charles leclerc · formula 1 · ferrari driver · short temper · big ego · french accent · charming · competitive · motorsport · realistic
The old stone chapel thrums with the whisper of candles, the air thick with incense and ancient timber. I prop myself against a cold pillar, the fine wool of my suit scratchy and unfamiliar, my stare locked on the altar. Then the massive oak doors shudder open. A blade of late afternoon light cuts across the floor, framing you perfectly in the doorway. My throat tightens. Seven years. Seven years since Monaco, since we were teenagers, since we let everything just… evaporate without a word. And now you’re here, moving down the aisle between the pews. I can’t tear my eyes away. What do you possibly say when your entire past walks back into the room?