#romcom realness

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RESERVATION RUN-IN

— Nina, 24, new Ferrari junior marketing coordinator, still figuring out the cafeteria coffee machine, and definitely not ready for what she saw at dinner.

It was supposed to be a celebratory night.

Nina had survived her first week at Ferrari. Five whirlwind days of press releases, brand decks, and learning how to properly pronounce Scuderia. Her small onboarding cohort decided to treat themselves to dinner at a little tucked-away restaurant in Modena. A place so charming it made pasta feel sacred.

They had just started on their second round of drinks when Marco, the guy from media partnerships, nearly choked on his Aperol.

“Holy shit. Don’t look now. Or actually, look. Just not all at once.”

Too late.

Every head turned toward the restaurant entrance, where a man in soft navy trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt was stepping in with casual ease. Tousled brown curls, sun-kissed skin, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Charles Leclerc.

But it wasn’t the sighting itself that stunned them. It was the fact that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was tucked into his side, hand interlaced with his. Her long, sundress swayed slightly as they walked. She looked relaxed. Happy. Gorgeous.

Charles pulled out her chair for her, kissed her cheek before sitting down. Then, like it was habit, reached halfway across the table with an open palm. She placed hers on top without hesitation. Their wedding bands sparkled subtly in the candlelight.

“Is that his wife?” someone whispered.

“He’s married?!”

“I thought she was a model.”

“She looks…normal. Like us.”

But she didn’t look ordinary. Not to Charles. Not by the way he watched her talk, leaning in like every word was the only one worth hearing. Not by the way he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it was muscle memory.

Nina tried to focus on her gnocchi. Failed.

At one point, Y/N laughed, head tilted back, nose scrunched, full-body kind of joy. Charles mirrored it instantly, a low laugh that sounded nothing like the polite one he used in press conferences. This one was real. Unfiltered. Like he hadn’t laughed that way in weeks.

Their food arrived. They shared everything. He offered her a bite, raised an eyebrow when she took too much, then immediately forked over another taste. She stole his drink. He didn’t mind.

When she got up to use the restroom, a waiter tried to clear her plate.

Charles stopped him with a soft, “Non ancora. She’s coming back.”

A few minutes later, Nina herself bumped into Y/N by the sink.

“Oh! Sorry,” Y/N said immediately. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. You okay?”

Nina nodded, starstruck. “Yeah. You just…you look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled warmly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. I’m still getting used to wearing heels again.”

She complimented Nina’s dress before ducking into a stall. Completely normal. Completely kind.

Back at the table, the mood between Charles and Y/N had shifted. Softer. Closer.

Her fingers trailed along the stem of her wine glass. His hand rested low on the back of her chair. She leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his eyes darken instantly.

A beat later, he flagged down the server, dropped a stack of bills with zero ceremony, and stood to help her into her coat.

Their exit was quiet, but Nina caught it all—the way Charles held her hand like it was something sacred. The way he looked at her like no one else in the room mattered. The way her laugh floated back toward them as they disappeared through the door.

The table sat in stunned silence for a moment.

Then Marco muttered, “Forget TikTok edits. That was the real thing.”

And Nina, with stars in her eyes and a stupid grin on her face, finally took a sip of her now-warm wine and whispered, “I think I just witnessed a rom-com in real life.”

THE RAINY TRAIN RIDE TO MONACO

— Henri, 72, retired art teacher, hobbyist painter, and lifelong romantic with a sketchbook full of strangers.

The train rocked gently as rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm. Henri sat by the window, sketchpad in hand, capturing the silhouettes of the passengers around him.

He wasn’t looking for anything special. Just shapes. Light and shadow. Faces in thought.

But then he saw them.

A young couple seated across the aisle. The man in a navy sweater and loafers, his arm draped casually over the shoulders of the woman tucked into his side. She had her knees drawn up, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her head rested against his chest, eyes closed, their fingers lazily intertwined.

Henri watched them for a long while.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t scroll on phones. They just... were.

So he sketched. Quietly. Carefully. The tilt of her head, the curve of his hand on her hip, the ease in their closeness. Love looked different in every face he drew, but this one, it felt familiar.

When the conductor called out Monaco as the next stop, the man gently nudged the woman awake with a kiss to her temple. She stirred, blinking herself back into the world, then smiled up at him with a look that could warm marble.

Henri stood and approached them slowly, sketchbook in hand.

“Excuse me,” he said in accented English.

They looked up, surprised.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he continued, turning the book around to reveal the drawing. “You two... you reminded me of me and my wife. Many, many years ago. On this same train.”

Y/N blinked at the portrait. “Oh. Oh wow… this is beautiful.”

Charles smiled, touched. “Merci. That’s incredibly kind.”

Henri smiled back. “Hold on to each other. Make time to listen more than you speak. Kiss even when you’re tired. And never, ever stop choosing each other, even on the hard days.”

He handed them the sketch, carefully torn from the spiral binding. “You look like you’re just beginning something worth everything.”

They thanked him quietly as he returned to his seat.

When the train stopped, Charles tucked the drawing carefully into his bag. As they stepped onto the platform, the rain still gentle, Y/N looped her arm through his.

“That was lovely,” she said.

Charles nodded, a little quiet. “It was. I think I want to grow old like that.”

She looked up at him. “With me?”

He gave her a look so full of affection it made her chest ache. “Only with you.”

They walked on, the smell of rain in the air, hearts warm beneath their coats, a paper memory folded between them.

MEDIA DAY MADNESS

— Gianna, 31, freelance makeup artist, first Ferrari gig, not mentally prepared to witness Charles Leclerc in husband mode.

The media room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras, lights, clipboards, producers pacing like the fate of the universe rested on the exact timing of a five-second promo shot. Gianna was on her third espresso and her second emergency beauty blender, and it was only 9:12 a.m.

She wasn’t new to chaos. She’d done shoots for footballers, actors, even a royal once. But this, Formula 1 pre-season media day, was its own monster.

Her assignment: keep Charles Leclerc looking like he hadn’t just stepped off a red-eye from Monaco.

He was scheduled for his final touch-up after a round of interviews, but when the call sheet hit a ten-minute delay, Gianna found herself camped near the back hallway, grateful for the silence.

That’s when she heard laughter.

Not the stiff PR kind. The kind that made you want to smile even if you didn’t know the joke.

She glanced up just in time to see him.

Charles. Not in front of a camera. Not in fireproofs. Just… Charles. Hoodie pulled over his curls. One hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup, the other linked tightly with a woman walking beside him.

She was half-laughing, half-whispering something into his shoulder, and he was clearly trying (and failing) not to laugh back. It was the kind of laugh that made him bite his lip. Crinkle his eyes. Lean in like her words were gravity.

Y/N.

Gianna had heard her name floating around all morning. She wasn’t crew, but everyone knew she was coming.

The wife.

She didn’t expect her to be so… casual. In jeans and white sneakers, with her hair loosely tied and the kind of face that made natural look like magic.

They disappeared around the corner for a moment. When they reemerged, they were each holding a croissant, whispering like kids playing hooky.

Charles was smiling at her like there weren’t fifty cameras waiting. Like he didn’t have the weight of an entire nation on his back. Like nothing else existed.

When they passed by, Gianna tried not to stare.

Charles nodded politely. Y/N caught her gaze and smiled warmly.

“Sorry,” Y/N said, motioning toward the pastries. “We were on a very serious mission.”

“Vital carbs,” Charles added solemnly.

Gianna laughed. “Well, you look a lot more relaxed than everyone else here.”

Charles shrugged. “That’s her fault.”

He looked at Y/N like he meant it. Like that ten-minute delay had been a gift.

Back in the makeup chair minutes later, Gianna set to work while Charles scrolled through his phone.

“Can you hold still for just a sec?” she asked.

He nodded, put the phone down.

Gianna caught a glimpse of the screen as he locked it.

It was a photo.

Of Y/N. Wearing his hoodie. Holding the coffee she clearly didn’t want to share. Smiling at the camera like he was the only person who’d ever made her laugh that hard.

She didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

“You really love her.”

Charles blinked, surprised, then nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Gianna stepped back, brush in hand, heart weirdly full.

She’d done hundreds of faces. Watched hundreds of men step into their public personas. But in that quiet ten-minute window, she’d seen something else entirely.

Not Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari driver.

Just Charles. Someone’s husband. Someone who looked at his wife like she was the only peace he’d ever known.

Gianna made a mental note to text her sister:

You wouldn’t believe who I saw today. But more than that… you wouldn’t believe how he looked at her.

RAIN DELAY AT SILVERSTONE

— Freya, 22, student photographer, soaked to the bone, and emotionally unprepared for the Leclercs in the rain.

The sky had opened up over Silverstone in biblical proportions.

Freya was soaked, her camera strap sticking to her neck, her waterproof jacket failing miserably, and her feet dangerously close to pruning in her boots. The race had been delayed indefinitely, the grandstands were buzzing with energy and impatience, and umbrellas popped up like mushrooms across the paddock.

She was huddled under the eave of the Ferrari hospitality tent, trying to dry her lens, when she spotted them.

Charles Leclerc and his wife, walking hand in hand through the paddock like the rain had been invited.

No umbrella. No sprinting for cover. Just strolling.

Y/N was wearing an oversized Ferrari rain jacket—clearly his, if the way it swallowed her was anything to go by—and she kept tugging the hood back so she could look up at the sky.

Charles said something, and she laughed. Head thrown back, cheeks flushed, soaking wet and absolutely glowing.

Freya raised her camera instinctively. Not to shoot, not professionally. Just to remember.

Charles glanced up, spotted her, and offered a small smile. Not the PR smile. Not the podium smile.

Just… soft.

Y/N nudged him and whispered something.

He grinned. Turned toward her. Tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her.

Slow. Steady. Rain clinging to their lashes. The kind of kiss that looked like a thank you. Like a promise.

Freya’s heart thudded.

Later, she spotted them again near the garages. Y/N stood on the edge of the pit lane, arms wrapped around herself, watching the water pool across the tarmac.

Charles came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest.

“I always liked the rain,” he said quietly.

She leaned back. “Why?”

“Because it slows everything down. Even racing.”

She turned in his arms, pressed her forehead to his. “You hate slowing down.”

“Except for you,” he said.

Freya snapped the photo before she could second guess it.

Back home, she kept the shot for herself—framed it even. Because no one else needed to see it.

Not the fans. Not the sponsors. Not the media.

It wasn’t for them.

It was for the kind of love that didn’t need a checkered flag. Just a rain delay and the right person to walk slow with.

THE PLAYGROUND SURPRISE

— Clara, 27, nanny with a mild caffeine addiction and a wild 3-year-old charge, not expecting to make a new mom friend.

“Hi! Is this seat taken?”

Clara looked up from her iced coffee, blinking in the midday Monaco sun. A woman about her age was standing beside the park bench, a toddler on her hip and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Nope, you’re good!” Clara scooted over, wiping condensation from the bench.

“Thank you. I’m Y/N, and this little troublemaker is Colette.”

The toddler flashed a big grin, curls bouncing as she waved. “Hi!”

“I’m Clara. That chaos gremlin over there on the slide is Matteo. I nanny for his family.”

Y/N smiled wide, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. “God bless you. Seriously.”

“Right back at you,” Clara replied, amused.

As their kids played, they fell into easy conversation. Clara found herself surprised by how down-to-earth Y/N was. She swore like a sailor, offered Clara half her granola bar without asking, and immediately launched into a rant about the judgmental moms at the other park by the marina.

“Swear to God, if one more woman side-eyes Colette’s snacks or asks me if I’ve considered yoga for ‘postpartum toning,’ I’m going to fake my own death,” Y/N muttered.

Clara barked out a laugh. “Okay, where were you two months ago when I was trying to survive toddler teething alone?”

“Probably crying over a lost pacifier under the fridge,” Y/N replied without hesitation.

It was easy. Uncomplicated. Until Clara noticed the tote bag.

“Wait—is that the limited edition Gucci monogram tote?” she asked, eyes wide.

Y/N looked down, rolled her eyes fondly. “Unfortunately. My husband got it for me on ‘International Stay-at-Home Parent Day,’ which is fake, by the way. He just knows I yell if he buys me expensive stuff for no reason.”

Clara laughed but clocked the massive ring on Y/N’s finger next. It was gorgeous. Eye-watering.

Before she could say anything, Y/N’s phone buzzed. She picked it up without looking. “Hi, baby. Yeah. The park near the bakery. She’s on the slide in the pink overalls.”

Y/N hung up and looked at Clara. “My husband’s coming by. He has meetings later and wanted to see Colette before bedtime.”

“That’s really sweet,” Clara said, thinking of her own boss—who couldn’t be bothered to FaceTime.

Y/N just smiled, a bit dreamy. “Yeah. He’s really good to us.”

A few minutes later, Clara heard the soft rumble of a high-end engine pulling into the lot. She turned just in time to see a sleek Ferrari park like it belonged there.

Out stepped Charles Leclerc.

Clara froze.

Hair tousled, sunglasses on, casual hoodie and joggers like it wasn’t Monaco’s golden boy striding toward them. The man her employers followed like religion. The one with posters in every other shop window.

He didn’t glance at the bench. His eyes were on Colette.

“Hi, mon ange,” he called out. Colette squealed and sprinted toward him, launching into his arms. Charles lifted her with ease, doting and soft.

Y/N stood to greet him with a kiss. He tucked her into his side immediately, one hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to rub her back like it was second nature.

“Oh—Charles, this is Clara. We’ve been bonding over snack packs and judgmental moms.”

Clara tried not to choke. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Charles gave her a kind smile and nodded. “You’ve got the good bench spot. Shade always disappears by 4.”

They chatted a few minutes more. Colette returned to the jungle gym, this time with Charles trailing behind like her personal security.

Clara turned to Y/N, eyebrows high. “So… you’re married to Charles Leclerc?”

Y/N snorted. “I know. Doesn’t fit the vibe, right?”

“Honestly, you’re way cooler than I expected a Formula 1 wife to be.”

Y/N winked. “Don’t tell the other ones. They still think I know what a diffuser does.”

Clara would end up texting her sister that night: Met the love of Charles Leclerc’s life today. Spoiler alert: it’s not F1. It’s her.

THE STADIUM GLANCE

— Lina, 25, team hospitality staffer at Ferrari, trying to keep her head down… until she catches sight of the man who once changed her life.

Lina didn’t mind her job. She liked the behind-the-scenes chaos, the espresso machines, the rush of getting everything just right. What she didn’t like was how invisible it sometimes made her feel.

Except once.

One night after a long debrief, she’d been hiding in a tucked-away hallway outside the paddock garage, trying to stop herself from crying after her student loan payment failed to go through again.

“What’s wrong?” came a voice—calm, accented, quiet.

She looked up to find Charles Leclerc.

She was horrified. Embarrassed. Tried to brush it off.

But he stayed.

Asked again.

She broke. Told him everything in a flood of panicked breath: about school, money, her brother she helped support.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out his phone, typed for a moment, and told her to check her email.

There was a Ferrari scholarship grant in her name. Paid. Approved.

When she looked up, he was already walking away.

He never mentioned it again.

Lina never told a soul. She didn’t want to cheapen it by turning it into gossip.

----

Months later, Lina was at a Monaco football match with her cousin, box seats, courtesy of a friend of a friend. She wasn’t expecting much.

Until she saw the Ferrari suite next door.

Just two people inside.

Charles.

And a woman.

Y/N.

She’d never seen him like that.

Not on a podium. Not in the garage. Not in full sponsor-mode.

Just… soft.

Y/N was visibly pregnant, cradling her bump in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Charles had his arm slung over the back of her chair, pressed so close it looked like he’d never moved.

They laughed at something together. Y/N nudged him with her shoulder and leaned back against his chest. Charles responded by wrapping both arms around her middle and dropping his head onto her shoulder.

For a full five minutes, he didn’t move.

Just rubbed small circles over the fabric stretched across her belly. Pressed a kiss to her temple. Let her feed him bites of cotton candy like it was a Michelin-star meal.

Lina watched, heart caught in her throat.

At one point, Charles pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Y/N mid-laugh. He looked at it, smiled to himself, and locked the screen like it was something private. Sacred.

Lina had to blink back tears.

Toward the end of the match, Y/N looked sleepy. Charles helped her put on his jacket, held her hand while she stood, and tucked a hand under her belly with almost reverence as they exited the suite.

They never saw her watching.

But Lina never forgot.

She still has that grant email in her inbox. Still opens it on hard days. Not for the money.

But for what it meant: