Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

t h i r t y - f o u r

A/N - I don't speak Italian, so language corrections are welcome.
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Wednesday rolled around too quickly, and with it came the first prick of reality popping the private bubble that Fia and Charles had constructed for themselves. Andrea was coming to do a training session with Charles in the afternoon.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" he asked her in the morning, trailing his fingertips up and down her calf as they sat at the breakfast bar. Fia was perched on a chair with her knees drawn up to her chest—she often sat like that, he'd noticed, like a little owl—with a book in her hands and a cup of coffee going cold on the table.

"Of course not," she said, folding down the corner of the page she'd been reading. "You won't get a contract renewal by missing training sessions. And besides, I've got plenty of work to catch up on, too."

Charles nodded, though he was still conflicted. He wished they could have just a little longer alone together.

"Are you going to eat that?" Fia asked, pointing to the porridge in front of him that—like her coffee—was going cold.

He stared at the uneaten food, feeling faintly queasy about the day ahead, and shook his head, pushing the bowl towards her. She happily took it and added two big spoonfuls of honey. "So," she said, "what does Andrea think about all of this? Do you think he'll like me?"

Charles met her gaze, and his stomach knotted when he saw the hopefulness in it. "It doesn't matter what he thinks," he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "He is my trainer."

"But he's your friend, too, isn't he? Like Joris."

He shrugged noncommittally.

"It matters to me."

"It shouldn't."

Fia paused with a spoon in front of her mouth. Her brows knitted together. "Why not?"

"Because nobody else's opinion matters," he said, standing to signal the end of the conversation.

"You wouldn't care whether my friends liked you or not?"

Her voice followed him across the kitchen, and he paused by the sink, resting his hands on the cool porcelain edge. "I would," he admitted.

"Then why shouldn't it matter to me?"

"It's different," he said, knowing he was being unfair. He felt like he was watching himself on a screen, as if he could hear the words coming out of his mouth but couldn't control them.

"How?"

He poured himself a glass of water. "I just think," he said, letting the surface of the glass moisten the warm skin of his palm, "that it shouldn't change anything."

"Because this is over at the end of the week anyway, you mean."

It wasn't what he'd meant, but he found himself nodding.

"Oh," she said. It was a quiet, sad syllable that made his heart twist like someone had stuck their hand in his chest.

He turned around and took a sip of water. Looked at her over the rim of his glass, annoyed at himself. "That is what you want, isn't it?"

She stared back in silence for what felt like an age, the green of her eyes solid and hard like jade. He wanted to take her into his arms, and he also wanted to run away, but he could bring himself to do neither. All he could do was listen to the drone of the refrigerator, feel the condensation running down his fingers. "It's what we agreed," she said. "You're right." Her expression softened. "I still care a bit, though."