Race & Rally // Charles Leclerc

36.00

The rest of the evening consisted of laughter and stories. We eventually got hungry enough for actual food, despite my trip to the restaurant, so I made us some dinner.

Jude stayed until late, both of our eyes fluttering shut with tiredness. He finally decided to go home, worried that he would fall asleep.

It's now the next day. I'm making myself some lunch, placing the fried egg on the toasted bread ever so delicately. I'm supposed to call Antonio to settle a date for the next Nike event, but I feel too tired from last night to comprehend doing anything.

I sit at the table, looking at the empty seats that surround me. Jude's laughter from yesterday echoes through my mind, and a sense of deep loneliness washes over me.

Then, all of a sudden, I hear the front door opening. My heart stops, my palms becoming sweaty. I hear a footstep. Then another. I hold my breath, listening intently, wondering if it's just my imagination. But then I hear it again. My pulse quickens, a mixture of anxiety and hope flooding my senses.

Was it Charles? I had replayed our fight a thousand times in my mind, the harsh words, the way his face hardened as I had spoke to him, and the hollow silence that filled the house afterward.

My eyes land on the kitchen door, memories of him walking through that very door after long race weekends flashing in my mind. But this time is different. This time, the air is thick with the tension of unspoken words and unresolved pain.

I slowly make my way into the hall, tiptoeing my way around, almost worried that if he were to hear me that I'd scare him away.

And then, there he is—standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway. Charles. He looks just as I imagined he would. Tired, worn out, dark bags under his eyes, but there is something else too—regret, maybe, or the same longing that had kept me awake at night.

For a moment, neither of us move. The space between us feels vast, as if all the hurt and misunderstanding has taken physical form, standing as a barrier. But despite everything, I feel a pull towards him, the same pull I have felt since the day I seen him at the Wimbledon tennis court.

I swallow hard, trying to find my voice, but before I can say anything, Charles speaks, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Aria..."

It's just my name, but in that single word, I hear everything: the apology, the hurt, the desire to make things right. I know that we still have a long way to go, but it's a start. That's all that matters.

Tears well up in my eyes as I stand looking at his familiar eyes, on the edge of breaking down. And as I run my gaze over him, I realise that maybe, just maybe, we can find our way back to each other.

Without thinking, I rush across the room to him, and he does the same. Our hands meet first, a tentative touch that sends shivers through me, and soon enough we're in each other's arms. The hug is desperate, like two people clinging to a lifeline in a storm. Charles' arms wrap tightly around me, pulling me close as if he's afraid that I might slip away.

I bury my face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him that I had missed so much, and the dam inside me breaks. Tears stream down my cheeks as I hold onto him, all the pain and fear of the past few days pouring out in silent sobs. Charles' hand finds its way to my hair, his fingers gently tangling in the strands as he murmurs, "I'm so sorry, Aria. I'm so sorry."

I know that I've heard this from him multiple times, but his words come out in a rush, full of the regret and sorrow he has been carrying. I can feel his chest rise and fall unevenly as he fights to keep his own emotions in check. But the tremor in his voice tells me everything I need to know—he is just as scared as I am, just as hurt.

I pull away slightly, looking up at him and noticing his blotchy face from the few tears that had escaped. Every part of me aches to feel his lips against mine again, but I'm aware that I can't get ahead of myself. It's too soon and we still have a lot of talking to do.

Charles cups my face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears that still cling to my cheeks. "I never want to go through that again," he whispers, his voice raw with emotion. "I can't stand being apart from you."

I nod, my own voice too choked with emotion to respond. But I don't need to say anything yet. The way I lean into his touch, the way my hands cling to the fabric of his shirt, says it all.

"I'm after making myself some eggs. Would you like some?" I sniffle. He instantly breaks into a smile, an expression I had ached to see.

"I would like that very much," he says, another tear of happiness leaving the corner of his eye.

We head into the kitchen, hand in hand, before he sits at the table. I quickly crack an egg onto the pan and as it cooks we stare at each other silently. It's almost as if we're trying to memorise the others features all over again, realising how much we've missed them.

We both eat lunch, grinning at one another foolishly. I watch as his eyes catch on the dishes that were left at the sink from the night before. He frowns.

"Dishes for two?" he questions, looking at me warily.

I keep my mouth closed, before deciding to tell him the truth. "Jude Bellingham was over last night," I admit, noticing the anger that flashes across his face.

Before he can say anything, I hold my hands up to silence him. "I will explain everything after we eat," I assure him, and his expression instantly softens.

Once we're finished our food, he slowly stands and takes my hands into his, pulling me into the living room. He sits me on the couch next him, not letting go of my grip.

It's his time to explain.

The conversation was long, sometimes unbearable and painful. There were more tears, and surprisingly some laughter. He promised that he never did anything with Lacy, that she was only a friend using him to try to get noticed by modelling agencies. She was a brilliant candidate for any PR. They both benefitted from each other majorly for multiple reasons, which is why he always kept her around. She had nowhere to stay the night she had come over to our house, and he had been planning to let her sleep in one of the spare rooms.

The night at the casino had been a drunken mistake, and he regrets it majorly. He had no recollection of how those girls had gotten there, but he reassured that he gave none of them any attention. He was frustrated with my constant absence, both at home and at races.

"I missed you," he says, "more than anything, Aria."

I smile at him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "I missed you too."

I quickly explain to him why Jude had visited, mentioning that we had talked about him most of the time regardless. Charles nodded in consideration.

"I know it's going to take time, and it's going to take understanding, but I'm willing to make this work. I want to fight for us Summers," he grins at me. "I really do."

"I'm ready if you are," I say gently.

"Oh I'm more than ready," he smirks. "So ready, that I think you need to ring Antonio. Tell him that you'll be in Monaco for my mothers birthday. Book off the first week in May, ok?"

My eyes widen. "Do you not remember how strict Ant is about holidays Leclerc? It won't be that simple."

"Then tell him if he's not going to let you, then he'll have me to deal with," he growls, before picking me up and pulling me onto his lap. Hearty laughter escapes my mouth, my hands finding themselves on his shoulders.

I stare at him for another moment, the giddy happiness inside of me unable to contain itself much longer. I grab his face and I kiss him.

I kiss him long and I kiss him hard.

And he kisses me back.