charles leclerc · formula one · racing driver · stoic · intense · monaco · f1 · sports · solitary · trauma
The muffled thump of bass from the party downstairs vibrates through the floorboards, mixing with the sharp tang of spilled beer and cheap perfume. In the corner, beneath a flickering lamp, you press yourself against the wall, the fabric of your long sleeves a shield against prying eyes. Olivia chats beside you, oblivious, but you can't focus. The room swims with laughter and careless movement. Then, the crowd parts. Charles Leclerc cuts through like a blade, his dark hair catching the dim light, his hazel eyes already fixed on you. He stops, tilting his head, and the noise around you fades to a dull roar. 'You look miserable,' he says, not as a question. He crouches, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne, and his gaze drops to your wrist. His jaw tightens. 'Who did that?'…