SHIRT, charles leclerc (REWRITING)

EIGHT, under the weather and spotlight

(  Please vote & comment, it motivates me to write more! )

CHAPTER EIGHT,
under the weather and spotlight

The Azerbaijan Grand Prix loomed just a week away, and the Maranello factory buzzed with purpose. Engineers and mechanics moved with a shared urgency, their voices blending with the mechanical hum of machinery and the occasional hiss of compressed air. The scent of oil mingled with the rich aroma of espresso, and sunlight filtered through the high factory windows, casting long, golden beams over the scattered tools and glowing telemetry screens.

Juliette had spent the past week immersed in this symphony of preparation alongside Charles. Days were consumed by strategy discussions, telemetry analyses, and the ceaseless whirl of sponsor obligations. Though exhausting, the rhythm of it all—the shared banter, the synchronized problem-solving—had become a source of quiet camaraderie.

This morning, the factory's intensity felt distant, muffled by the peaceful embrace of Juliette's small patio. She sat there wrapped in an oversized linen blouse, her legs tucked beneath her, cradling a steaming mug of ginger tea. Tendrils of steam spiraled upward, blending with the crisp morning air, which carried faint hints of dew and freshly cut grass.

Her tablet rested on her lap, its screen glowing with intricate tables of lap times and tire degradation statistics, but her attention drifted. Birds chirped in the distance, their melody weaving through the stillness, and the world felt slow, deliberate, a rare pause in an otherwise relentless schedule.

The quiet was interrupted by the soft creak of the side gate. Juliette sighed, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. "Arthur," she thought, imagining his usual sheepish grin as he fumbled through another apology for disturbing her.

But when she glanced up, it wasn't Arthur.

Charles stepped through the gate, his hair a tousled mess, the remnants of sleep still clinging to him like a shadow. He wore a hoodie and sweatpants that hung loose on his lean frame, their wrinkles hinting at his rushed morning. His expression was a curious blend of guilt and hesitation, his eyes darting to meet hers before quickly flicking away, as if he were weighing the words he was about to say.

Juliette straightened slightly, resting her mug on the small wooden table beside her. "What's up?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with curiosity.

Charles hesitated, standing awkwardly just shy of the patio steps. His hand moved to the back of his neck—a nervous habit she recognized instantly. "Uh... I know we've been bothering you a lot lately—"

She cut him off with a playful smile, her voice light. "You guys? Bothering me? Please. You're my entertainment."

The corners of his mouth lifted, his tension easing slightly as her words settled between them. "Okay, well... Arthur's sick. Like, flu-level sick. And I honestly have no idea what I'm doing." His cheeks flushed faintly as he admitted this, his hand dropping back to his side with a helpless shrug.

Juliette tilted her head, amusement flickering in her gaze. "Sounds about right. All right, help me grab a few things, and I'll check on him," she offered, her tone already moving toward action as she stood, brushing invisible crumbs from her shorts.

Charles nodded gratefully, trailing after her as they stepped inside. The morning light poured through the windows, illuminating the soft, warm tones of her kitchen. Together, they rummaged through cupboards and drawers, assembling a makeshift care package: ginger teas, lozenges, painkillers, and tissues.

"You'd think Arthur would know better than to get sick this close to a race," Juliette muttered, tossing a small jar of honey into the bag.

Charles leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smirking. "He's miserable enough without you scolding him."