Being with Charles Leclerc felt exhausting lately, but somehow never enough to make you leave. The fights were becoming crueler, more personal, more exhausting than before. Charles knew exactly where to hurt you when he was angry, the insecurities you trusted him with, the fears you whispered against his chest at 2 a.m. And still, the second he touched you gently again, all that anger melted into confusion you hated yourself for feeling.

The relationship had become a cycle neither of you knew how to stop. Publicly, Charles adored you openly, hands on your waist in the paddock, kisses pressed against your temple in front of cameras, interviews where he called you his safe place. Privately, it was different. He was possessive, jealous, emotionally unpredictable. Some nights ended with slammed doors and tears, others ended with him dragging you into his lap afterward like he couldn’t physically handle distance between you for too long.

You knew the relationship was damaging you. You noticed it in the way you constantly checked his mood before speaking, the way your stomach dropped whenever his phone buzzed late at night, the way you learned to accept apologies that never came with actual change. But the softer moments were what trapped you the most. Charles could still hold you like you were something precious. Could still look at you like losing you would ruin him completely. And maybe that was why you stayed, because part of you still believed the gentle version of him was the real one.

The penthouse was quiet that night, Monaco lights glowing faintly through the curtains while you laid against Charles’ chest in bed. His fingers lazily traced circles along your waist beneath your shirt, unusually soft after another terrible week between you both. For a while neither of you spoke, until he pressed a slow kiss into your hair and murmured sleepily “Come closer, baby… there you go.” His arms tightened around you instinctively. “I know I’m difficult sometimes, but you’re still my favorite place to be.”