless, the color of antique gold, and you tell yourself you’re only here for lucie. for lucie and charity and the off-chance they actually serve chilled champagne this year. not because you found out charles was attending with lucie. which, technically, he isn’t—he’s not attending with her, he’s just... arriving at the same time. walking up to her when you both walk in. talking to her. lingering at her side.

which would be fine, obviously. it’s not like you have a stake in it. it’s not like you’re bothered. except maybe you are. just a little. in the way you’re also a little bothered by people who clap when planes land.

it starts when charles and lucie are laughing at something— something that is objectively not that funny, like, if someone were grading jokes on a scale, it would land somewhere between mildly funny and ha-ha, okay?— and your brain, which has been doing a very good job pretending to be very normal tonight, suddenly decides to betray you.

it ends with what you think is a harmless comment. something flippant. you’re not even sure what exactly you said— something about how lucie used to date men who were walking red flags, and now she’s charmed by charles, which is a definite upgrade but also a little predictable, maybe. but the tone’s off; too sharp, too cutting. and suddenly he’s looking at you, not like he’s amused, but like he’s confused, and you hate that more.

you excuse yourself before you can do more damage, but the universe is cruel and doesn’t let you escape unscathed because not twenty minutes later, charles finds you again, pulls you aside into the hallway by the villa’s library, where the lighting is warm and the rug is absurdly expensive and you’re standing too close to be anything but honest.

“what was that?” he asks, low and sharp, the way he only ever gets when he’s serious when he’s with you. which is rare. and unnerving.

you cross your arms. “what was what?”

“you basically insulted lucie to her face.”

“i didn’t,” you say, automatically, because you’ve had years of practice denying things.

“you said she had bad taste in men.”

“i mean... she did date adrien.”

he shakes his head, exasperated. “you’re the one who wanted to set me up. you’ve been insisting on finding someone, and now— what, now you’re sabotaging it?”

your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. like a fish. a very beautiful, expensively dressed fish.

“i wasn’t sabotaging anything,” you say, except it comes out too fast, too sharp.

“are you jealous?”

you laugh, because that is insane. you are not jealous. you are many things— witty, fabulous, emotionally evasive— but not jealous. right? — right?  “oh my god,” you say, “you wish.”

he doesn’t back down. just stares at you like he’s trying to see the thing you won’t say out loud.

you hate him a little for that.

you storm off before you can say more things you’ll regret, or worse, something that would make you feel exposed.

but the night isn’t done ruining you yet, because lucie finds you by the outdoor bar, where you’re stabbing a lemon slice with a cocktail straw and pretending to look fascinated by a conversation about luxury yacht taxation.

“can we talk?” she asks.

you sigh. “about how charles is clearly in love with you?”

lucie blinks. “what?”

“nothing.”

she frowns. “why are you being like this?”

you hate that you don’t have an answer. not a real one.

she stares at you, and then— quietly, carefully— says, “you know, for someone who matches people for a living, you’re not very good at relationships.”

you blink. stunned. like she just slapped you. “excuse me?”

“you spend so much time designing other people’s lives that you forget to live your own.”

“wow,” you say, eyes widening. you could almost laugh. “lucie. that was... poetic.”

she sighs. “you’re lonely, and you hide it behind all your plans. i don’t think you even know what you want.”

you’re silent. and then you go for the jugular. “well,” you snap, “at least i don’t have crush on the only guy who’s ever given her attention.”

lucie’s face hardens. you feel sick the second it leaves your mouth.

“you know what?” she says, stepping back. “you can’t even drive.”

“what?”

“you can’t drive. metaphorically, literally— take your pick. or better yet, find your own ride home.”

“lucie—”

“let’s just talk when we’ve mellowed, yeah?” she says, already walking away, already done. “you clearly need it more than i do.”

and then she’s gone. just like that.

the room sways a little. you place your flute of champagne on the nearest tray and press your fingers to your temples like that will do anything, as if you’re in a skincare commercial where everything gets better with a dewy filter on.

but there’s no filter here. just you, alone in the corner of a party you didn’t even want to come to, wearing chanel and a very fake smile, and feeling—

 god—

 so thoroughly not. okay.

walking home in heels is not for the faint of heart, the emotionally unstable, or the severely misaligned. and you, unfortunately, are at least two out of three right now.

you don’t storm out of the villa because you are not a stormer, thank you very much. storming is for people with dramatic capes and tragic backstories. you are elegant. composed. you walk out. briskly. gracefully. with purpose.

it just so happens that your heels click a little too aggressively on the marble.

and the thing is— you could call a car. you should call a car. you know this. you know at least seven people at that gala who would give you a ride home just for the chance to say they did. your phone is right there, glowing softly in your clutch. but your brain is already tangled in ribbon curls of anxiety and embarrassment and something heavier that you refuse to name. so it makes the genius decision that you’re going to walk.

because walking, in theory, is cinematic. it’s reflective. it’s the kind of thing you imagine doing to clear your head, even though in monaco it mostly just means going in tiny circles around a city that’s roughly the size of your cousin juliane’s vineyard in provence.

still, you keep walking. past the expensive hotel that always manages to overbook itself during formula one season. past the boutique you returned a pair of shoes to once, only to buy them again a week later. past the gelato place— your gelato place, the one that always tastes better at night— where you pause, sigh dramatically, and order a cone because if your heart’s going to be in shambles, you might as well be holding pistachio.

and then you’re back to walking. cone in one hand, heels clacking rhythmically against the pavement, tears not in your eyes because you are not crying, actually, you are just very overwhelmed and a little dehydrated.

you think of charles— charles and lucie, more accurately— laughing together, leaning close, his hand brushing her arm in that stupid soft way he always does when he’s trying to listen harder. and something in you curdles. not in an i want him for myself kind of way, because that would be crazy, right? right?

and you know you’re being irrational. dramatic, even. which are words you’d never call yourself, but perhaps it’s time to concede.

but you also know— deep, deep, deep down, in that place just under your ribs where you keep your best-kept secrets and also your favorite purse-sized perfume— you’ve never felt like this before. not for any of the men you’ve dated. no— no one has ever made you feel… unsteady.

you walk faster.

you try to make excuses. you tell yourself it’s because you’re a matchmaker. this is your thing. this is what you do. you find people the best match. you curate. and maybe you just don’t like being wrong. maybe it’s not about charles. maybe it’s about control.

but then your brain, cruel and unfiltered, offers up memories from lycée— charles, slipping you the last madeleine at study hall even though you already had three. and then it’s charles, covering for you when madame robineau found your unauthorized magazine under the desk. charles, standing next to you at every school event, and you don’t even realize until you do, until you look back at what blurry memories your high school years offer you and you see him there, in your periphery.

charles, who was the only boy in class who attended your thirteenth birthday party, even after every other boy was too scared of cooties, even when he had a karting event the next day. he had shown up in a too-big blazer and a gift bag, which you don’t even remember until now.

charles, remembering your dumb, offhand comment about not needing love because you’d rather build it for other people. charles, offering to drive you home. every time.

you keep walking. faster, now. you lick the gelato. the streets are quieter now, lamps casting gold shadows along the sidewalk. your shoes are ruined. your dress is wrinkled. you have melted pistachio ice s on your thumb. you are falling apart in a way that is very cinematic, except there’s no one filming it. and that’s when it hits you.

like, actually hits you.

right as you reach your apartment and the very dramatic fountain in the courtyard goes off— because of course it does, this is monaco, even water has flair— you stop mid-step and gasp.

like, full gasp.

you’re in love with charles.

you are.

you are in love with charles leclerc and it’s been there the whole time, tucked between old yearbook memories and every time you teased him for being too nice to you, too patient, too him. and it’s not just a crush. it’s not a passing thing. it’s the real kind, the serious kind, the i think he’s been in love with me this entire time and i didn’t even notice because i was too busy setting him up with models and calling it fate kind.

you stand there, stunned, dripping gelato onto the cobblestones.

“everything alright, mademoiselle?” your doorman calls from his stool, raising an eyebrow.

you blink at him. “i’m realizing things!” you shout. he blinks back, then returns to playing games on his phone.

you don’t care. you really, actually don’t. because this whole time, this entire time, you’ve been setting people up and drawing little imaginary maps and playing matchmaker like it was a game, like it didn’t have anything to do with you. and all along, charles has been— what? waiting? watching? loving you?

and maybe you’ve been loving him back. every party. every side conversation. every almost-moment that you laughed off because you were too scared to name it.

you technically don’t go to the product launch to apologize.

you go because you like face serums well enough, and mostly because pretending everything is fine in a crowd full of influencers and mid-tier royals is easier than sitting at home alone wondering if you’ve officially ruined your 100% matchmaking success rate and also your entire emotional compass in one spectacular week.

you’re by the iced rosé table, very committed to pretending you’re texting someone important, when you spot lucie. she’s across the room, glowing in that very annoying, very sincere way that only people who are actually happy do. and beside her is a man— tall, vaguely art school handsome, and you know, immediately, that it’s theo.

you make your way over because you’re not a coward, not anymore, and because your therapist says avoidance is not a sustainable coping mechanism. you wait until she’s alone, momentarily, before slipping into her periphery.

“hi,” you say, and it sounds smaller than you expect. not frivolous. not polished. just... you.

lucie blinks. her face stays neutral. “hi.”

you swallow. smile like it might save you. “i was a bitch.”

she raises one brow. “not news.”

“a massive, glowing, unrelenting bitch.”

she doesn’t let you off the hook— not immediately. just looks at you, brows lifted, like she’s deciding whether or not you’re being real. like she’s weighing everything you’ve ever said to her—every time you dismissed her dates, her taste, her feelings— and calculating whether this apology is finally about her, and not about you. “closer.” 

“i’m sorry about the gala. and i'm sorry i said no,” you continue, breath catching a little. “about theo. i was wrong. i didn’t see it.”

“no,” she says gently, “you didn’t want to see it.”

and that’s the worst part. because it’s true.

you’ve spent years shaping other people’s love stories like puzzles, assuming you always knew what was best. and now here you are, watching lucie glow— truly, effortlessly glow— with the man you told her wasn’t worth her time, simply because he didn’t fit into your narrative. didn’t wear the right shoes. didn’t match the hypothetical vision you’d envisioned for her.

“maybe i’m not such a great matchmaker after all,” you say with a weak smile. “maybe ninety-nine percent success rate. tops.”

lucie softens. not fully, but enough. “ninety-nine’s still pretty good.”

you glance toward theo, who’s speaking to a brand rep across the room, and say, a little dryly, “i suppose he is quite handsome. and it doesn’t look like he’s wearing zara.”

lucie grins. “and he’s kind.”

and it doesn’t feel like a dig. doesn’t feel like a pointed correction. it feels true, and warm, and something about the simplicity of it— that word, kind— makes your chest ache in a very inconvenient way.

because kind is what you’ve been running from. kind is what you thought you could orchestrate around. and kind is exactly what’s been quietly waiting for you in the form of one very patient, very persistent boy who’s seen through your everything for years.

that’s when you feel it. that tug. like gravity, like timing. like the universe tapping you on the shoulder and whispering: this is one of those moments, pay attention.

and when you turn, like you’re being drawn by it— because maybe you are— charles is there.

he must’ve walked in during the tail end of your emotional crash-and-burn because he’s standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets. you don’t hesitate this time.

you walk over, meet his eyes, and exhale like your lungs have been tight for months. “you heard?”

he nods once.

“i’m sorry,” you apologize for the second time that day. “about everything. the weirdness. the matchmaking. the fact that i pretended like none of it mattered when it mattered more than anything.”

he doesn’t make it harder. doesn’t rub it in. just looks at you like he always does—like he sees everything and doesn’t flinch.

“do you want a ride home?” he asks.

you nod, the softest of smiles on your face. “okay.”

the thing is, the drive back is short.

you could’ve walked, honestly— probably should have, in the spirit of character development and personal reckoning and all that— but then again, you did walk to the product launch, which in itself feels like growth. and you’re wearing heels, and anyway, charles offered. and saying no to him in that moment would have felt like a cosmic error.

you don’t talk on the way.

not because there’s nothing to say, but because too much has already been said— or worse, felt. and now it’s this soft, humming silence that sits between you, not uncomfortable exactly, just… thick. electric. the kind of silence that says something’s about to happen, you just haven’t caught up to it yet.

when he parks, he doesn’t say goodbye or goodnight or any of the easy, polite things. he just glances over and says, “can i walk you up?” and you nod, because there’s never been a version of you that could say no to him. not in lycée, not at the gala, not now.

your apartment building is older than most of the condos lining the port—grander, quieter, the kind of place that smells faintly of stone and lavender and whatever wealth used to mean before everyone started dealing in make-believe money.

you walk past the doorman who gives you a pointed look, and you give him one back, and then you’re inside. marble floors, high ceilings, and the staircase that spirals up, large and grand, worn down in the middle from decades of beautiful people coming home late.

you sit there. on the middle landing. the place where you used to take phone calls you didn’t want your mother overhearing. the place where, once, you cried after your first rejection letter from a uni you didn’t even want to go to but still took personally. and now here you are again, a little older, a little wiser, maybe, and a lot more cracked open than you meant to be.

charles sits beside you.

not too close. just enough that you can feel the shape of him in the air between you.

“i’m sorry,” you say, finally. “again. i know i’ve said it already, but i think i need to say it here. just once more. properly.”

he doesn’t interrupt, which is what he always does when you talk like this. never cuts in, never tries to finish your sentences. he just waits.

“i think for a long time, i liked the idea of controlling things,” you admit, twisting your fingers in the hem of your dress. “matchmaking. crafting stories for other people. if i kept everyone else in motion, i didn’t have to figure out what i wanted. or what i was afraid of wanting.”

charles is quiet for a second. then: “and now?”

you laugh, soft. a little embarrassed. “now i’m terrified because i think i’ve always known. and i spent years pretending i didn’t.”

he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “in school… you were always so loud. not in a bad way. just… there. everywhere. talking, laughing, knowing everything about everyone. and i thought, god, she’s a force. and i admired that.”

you stare at him.

“you remember when you made our teachers date?” he grins, suddenly, small and crooked. “you took it like it was a full-time job. like matchmaking was this divine calling. and the whole time, you never noticed that i’d been trying to talk to you for weeks.”

you look at him, and the weight of it hits you all over again. how many times has he seen you like this? how many moments from lycée are only just now coming into focus— the time he saved you a seat in class when you came in late and flustered, the way he remembered every detail you ever mentioned without making a big deal of it, the way he always just... showed up. without ever making you ask.

you say, quieter this time, “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

charles looks at you, really looks at you, and shrugs like he doesn’t trust his voice. “because if i didn’t feel the way i do, it would’ve been easier to say something.”

you tilt your head, heart thudding in that stupid, reckless way that makes you want to throw something. preferably your pride.

his mouth twitches. “if i loved you less,” he says, voice lower now, “i might be able to talk about it more.”

you look at him then, really look, and it’s like seeing someone you’ve known your entire life for the first time. how stupid, you think. how obvious. how simple.

and before you can overthink it— before your brain starts to tell you it’s a bad idea or too fast or too anything— you lean in.

charles meets you halfway.

his mouth is soft and certain and familiar in a way that makes no sense and also makes all the sense. it doesn’t feel like something new. it feels like something that was always there. like kissing him is something you were meant to do at fifteen and twenty and now.

he pulls back for half a second like he’s checking if this is okay, and you answer by kissing him again, fingers slipping up to curl at the back of his neck, because you’re done pretending. done orchestrating other people’s endings while ignoring your own.

and in between kissing him— between the half-laughs and quiet exhales and that little pause where your forehead rests against his— you think about fate. how it never really announces itself. how it’s not always fireworks or grand gestures or perfect timing. sometimes it’s just a boy you’ve known for forever sitting beside you on a staircase that’s seen too much of your life, offering you his silence and his car keys and his heart without asking for anything in return. sometimes it’s a walk to the car that feels like coming home.