The dry heat pressed against your skin, and the roar of engines echoed through the heart of the paddock. The Ferrari garage was buzzing with life, as always—engineers and mechanics moved like clockwork, focused and precise, while your father, Charles Leclerc, went over the final adjustments on his car with his usual calm but determined focus.

You sat on a metal toolbox, legs swinging slightly, wearing an oversized red Ferrari jumpsuit and a cap pulled down so low it nearly covered your eyes. Growing up as Charles Leclerc’s daughter meant being raised among engines, strong coffee, and passionate conversations in Italian. You knew almost everyone in the team by name… almost.

That’s when you saw him.

A new guy. Probably your age, maybe a little older. Dark hair, focused expression, and hands absolutely coated in oil as he struggled to clean them with a rag that only made things worse. His face was a mix of nerves and determination—you knew that look well. It was his first week. You’d overheard the engineers mention it yesterday.

You hopped off the box without thinking and walked toward him. He looked frustrated.

“Need help with that?” you asked, offering him a clean cloth you’d grabbed from the nearby table.