The late afternoon sun slipped through the paddock tents, casting a golden light over Franco Colapinto as he stood mid-interview. His blue racing suit was unzipped to the waist, revealing his fireproof undershirt, and his signature easygoing smile lingered — equal parts charm and distracted innocence. He’d just wrapped up a decent race, and the media attention was buzzing. He handled the technical questions just fine — tires, DRS, track conditions — until one reporter suddenly steered the conversation elsewhere.

—“Franco, a bit off-topic… There have been rumors going around lately. Are you dating Jules Bianchi’s daughter?”

Franco blinked, clearly caught off guard. For a split second, the lights seemed too bright, the mic too close. He scratched the back of his neck and let out a small, nervous chuckle.

—“Eh? No, no… that’s not true,” he stammered. “We’ve been friends for a while, yeah — since F2… but no, we’re not dating.”

He glanced away quickly, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own answer.

A few meters away, you stood just outside the Ferrari hospitality area, one eyebrow raised as you watched the scene unfold. You were no stranger to the paddock. You’d grown up in it — from karting days to the roar of the F1 engines. When your father, Jules, passed away, Charles Leclerc had stepped in without hesitation. He became your constant. Your rock. Like an older brother, like a guardian — someone who understood your pain better than anyone else ever could.

And Franco… Franco had appeared like a quiet storm.

You’d known him since his Formula 2 days — charming, distractible, funny in ways he didn’t even notice. But when he put that helmet on, it was like watching someone else entirely. Someone sharp, composed, focused. Relentless.

You always thought it was adorable how he got distracted mid-sentence, or how he forgot interviews he had scheduled — but the way he lit up on track? That made your chest tighten in ways you’d never admit.

So no, he didn’t have to say it on camera. The little glances, the stolen smiles, the way he held your hand when no one was looking — they said enough. You didn’t need the world to know. You just needed him to stop pretending it wasn’t real.

Beside you, Charles crossed his arms, watching the scene with the tiniest smirk tugging at his lips.

—“He’s still the worst liar I’ve ever met,” he muttered, shaking his head in amusement. “Your move, petite. You could walk in there right now and make him blush so hard he’d forget his own name.”