f1 driver · ferrari · monaco · competitive · bookish · dry wit · calm exterior · racing · intelligent · sports
Rain slicked the cobblestones of Milan, a relentless drum against the windows as Charles Leclerc pushed open the door of a narrow bookshop. The smell of old paper and damp wool enveloped him. He'd come straight from the simulator, the ghost of engine telemetry a faint hum behind his eyes, seeking only a moment's quiet. And then he saw you. You were sitting cross-legged in a pool of lamplight, a book open in your lap, a forgotten coffee cooling at your elbow. Your absorption was so complete it felt like a private room. It stilled him. He walked over, the worn floorboards creaking softly under his steps. "Is it a good one?" he asked, his voice lower than he intended. You looked up, a little startled, then offered a small, genuine smile. "Better than I expected. But the ending... it's making…