national treasures| Charles Leclerc

twenty-one

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The paddock is quieter now, the noise of the race weekend fading into the background as the chaos of the day winds down.

Drivers and crews are slowly filtering out, leaving the space almost still.

It's in moments like this, when the adrenaline has worn off and the crowd is thinning, that I find myself reflecting.

I find myself looking at Charles, though I try not to.

He's standing by his car, talking with his engineer, but I can't seem to tear my gaze away.

It's strange, how much he's changed since we were kids.

His posture is different, his expression more guarded, but there's still that familiar warmth in his eyes when he looks at me.

I don't know if he realizes it, but I can feel it—a pull, subtle but undeniable, like gravity working between us.

And I can't deny how much I feel it too.

The guard I've kept up around him, the walls I've built to protect myself, are starting to crack.

I can feel it, like little fissures opening up where I used to keep my emotions tightly locked away.

Every time we talk, every time we share one of those fleeting moments, I feel the distance between us narrowing.

But the old wounds, the scars from our past, are still there, lingering beneath the surface.

I remember how carefree we were once, how easily we fit together, how natural it was to be near him. It's hard to reconcile that memory with the version of him standing in front of me now—so different, yet somehow still the same.

He's still him, but with so much more weight behind his words, behind the way he moves through the world.

I don't know how to make sense of it, or how to make sense of my own feelings.

The tension between us is palpable, like a low hum that's always there when we're in the same room.

It's not the same as it used to be—this time, it's thicker, more complicated, and yet somehow still... magnetic.

The more time passes, the more I wonder if it's worth reopening the old wounds we both carry.

Will it lead to healing, like some part of me hopes, or will it just open the door to more pain?

I can't say I've figured it out yet.

I don't even know if I want to.

But every time I look at him, I feel the weight of what we used to be, what we could have been, and the quiet ache that still lingers in my chest.

I used to tell myself I'd never go back to him, that I'd never allow myself to fall for him again.

But now, with each passing glance, each moment we share, I'm not so sure anymore.

It's a dangerous game we're playing, and I don't know where it'll lead.

But I can feel myself starting to let go of the walls I've built, just a little.

And I wonder if that's a mistake.

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I can still picture it so clearly—like it happened just yesterday, even though it feels like a lifetime ago.

It was after one of our karting sessions, the track still buzzing with the energy of competition.

We'd spent the whole afternoon together, the air thick with the kind of tension that only racing can create, but it wasn't just the race I was focused on.

It was her.

Camille had always been there, just a step away, always part of my world in a way that felt too easy.

But that day, something was different.

Something had shifted, even if neither of us knew it yet.

We'd walked off the track together, side by side, laughing about something stupid, the usual lighthearted banter between us.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in soft oranges and purples, and we found ourselves at the edge of the paddock, away from the others, in a moment that felt so alone, so right.

I remember how she looked at me then—really looked at me—for the first time in a long while.

Her eyes weren't the usual playful teasing ones, but something deeper, something that pulled me in.

And I, well, I couldn't look away.

We'd stopped walking, and for a moment, neither of us said anything.

It was like the world had frozen.

The noise of the paddock faded into the background, and it was just us standing there, the air between us charged, heavy with unspoken words.

My heart was pounding in my chest, my mind racing to catch up with what was happening.

Was I imagining it?

Was she feeling the same pull?

I could feel the shift in her, too.

She took a step closer, just a fraction, but enough to make my breath catch in my throat.

And then, without warning, she reached out, brushing a strand of hair out of my face, her fingers grazing my skin with the same electric touch that had always made me feel alive.

And that was it.

That was the moment when everything changed.

I don't know who moved first—maybe it was us both, drawn together by something we couldn't name—but then our lips were meeting, soft and tentative, like neither of us was sure if this was real.

Her lips were warm, hesitant, yet there was this pull, this undeniable need to get closer, to not pull away.

The kiss was everything I didn't know I wanted—gentle, sweet, and full of promise—but it was also terrifying, because I knew, deep down, this was something we couldn't go back from.

When we finally pulled away, we didn't say anything right away.

It was like neither of us had the words to explain what had just happened.

I remember looking at her, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide but soft, as if she was trying to process the same thing I was.

We were both caught in that moment, suspended in time, unsure of what it meant but knowing it meant something important.

I wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, but all I could do was smile—stupidly, I'm sure—because I didn't know what else to do.

I had never felt so completely out of control of my own emotions, yet at the same time, it felt like everything was finally falling into place.

She smiled back, a little shaky, but I could see the same feeling in her eyes—the same confusion, the same desire to understand what had just shifted between us.

But we both knew one thing for sure: things had changed.

We couldn't go back to the way it was before.

Not after that kiss.

And part of me, no matter how scared I was, was glad.

Because in that moment, I realized I didn't just want her in my life as a teammate or a friend.

I wanted more.

I just didn't know how to make sense of it yet.