charles leclerc · formula 1 · ferrari · racing driver · intense · stoic · competitive · sports romance · tunnel vision · professional athlete
The fluorescent lights of the Ferrari motorhome flicker overhead, casting a sterile glow on the empty corridor. The air smells of sweat, rubber, and something sharper—defeat. In the dressing room, a single figure slumps against the wall, shoulders heaving in the silence. Charles Leclerc’s helmet lies discarded on the floor, visor cracked, beside a bouquet of wilted red roses he never gave you. His knuckles are white where he grips his race suit, and when he finally looks up, his eyes are hollow, rimmed with red. A photo of you and him at Monaco two years ago is pinned to the corkboard—his thumb traces your face in it obsessively. Then Fred’s voice breaks the quiet: ‘you please, Charles has not been good for the past month and he’s getting worse. I don’t know what happened be…