#sdim

although there never truly was such thing as a slow and quiet day in a coffee shop in monte carlo, the mornings were just a little bit more mellow after the start of the formula 1 summer break. or at least they were to you.

this was your first year working at le pain d'amour, a bakery and coffee shop popular with tourists and natives alike, so you didn’t have much to go off of. you had started working there a couple of months prior to the monaco grand prix, and even three months later, you were still recovering from the weeklong madness. 

long gone were the mornings where you made coffee for f1 enthusiasts and team members alike. now, your mornings were spent serving tourists looking for a good instagram-worthy latte, and suit-clad men complaining about their early mornings and lack of vacation days.

unlike other days, today felt like your longest morning shift yet; halfway into your five-hour shift, with only about five customers sitting inside the cafe. ‘a slow day in monaco is like a bad omen,’ your coworker had said. to you, it just felt like torture.

another hour passed, the five customers long gone, now replaced with three individuals who sat scattered around the shop, all busy with their own devices. the bells above the front door chimed announcing the entrance of two men. with the way the two men loudly chattered in french, you doubted the need for the bells in the first place.

you moved from your spot leaning against the counter to the front cash register. your coworker, michelle, had stepped out not too long ago for her break, leaving the cafe in your very capable hands.

“bonjour! welcome to le pain d'amour, i can take your order whenever you guys are ready!” you channelled your best customer service voice and looked up. the smile you slapped onto your face faltered slightly when you realized the faces of the two men standing across from you.

there in front of you stood f1 drivers, charles leclerc and pierre gasly.

you snapped back into reality when charles opened his mouth, “bonjour! can i just get an iced coffee and a croissant sandwich?”

you nodded as you entered his order into the system, “and for you?”

your question was directed to pierre, who had been gazing at the (h/c)-haired boy sitting on one of the stools near the counter. his head snapped back to you, a smile following as he looked over your head at the menu. a quick apology left his lips as he requested some more time, before opting to get the same as his friend but with a cookie as well.

as you turned to make their orders, telling the men to take a seat wherever and that you would call them up whenever their order was ready, you missed pierre gesturing towards the young boy, pulling charles up to sit on the stools near the kid. the alpha tauri driver couldn’t help but miss his nephew as he watched the young boy colour his page with great focus.

the quiet clicks of keys, and the music playing over the speakers was now overshadowed by the aggressive sounds of a crayon scraping against paper and the sound of the two drivers chattering in french. although loud enough for others to hear them, the speed at which the two men spoke made it hard to understand what they were saying.

“maman, regardez ça.” mom, look at this.

you drew your eyes from the espresso machine to the five-year-old, thomas, and the paper held up in his hand. you absorbed the shapes and lines on the paper before looking at the boy who was smiling widely.

“devinez ce que c'est!” guess what it is!

his energy was palpable, no thanks to the three hours he had spent sleeping on the couch in the backroom while you worked outside. you looked back at the machine, noticing the coffee just barely starting to stream. 

you decided to entertain the boy, “hmm,” you furrowed your eyebrows in fake confusion, “est-ce un chien?” is it a dog?

“what?!” he gaped at you, “not even close! réessayer.” try again.

you giggled at the young boy’s exasperated face, “désolé, mon petit. je dois retourner au travail.” sorry, my child. i have to get back to work.

if it wasn’t for sanitary reasons, you would have reached over and ruffled his hair to get him to smile. instead, you resorted to calling out to him again, “stop pouting, amour.”

thomas grumbled, a mess of both french and english, albeit both sloppy, escaping his small lips.

a voice broke his muttering, “puis-je deviner?” can i guess?

both you and the boy looked over to where pierre sat, a small smile gracing his lips. you looked back at the young boy, eyes wide open and jaw slacked. 

you huffed a small laugh, “tommy, ferme ta bouche.” close your mouth.

thomas sat up straight, “you’re in f1!”

he turned to look at you, “maman!! driver! un pilote de course!” a racing driver!

it was endearing, listening to him exclaim in both french and english. you, yourself, had been raised in a bilingual household, with your father being a native english speaker, who met your monégasque mother on his summer vacation. you grew up in a household where both english and french were spoken in tandem, and now, with your own son, you couldn’t help but raise him the same way. 

you turned back to finish making the drinks that said driver had ordered, “oui, and he asked you something. sois poli et réponds-lui.” yes…be nice and answer him.

tommy’s eyes grew wide again and he turned back to the driver next to him, “pouvez-vous répéter votre question?” can you repeat your question?

pierre pointed to the drawing, repeating his question in english this time, “can i guess what you drew?”

thomas looked down at his drawing. an attempt at copying the foam art you had done on his long-empty cup of hot chocolate.

he looked back at you for guidance, gesturing you to come closer to him with his hand. you placed the sandwiches and coffees in front of the drivers, smiling apologetically to pierre for your son’s blatant avoidance of his question. 

“i’ll get you your cookie in just a minute,” you stated, to which he responded, “pas d'inquiétude.” no worries.

as you neared the cookie display, and thomas, he reached up and whispered into your ear, “what if he thinks my drawing is really bad?”

you looked down at the boy, a small smile gracing your lips, “i’m sure he’ll think you’re very talented, and if he doesn’t…” you trailed off as you placed the cookie onto a plate. 

after placing the cookie in front of pierre, you leaned down to whisper in your son’s ear, “i’ll fight him.”

thomas giggled, moving away from you to push his drawing in front of the driver, “maman said if you think i’m a bad drawer, she will fight you.”

charles’ chortle was loud, turning into a series of coughs as he choked on his coffee. you gasped quietly, quickly turning away from the three to avoid pierre’s amused gaze and get charles a tissue, to which he nodded with a red face, eyes watering. you began cleaning your station, ears not having to strain to hear the conversation going on behind you.

as charles’ coughs died down, pierre sighed, “well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

after a small sip of his own coffee, he continues, “is this a cup?”

you couldn’t see it but pierre was pointing to a spot on the drawing. 

thomas nodded excitedly, “mhm! c'est une tasse comme celle-là.”

the five-year-old pointed to the large array of coffee cups and mugs just to the left of where you stood.

pierre nodded, “is this design on top one of those foam…” he trailed off forgetting the words.

charles piped up from his spot, “latte form art?”

again, thomas nodded fast, “yes! but maman says i can’t have coffee so she makes me it on hot chocolate!”

both charles and pierre nodded at his words, “your mother is very smart, then.”

you turned around just in time to catch thomas nodding super fast, cheeks turning red at the compliment. 

pierre took a bite out of his sandwich and charles decided to reach out and make conversation with the kid, “what’s your name, buddy?”

“thomas! with an h,” he started, going on a ramble about his classmate who also shared the same name, but without the h. 

your attention got pulled from the conversation as you heard the bell chime again. this time, however, it was your coworker coming back from her break, keeping the door open for the person who was leaving the shop.

michelle smiled at you with a wave, tapping on her wrist as if to indicate the time. you looked at your own wrist, eyes widening to realize your shift was due to end in about 10 minutes. as slow as your shift had started, in the presence of the two drivers, you couldn’t help but be amazed at how fast time had passed.

there wasn’t much for you to do, waiting for the time to pass. as thomas continued chatting up the two f1 drivers, you made rounds around the tables placed in the shop, cleaning up any messes left behind.

with thomas and pierre’s loud voices filling up the air, it wasn’t long before michelle pulled you by your arm, eyes widened at the sight of the two very famous men sitting next to your son. her inquisitive look made you laugh quietly, explaining that they had come in not too long ago and had already ordered, and finished most of their food by the looks of it.

the ten minutes went by quickly, and you found yourself apologetically disrupting the very important conversation between thomas, charles, and pierre about whether or not a velociraptor could outrun charles in his ferrari. (charles: “velociraptors cannot run as fast as a racecar.” pierre, smacking his hand on the table: “you can’t believe everything you read on the internet!” thomas: “yeah! raptors are fast!”)

you smoothed out thomas’ hair, “hey, mon petit chou. i’m gonna go get our stuff from the back so we can get ready to go, okay? why don’t you start wrapping up the conversation?”

you left before charles could ask for your opinion on the matter, not wanting to face the wrath of either side if you defended the other.

by the time you made it back out, thomas was sitting on his stool, hunched over a piece of paper, a red pencil crayon held tightly in his hand as he drew something. the plate with pierre’s cookie now sat next to the boy, small teeth marks indicating that instead of the man who had ordered the cookie, the young boy was the one eating it.

pierre, noticing your return, smiled sheepishly as if embarrassed. whether it was for not ensuring your son had packed up before you came back, or for the fact that he got caught giving your son a cookie, you weren’t sure.

 “sorry, he said he wanted to draw something for us,” pierre started, his eyes catching the movement of thomas taking another bite of the cookie before darting back to your amused face, “and sorry for the cookie, i always intended on giving it to him, but i realize now i should have probably asked before if he could have one.”

you smiled at him, “don’t worry about it, either of the things. the cookies are by far his favourite item on the menu and he’s not had one yet, so no harm done.”

charles leaned over from his spot, pushing against pierre, “so, do you think i could beat a velocirapt-”

pierre’s groan cut him off, “fermez-la déjà.” shut up already.

charles poked pierre with his elbow, “no, you,” before he turned back to you, “google says raptors only travel about 40 km/h…”

you laughed, “i’m afraid i cannot give my answer without risking my life,” you gestured your head towards the boy still colouring, now with a blue pencil in his hand instead.

“i think that gave your answer perfectly.” though his words were directed to you, charles couldn’t help but stare at pierre, a cocky smirk planted on his lips.

before pierre could retort, thomas sat up eagerly, “j'ai fini!” i'm done!

he pushed the piece of paper into the middle of the counter, right in front of pierre. looking over thomas’ head, you couldn’t help but smile at the picture he drew.

two racecars, one red and one speckled with blue, the numbers 16 and 10 drawn on either car respectively. in between the two racecars stood four people. three squares bodies and one triangle, three boys and one girl. as thomas pointed at each aspect of his drawing including the people, not that any of them needed any supporting description, you couldn’t help but smile at the fact that the triangle stick figure was connected at the hand to the smallest square figure. you and thomas, holding hands.

after pierre and charles thanked thomas profusely, you helped him hop off the stool. you turned to look at the two drivers one last time, “thank you for keeping him entertained today, you really didn’t have to.”

“nonsense, he’s a good kid.” charles smiled, pierre nodding at his words, “hopefully, we’ll see you both again.”

you smiled, “well, i’m here nearly every morning, so y’know.”

you helped thomas put his backpack on, “have a good summer break, both of you. hope the rest of the season treats you two well!”

the racecar drivers smiled, waving bye to both of you as you walked towards the door. before stepping foot outside, however, thomas turned around.

 “maman’s number is written on the back! bye!”

the drawing done by thomas was put on display on charles’ fridge the second the pair of drivers had gotten home.

it was an endearing sight, and maybe a bit comical, with the colourful (and mostly coherent) mess of crayon scribbles standing out against polaroids of charles’ friends and family, and the slightly less coherent mess of chicken scratch that was charles’ grocery list. 

the number on the back of the drawing now found a new home in pierre’s list of contacts, under the name of thomas’ maman, after realizing he had never caught your name.

charles had laughed at him, telling him he could have read your nametag, and when asked by pierre, nodded to indicate that yes, he did in fact read it and yes, he did know your name. he refused to share it though, “you brought this onto yourself, mate. c’est la vie.” that’s life.

he’d contemplated sending you a text all day, going as far as opening a chat with you and drafting several different messages. each time he would erase it, slide up and clear the app. 

god, was it too early? should he wait for a couple of days before he sent you something? should he text you at all? after all, it wasn’t you who gave him your number, it was your son. 

pierre’s thoughts revolved around you and thomas for the entirety of his day, so consumed with his questions that he had waved off charles’ offer to go to the club with him and his girlfriend. 

your son, pierre had thought to himself, a kid who probably has a dad at home. his eyes widened at the sudden thought, holy shit, pierre, what the fuck are you thinking?

before pierre could freak out, another part of his mind had reminded him that the boy had given you his mother’s number for a reason. 

maybe because you’re a famous driver and he wants to talk to you, fuckface. 

but there was no father in the picture he had drawn. just you and himself, surrounded by the two drivers and their cars. that had to mean something.

pierre groaned into a cushion. even if that were the case and you were single, what were his intentions with you? 

he was sure you weren’t a short fling kind of woman, you had a kid to think about. a kid who had pierre wrapped around his finger without him even realizing it. hell, he had bought the kid a cookie before he even knew him. 

what a fucking idiot, pierre rested his head in his hands, what if he had been allergic to something in the cookie?

it was strange, really, to see pierre so distraught over a woman he had barely spoken to. to see him question his intentions for a woman he didn’t even consider a romantic interest. where were these feelings coming from? 

pierre abruptly sat up from his spot on charles’ couch. he needed a drink. he eyed the extra housekey that charles had given him after moving into his new place. what was the name of that club charles had mentioned?

about thirty minutes later, pierre found himself nursing his second drink of the night, sitting at the bar alone. he had arrived to the club just as charles had walked out, hand in hand with his girlfriend, who looked more than just a little tipsy. 

after a surprised smile and an explanation that he was going to take her home, charles was off, and pierre was once again alone with his thoughts.

he was only about halfway through his drink when a person sat down two seats down from him. a woman. 

his eyes dragged themselves up her body. first, her small black heels. then, her legs, that shined under the neon lights of the club. his eyes followed up the smooth silky material of her dress, fitting her like a glove, and yet still loose enough to be considered rather modest.

he’d choked, however, when his eyes reached her face. 

your face. 

he turned his head away from you, trying to hide his coughs, though his body gave away his struggle as it shook with every muffled hack. he could feel eyes on him, his ears heating up in embarrassment at the possibility that it was your eyes.

who would have thought, that of all the places he could have gone to, just to avoid thinking of you, you would show up at the same one? 

pierre pulled himself upright, the last of his coughing fit escaping him as he pretended to brush lint off of his pants. casual, yup, acting like he didn’t just cough up a lung at the sight of you.

“pierre?” even with the music booming over the speakers, he could hear your voice clearly.

the frenchman faked a surprised look when he made eye contact with you, “no way.”

‘no way’? are you fucking kidding me? of all words, ‘no way’, pierre wanted to punch himself, he had never been this bad at talking to girls before.

“way,” a small chuckle left your mouth. great, he thought, a laugh of pity.

you pointed to the barstool next to him, “is this seat taken?”

oh, fuck.

“no, not at all.” pierre willed his heart to stop beating so fast, hand gesturing to the seat next to him as if presenting it as yours to take.

you slotted yourself next to him, thanking the bartender as he passed you your drink of choice. 

“no thomas, huh?” yeah, no shit, pierre.

you let out a giggle, “no, no. i’m afraid he wouldn’t quite make it past the bouncers up front.”

after a sip from your drink you continued, “he’s with his grandparents tonight,” you held up your phone, the lack of notifications showcased your lockscreen clearly: a mirror selfie of thomas and yourself with matching tiger sheet masks, “and i haven’t gotten any calls from my mom yet, so i’m hoping that means he’s fast asleep in his bed.”

pierre wanted to ask about his father but refrained. he’d fucked up enough already, he didn’t need to make it worse. instead, he smiled, “cute lockscreen.”

your face instantly brightened and pierre felt like he was staring right at the sun, “isn’t it? thomas had seen them at a department store and begged for me to buy them for us so we could be ‘les tigres les plus cool du monde entier’.” 'the coolest tigers in the whole world.'

pierre and you made small talk about thomas for a few more minutes before pierre decided to bite the bullet and ask the one question on his mind, “so, what are you doing here? all alone, that is.”

“i could ask you the same,” you tipped your glass in his direction, a sly smirk painted on your lips.

“touché,” pierre started, “charles invited me to join him and his girlfriend, but i got here too late and now he’s tending to a drunk girlfriend and i’m here.”

you nodded at his explanation, “i got stood up.”

pierre spluttered for the second time in the same night, “you? stood up?”

you felt yourself experiencing deja vu from earlier in the day, handing pierre a napkin like you had done with charles, “you’re making it sound like that’s not believable.”

“because it is not, ma chérie.” neither of you batted an eye at the petname, “whoever stood you up is a fool.”

“well, you’d be surprised at how many men are fools, then,” you hid your slight frown behind your glass, “but it comes with being a mother, i suppose. no one wants you when you’ve got baggage in the form of a child.”

you quickly stuck your hand out, “not that i think of thomas as baggage. mon dieu, no. thomas is the best thing to have happened to me.”

pierre placed a hand on your back, thumb rubbing a small circle against the fabric of your dress. an act to show his understanding.

an idea came to his head, and on impulse, he stood up, telling the bartender to put your drinks on his tab and close it. his fingers tapped against your back, head beckoning for you to get up and follow him.

your questions fell to deaf ears as he tugged you out into the cool night air of monaco. unlike the club, the streets of monaco were rather quiet this night. 

before you could ask him once more, pierre answered your first, and arguably most important question, “we, belle fille, are going on a date.” pretty girl,

your cheeks darkened, “a date?”

pierre nodded, “you being a mother does not make you any less worthy of going out on dates and enjoying yourself. and i’ll prove it to you right now by taking you on the best date you’ve ever had.”

under the street lights, pierre could see the red that coloured your cheeks. a sense of pride bloomed in his chest. he was the reason you were blushing, and he liked it. a lot.

you hesitated for a second, before sticking your hand out, “consider the rest of my night yours, gasly.”

pierre smiled, hand slotting into yours perfectly, “prépare-toi à être étonné, mon amour.” prepare to be amazed, my love.

and amazed you were. from the moment your impromptu date with pierre begin, to the moment he walked you home.

the first thing he had done was take you to a diner entirely out of your budget. catching sight of your apprehensive look, pierre had squeezed your hand.

“you deserve to be spoiled, amour,” he had said. and he did, ordering the most expensive dishes and bottle of champagne, all while he explained to you how he had discovered such restaurant.

the two of you chatted about your personal lives, starting shallow and only delving deeper. 

you told pierre about your favourite colour, “originally, i was going to say that i don’t have one, but the shade of your eyes, well, it’s absolutely beautiful.”

pierre had blushed, averting his eyes from your face as he took a second to recover, “mon amour, i thought we had decided that tonight was my night to woo you. not the other way around.”

you had shrugged, a playful smile making its way to your face, “just being honest, is all.”

it was crazy to you, the way your world had turned a whole 180 in just one day. here you were, in a diner where waitresses probably made your rent’s worth of money in one shift, flirting with a famous formula one driver, the very driver you used to fawn over to your friends. 

when your food arrived, pierre had been chattering about his family and the plans they had made for the rest of his summer break. 

said frenchman had blushed profusely when you groaned in delight after your first bite. you, however, failed to notice, too focused on how the chefs were able to cook such delicious pasta.

at one point, pierre had noticed the splash of red that peaked out from the side of your mouth, thumb coming up to wipe it off for you as you rambled about the time you had burnt your pasta because two-month-old thomas had woken up and started crying.

you’d froze at the feeling of his warm thumb brushing against the side of your lip, your grip on your fork nearly faltering. pierre’s thumb had pulled away from your skin, the pasta sauce now gone from your face, but the rest of his curled fingers that grazed against the nip of your chin stayed. 

that had been the first instance of the night where pierre found himself staring at your lips, wanting nothing more than to place his own against them. 

instead, he wiped his thumb on his napkin, asking you how you had managed to get thomas to stop crying, acting as if nothing had happened. 

when time came for dessert, you had begged pierre to not order from the restaurant’s menu, 10 euros for a single scoop of ice cream had seemed entirely unreasonable.

“it’s gourmet!” pierre had argued.

“it’s bullshit,” you’d retorted, flagging down a waiter to ask for the bill.

the two of you had moved your date to the nearest mcdonald’s, a sundae placed in the middle of the table you sat at, a spoon placed on either side of the dessert.

the mcdonald’s had also been the second place where pierre found himself entranced by your lips. he had simply been admiring your features, eyes travelling down the bridge of your nose and to the cupid’s bow above your lips when your tongue had poked out, licking your bottom lip clean of the sweet ice cream.

in that moment, pierre found himself shifting in his seat, head filled with the most unholy thoughts as you continued to blabber about how you had learned in high school that humans had the ability to gain a lactose intolerance if they avoided all dairy products in their diet for a while, clueless to how the cheeks of the man across from you began to darken to a deep red.

pierre had proposed a late-night walk along the pier, something you had giggled about, watching his eyes roll in mock annoyance, before agreeing.

hands intertwined once again, the two of you walked down the harbour. pierre shared stories about the times he and charles had taken the yacht out and the absolute havoc they’d wreak. you shared stories of when you had been young, pointing to the biggest boats and telling your father that one day, it would be yours.

pierre had stopped you then, asking you to point to the boat you wanted the most right now.

“no, i know what you’re doing,” your arms were crossed and your eyes were narrowed, “a yacht is not something you can just buy.”

“chérie, it quite literally is.” he had laughed loudly at the way you rolled your eyes, heart warming when you’d shrugged his hand off your shoulder with a slight pout on your lips.

“you, mr. gasly, need to be brought back down to earth,” you had reached up and flicked his ear.

instead of cradle his stinging ear, pierre found himself reaching for your hand again, “then hold my hand and never let go.”

your next destination had been your last, and it had been a park. 

pierre tugged you to the open field, letting go of your hand to shrug off his jacket and lay it against the flat ground. he’d reached for you hand again after that, pulling you down to lay on his jacket while he laid his own body next to you, back against the dry grass.

“pierre, your shirt is white,” you sat up, “it’s going to get stained if you lay on the grass. take the jacket instead.”

pierre caught your wrist before you could pull the jacket from under you, “it’s okay, it’s not mine.”

his wide smile had caused a smile to grow on your face as well, allowing the frenchman to slide you back down next to him.

“i’ve always wanted to do this,” he had started, eyes playing connect the dots with the stars that shined above your heads.

“lay on the grass in charles’ shirt?” you had giggled when pierre let out a sound resembling a snort.

“stargaze with the most beautiful girl in the world.”

pierre’s heart stuttered when he watched you cover your face with your hands, propping his body on one elbow as he tried to pull your hands away.

“no, go away.” you had rolled over to escape his hands.

“mon amour, let me see your face.”

“no” your voice was muffled, words disappearing into pierre’s jacket and the earth beneath you.

“why not?” pierre’s hand found its way to your hair, fingers combing through the strands.

a quiet mumble escaped your lips, in absolute bliss from pierre’s ministrations.

“coeur, i cannot understand you when you’re talking to my jacket instead of me.”

heart. you felt your chest squeeze at the new petname, head turning slightly so your lips weren’t flat against the frenchman’s jacket, “i don’t want you to see how red you make me. c'est embarrassant, i feel like a school girl with a crush.” it’s embarrassing,

“then live out your teenage fantasies with me,” pierre placed his hand on your shoulder and you allowed yourself to be turned onto your back, eyes meeting pierre’s.

“okay.”

pierre’s eyes had found their home on your lips again, but instead of stare, he had closed his eyes, leaning forward. your eyes followed suite, the blissful feeling never leaving you even for a second.

his lips met your forehead, a quiet murmur being spoken against your skin, “tu me rends fou depuis que j'ai posé mes yeux sur toi ce matin.” you've been driving me crazy since I laid eyes on you this morning.

“imagine ce que j'ai ressenti en te regardant sur le grand écran pendant des années.” imagine how i felt watching you on the big screen for years.

the rest of your night had been spent cuddled in each other’s arms, fingers pointing at random shapes in the starry sky. 

you didn’t know when you had fallen asleep, wrapped up in pierre’s arms, feeling the safest you had in a long time. pierre, himself, had hated to wake you up, but it was late and he wanted to get you home safely.

hands connected for the last time that night, pierre took you home. smiling softly when you wiped your eyes only to snap your eyes open when you realized you had smudged your mascara. 

pierre’s thumb wiped under your eye lightly before resting on your temple. the rest of his fingers uncurled, wrapping around your head to pull it closer once more. 

his lips met your forehead again, this time longer than the last. he replaced his lips with his own forehead, eyes connected to yours.

“bonne nuit, mon étoile.” goodnight, my star.

it was safe to say that pierre had done more than just prove you were worthy of going out on dates and enjoying yourself. 

pierre had made you feel loved.