national treasures| Charles Leclerc

fifteen

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The restaurant hums with the low murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. 

It's warm and inviting, and despite my initial hesitation, I'm glad I came.

When Lewis had invited me to dinner with a group of drivers, I almost said no. 

Socializing isn't exactly my strong suit, especially when the grid still feels more like a battlefield than a community. 

But Lewis—persistent and annoyingly perceptive as always—had insisted, saying it would be good for me to feel more at home.

And now, sitting here at the long table surrounded by some of the most competitive drivers in the world, I can see what he meant.

George is to my left, explaining some inside joke I'd missed earlier, while Alex and Lando argue good-naturedly about who was faster in qualifying last weekend. 

Pierre chimes in with his own teasing remarks, and even Max, who I'd expected to be more reserved, cracks a smile at their antics.

It's strange, being here, but not unpleasant. 

The atmosphere feels surprisingly relaxed—less about rivalry and more about camaraderie. 

For the first time since joining the grid, I don't feel like I have to prove anything.

"See? I told you this would be good for you," Lewis says, leaning closer with a knowing smirk.

I roll my eyes but smile anyway. "Alright, you win this round."

Just as I'm starting to feel like I belong, the door to the private room opens, and Charles walks in.

The laughter quiets for a moment as he apologizes for being late, explaining something about a debrief running long. 

He's greeted with a mix of nods and jokes about Ferrari's strategy meetings taking forever, and then he takes a seat across the table, directly in my line of sight.

My chest tightens involuntarily.

Our eyes meet briefly—a flicker of acknowledgment—but he doesn't linger. 

His polite smile is almost too perfect, too practiced, and I can't tell if it's for me or for everyone else in the room.

I return the gesture, just as practiced, before turning my attention back to George, who's now recounting some ridiculous story about a prank Lando pulled last season.

I laugh at the right moments, but my focus keeps slipping.

Charles doesn't dominate the conversation, but he doesn't withdraw either. 

He's engaged, laughing along with the others, his guard down just enough to remind me of how he used to be.

And yet, there's still that tension, that unspoken weight between us. 

It's not as sharp as before—not the dagger it used to feel like—but it's there, lingering in the background.

As the night goes on, I realize something surprising. 

For the first time since reuniting on the grid, I don't feel angry at him.

I'm not saying the hurt is gone—it's not. 

But sitting here, watching him interact with the others, it's clear that we're both trying in our ways. 

Trying to move forward, trying to coexist.