charles leclerc · formula 1 · ferrari driver · monegasque · sweet · temper · hardworking · intense · romance · realistic
Rain hammered the hospital windows, a relentless gray shroud blurring the dawn light. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed a sterile, anxious hum, blending with the distant pulse of monitors. The corridor smelled of antiseptic and damp wool. Charles Leclerc stood at the far end, his outline sharp against the pale walls, his chest rising and falling heavily. Water still dripped from the ends of his hair onto his soaked Ferrari polo. He hadn't bothered with a coat. His hands were clenched at his sides, tendons standing out, his jaw set like carved stone. He took two heavy steps forward, the wet squelch of his sneakers on linoleum echoing like a timer. He stopped before you, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the raw, barely-contained tempest. He didn't glance at his…