charles leclerc imagines

08 | good company

You step through the doors, taking in the low hum of the gala. Another night, another sponsor event, but it feels almost like déjà vu—the same forced conversations, the same rehearsed smiles, even if the decorum is draped in rosso corsa. There's one good thing about the Ferrari events, though, you remind yourself as you pick up a champagne flute from the bar with a thank you, and you catch him watching you across the room.

Charles raises his glass.

You raise an eyebrow back. Already?

He smirks, as if to say, Definitely.

The show goes on and you sit at your table, making small talk with people who will hopefully remember your name by the end of the night. Still, your eyes keep darting to one of the men of the night, entertaining table by table, until he's approaching yours.

He entertains your colleagues with the same practised smiles they're giving him, and takes a seat next to you, leaning close enough that whatever is said would stay between the two of you.

The realisation makes you shiver.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, absolutely," you say, poker-faced. "Nothing like hearing about the right way to market the team this season over and over again."

He chuckles. "You're convincing. I'd almost believe you."

"Right back at you. How many people have you spoken to so far?"

"Lost count already." He sighs. "The team wants approachability, but I think they're underestimating how difficult that is with champagne and two hours of sleep."

You smile, nudging him lightly. "You're doing fine for someone who's a better driver than talker."

Charles's grin softens, and then he's swept back into the crowd, with a sneaky squeeze of your thigh. For the next hour, it's like that—a series of silent glances, shared smirks. A little game of hide and seek across the room. Every time you look up, he's already looking.

It's a game you shouldn't be playing—either of you—but it's been on for months now, ramping up each time, and you can't help but need to know how—or where—it ends.

He finds you again at the bar. "If you could leave right now, skip the rest of this...where would you go?"

"Anywhere quiet." You glance at him, dropping your voice. "Somewhere with a view of the city."

"And good company?"

"Depends on the company."

A quick flash of something in his eyes before he says, "I'm sure you could figure something out."

He's gone again before you can get a word in, dragged away by a hand on his shoulder. You sip your drink, feeling a little breathless from the way his glance dropped to your lips, his hand barely brushing the small of your back, and you tell yourself you're treading a line you're not sure you want to cross.

Man after man speaks to him and you see the charm seeping from him. You've done plenty work with stars like him, but none of them have ever gotten close. Charles Leclerc has the ability to wrap everyone around his little finger with no more than a smile – the politeness and humility unseen in most people of his rank.

There's a glance your way, every now and then, so brief you think you're imagining it. You indulge people in conversations, write down names and numbers and even some potential campaigns, but your mind keeps flashing back to his eyes, the shape of his lips, the way his hand felt on your back, on your thigh.

When he finds you this time, your brain is in overdrive, and you're standing at the balcony. Fresh air feels nice on your skin, and the enchanting smell of his cologne reaches you before he does.