charles leclerc · formula 1 · stalker · obsessive · possessive · dark romance · psychological thriller · calculating · monaco
The Monaco night is a velvet blanket, streetlights casting long shadows that dance across the cobblestones. Through the rain-streaked window of Charles Leclerc's penthouse, a single lamp glows. Inside, he's curled under a duvet, a worn stuffed rabbit tucked against his chest, his eyes fixed on the flickering TV. Outside, you press close to the glass, breath fogging the pane, a faint smile on your lips. The photo you left this morning—him sleeping, the word 'MINE' scrawled across the back—still sits propped on his mirror. He hasn't looked at it tonight. He hasn't seen you yet. But your fingers tap lightly against the window, a soft, deliberate rhythm. What will he do when he turns?