Ice and asphalt [Charles Leclerc]

70

I wake up the next morning to an empty, cold bed—not that I expected anything different. Charles had told me the night before that he'd be going for an early run. It's the Formula One season, after all. Even on weekends without a race, he needs to stay in peak condition.

Next Sunday, he'll be in Japan. Suzuka. The track where Jules crashed in 2014. The thought alone sends a chill down my spine. I don't think I could ever bring myself to attend that race. Charles has a special helmet planned for the weekend—a tribute to Jules, his godfather. When we were kids, I was more than a little jealous of that connection. It was just one of many reasons I disliked him back then. But look at us now—together, despite everything. Even after three years apart, we found our way back, like we were always meant to.

I push back the covers and get out of bed, making my way to the nightstand. My pillbox is right where I left it. I open it and take out the familiar lineup—the lithium, the mood stabilizers, the anti-anxiety pills. Routine. Necessary.

After brushing my teeth and running a comb through my hair, I step into the living room. Leo and Ulla greet me instantly, their tails wagging, their eyes bright with unconditional love. I smile, reaching down to scratch behind their ears before heading to the kitchen. The kettle goes on, and soon, the soft whistle of boiling water fills the quiet apartment.

Mug in hand, I walk out onto the balcony, letting the fresh Monaco air wrap around me. Spring is in full bloom. The sun casts a golden glow over the streets, birds chirp in the distance, and for a moment, everything feels... still.

As I sit curled up on the balcony, lost in the worn pages of my book, I hear the front door of the apartment open. The familiar sound of Charles' footsteps echoes softly as he moves through the space.

"Louise?" His voice calls out, uncertain, as if he hasn't noticed me yet.

"I'm here," I say, not looking up, my eyes still tracing the lines of Wuthering Heights.

"Ah, there you are," he says as he steps onto the balcony, the morning sun casting a glow on his slightly flushed face. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, the scent of fresh air and cologne lingering around him.

"I brought breakfast from the bakery down the street," he announces, setting a brown paper bag on the table as he settles into the chair across from me.

I hum in acknowledgment, a small smile playing on my lips as I turn another page.

"What are you reading?" he asks, his voice curious, though I know he already suspects the answer.

"Wuthering Heights," I say, finally closing the book, my finger marking my place as I look over at him.

"Happy ending?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, teasing. He knows me too well to think this is my first time reading it.

I give a half-smile. "No. She dies, and then he dies because he can't live without her."

Charles chuckles, shaking his head lightly. "Okay then," he says, his tone amused yet affectionate. "Well, if that isn't love, what is?"

There's something in the way he says it—playful, but with a trace of tenderness—that makes my heart ache in the best way. I reach for my tea, the warmth of the mug grounding me as I watch him unwrap the pastries, his movements easy, familiar, like this quiet intimacy is something we've always known.

After breakfast, Charles heads for a shower, and I start packing my bag, the quiet hum of the apartment filling the space between us. I glance at my phone and text Angelina, telling her I'll be home in a few hours. She's still not feeling well, and I don't want to leave her alone for too long.