national treasures| Charles Leclerc

fourteen

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

I thought I could put it all behind me.

After that conversation with Charles, I promised myself I wouldn't dwell on his words. 

I wouldn't let his apology, his lingering looks, or the way his voice softened when he said he missed me, distract me from why I was here. 

I have a seat with Mercedes. 

I have a shot at proving I belong among the best in the world.

So I've been throwing everything into training. 

Early mornings in the gym, late nights reviewing data with the engineers, and endless laps in the simulator. 

If I keep moving, keep working, I don't have time to think about him—or what he said.

But no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the memory of that conversation.

The vulnerability in his voice, the way his eyes locked onto mine like he was searching for something he'd lost—it's all still there, just below the surface, threatening to pull me under. 

And it's infuriating because I shouldn't care. 

I don't want to care.

Yet here I am, standing on the grid, pretending not to notice when his Ferrari lines up a few spots ahead of me.

The race begins, and for the first few laps, I'm locked in my own battle, focused on maintaining position and pushing my car to its limit. 

It's only after a particularly tight overtaking maneuver that I find myself behind the familiar flash of red.

Charles.

I should be focused on strategy, on finding the perfect moment to pass him. 

Instead, I'm hyperaware of every detail—the way his car moves, the precision of his lines, the ease with which he seems to anticipate every challenge.

And then it happens.

On the next lap, we approach a corner, and I make my move, slipping past him on the inside. 

For a split second, our eyes meet in the mirrors as I pull ahead.

The glance is fleeting, barely a moment, but it's enough to send a jolt through me.

There's something in his expression—a mix of surprise, respect, and something I can't quite name. It stirs up emotions I've been trying so hard to bury: pride, resentment, longing.

The feeling doesn't last long. 

By the next straight, Charles is back, taking advantage of a slight error on my part to retake the position. 

As he flies past me, I catch another glimpse of him, his determination written all over his face.

It's not anger, not gloating—just pure focus.

And yet, somehow, it feels personal.

When the race ends, I'm left with a bitter taste in my mouth. 

Not because I didn't perform well—I held my own and secured decent points for the team—but because of him.

Because of the way he made me feel, even without saying a word.

As I climb out of the car and remove my helmet, I catch sight of him across the paddock, speaking animatedly with his team. 

For a moment, I wonder if he's thinking about me the way I'm thinking about him.

But then I push the thought aside.