Give it some, give it some, give it some time, But I think we're supposed to be

Part One.

Charles starts sleeping over four weeks after that first night. You'd taken it slow at first: breakfast dates at the café near your apartment, then walks in the park followed by hours making out in his car, away from prying eyes. Movie nights that turned heavy, then fancy dinners at famous restaurants, like Charles didn't care who saw Monaco's most beloved son out and about with a random no one.

He comes over for a movie night at the beginning of March, between testing and the start of the season, a Ferrari backpack slung over his shoulder and the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, a tiny tuft of his brown hair sticking out the front.

"I'm sorry I'm late, mon ange ," he says, though he'd already apologized over text four times when he told you he needed to make a call to Mattia, that he'd be a few hours late for movie night. You'd told him he could stay over if he wanted to, if the delayed start meant the movie would run too late for him to head home afterward. His only response had been a kissy face emoji: and now here he is, standing in your doorway with a backpack and flushed red cheeks.

"S'alright," you meet him for a gentle kiss, his lips soft and plush as always, contrasted with the sharp sting of his stubble. He smells warm and soft and safe, his arm winding around your waist to pull you closer. He doesn't care that the door to your apartment is still wide open, that anyone could walk through the hallway and see him kissing you like this.

He also doesn't care that leaving the door wide open gives Buttons the chance to make his great escape.

"Fuck," you pull back from Charles quickly, shocked into sense by the feel of Buttons' tail grazing your ankle. It's a shot of panic straight into your veins, the thought of him escaping, getting away, hurting himself. "Buttons!"

"What about Butto—" Charles turns to follow you as you dash out into the hallway, watching with wide eyes as you just barely manage to grab Buttons around the middle before he sprints down the stairs. "Oh, mon dieu ."

"Oh my god," you echo, shaking your head. Your heart is hammering in your chest, Buttons still cradled against it, and Charles places a hand gently on the small of your back to usher you back into the apartment. He shuts and locks the door behind you this time, toeing his shoes off and dropping his backpack on your entryway bench as you place Buttons on the couch, pressing a kiss to the tiny space between his eyes.

"Stupid cat," Charles says, coming up behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, resting his head on your shoulder from behind. "He doesn't know how good he has it here. What's out there for you, huh, Buttons? It's cold outside. She feeds you and loves you and you try to run away, eh?"

"He doesn't know any better," you laugh, turning around in Charles' arms. "Be nice."

"I'll be nice to him when he's nice to me," Charles matches your laugh, a gorgeous twinkle in his eyes, and leans in to press his lips to yours again. "Missed you," he mumbles against them, fingers slipping up underneath the hem of your sweater. "Too long."

You hum in agreement, melting into Charles' touch. It's only been a few days, Charles away in Barcelona for testing and you here in Monaco for work and your normal life, but the start of the season is looming over you both, the elongated separation and hectic travel schedule, impossible time differences and stress on Charles that you can't even begin to imagine. The thought of it is a pit in your stomach, an anxious pull that's been nagging at you from the moment you realized that this thing you have with Charles is more serious than either of you anticipated it would be that night in the hotel bar.

"What movie tonight?" Charles asks between kisses, trailing his lips down your neck to give you a chance to answer. You let your head drop back, giving him more space to kiss, and tangle your fingers up in his hair, soft and clean under your touch.

"I was thinking maybe the new Spider-Man ," your voice comes out breathy, gasps escaping every time Charles scrapes his teeth over your neck, soothing the spot with his tongue right after. "You want to see that one, right?"

"I do," he says, standing up straight for another kiss, this one quicker, chaste. "Thank you for thinking of me."

"I'm thinking of myself, really," you kiss him again, chasing his lips. You can't get enough of him, can't think about the fact that you'll have to share him with the whole world in just a few weeks' time. "Any excuse to look at Tom Holland for like three hours."

Charles throws his head back and laughs, all freckles and thick neck, cheeks red and eyes bright. "You are ridiculous," he tells you, another kiss to your lips. "But I am yours."

– –

Spending the night with Charles is easier, more comfortable, more familiar, than anything you've ever done. It's like he fits into your life perfectly, his backpack on the floor of your bedroom, his sweatshirt tossed over the back of your couch, his toothbrush on your bathroom counter and his sneakers next to yours in the hall. He pads around your carpeted floor in his socks, sweatpants slung low on his hips, chest bare, bandana keeping the hair out of his eyes, and you can't help but think about forever: about having him in your space all the time, about him leaving his stuff here so that you have reminders of him when he has to go away for work. You imagine him coming home from races late, sneaking into bed quietly so as not to wake you, curling his warm body around yours and waking up in the morning in his arms again, as if he'd never left. You think about all of it, and wonder if Charles does too.

His goodnight kiss tastes of toothpaste and when he closes his eyes his lashes kiss his cheeks so softly it makes you want to scream. He settles comfortably on his back, sprawled out across the queen sized bed, and you use his chest as a pillow, the soft and steady beat of his heart against your ear. It's easy, drifting off to sleep in Charles' arms—and it's a shock, waking up in them a few hours later when Charles sits up suddenly, jerking you out of your slumber.

You rub your eyes, confused, Charles swearing in French, Italian, even English, and kicking his legs free from the covers. "Fucking shit," he says, voice groggy with sleep and a little bit of shock, his hair standing up all over the place. "Scared the shit out of me."

When your eyes adjust to the dark you figure the scene out: Charles, eyes narrowed defensively at Buttons, who sits on the dresser across from your bed, his tail swishing silently. It's a funny sight, the standoff between them, Buttons entirely unbothered and Charles looking ready to strike.

"What happened?" You ask, still rubbing your eyes, and Charles' face softens when he turns to look at you.

"Ah, I'm sorry, mon ange . It was Buttons," he says his name with such deep distaste that you almost laugh at the absurdity of it, the disgust for such a sweet, harmless word. It's hard to imagine anyone else has ever said the word "buttons" with such an intense, fiery hate. "He bit my toes. It woke me."

"Oh, no," you giggle, unable to help yourself any longer. "Sorry, baby. He's just not used to someone else sleeping here, probably. He likes to sleep in bed with me some nights."

"This is my spot," Charles narrows his eyes again, directing his speech to Buttons. "If you bite me again I will kick you off the bed."

"Don't say that," you laugh, reaching up to soothe your fingers through Charles' hair. His shoulders relax instantly—you knew they would. "He doesn't know. He's just being protective."

"He will learn," Charles mumbles, relaxing back into the pillow. He pulls you closer, pressing his lips to your forehead. "Sorry to wake you," he says again, hand trailing down your back to rest gently on your bum. "Stupid cat."

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