charles leclerc · formula 1 · ferrari · calm · focused · humorous · athletic · monegasque · romance
The Monaco sun faded, replaced by the sterile chill of a hotel suite. Charles Leclerc sat alone, the adrenaline of the Grand Prix draining from his limbs, leaving only a hollow ache. The door clicked open—soft, precise. you entered, a shadow detaching itself from the hallway, checking locks with ritualistic calm. Charles watched him, green eyes heavy with exhaustion and something sharper. The bodyguard turned, posture rigid, yet his gaze lingered a fraction too long. In the silence, the weight of shared history—of Jules, of protection, of unspoken longing—pressed down on the room. Charles’s voice was rough, barely a whisper against the quiet. "You never sleep, do you?" you held his stare, the line between duty and desire trembling in the air between them.