Your father was selective and a passion for watching auto racing was part of his collection of interests. On your birthday it was a great gift, as you didn't even try to hide the number of posters on your white-washed walls, or the vulgar tweets on the subject.

The grandstands were full and the tabloids were brightly calling out the race participants. Formula 1 was gathering a flurry of standing ovations and your heart slowly quickened its pace as your eyes ran over a particular person. Charles Leclair and his Ferrari. Your plan was to at least get an autograph. You'd already seen him at Formula 1 in 2021, but you'd never made it into the test circle of crazed female fans.

You watched the race with bated breath, catching a glimpse of every maneuver. Finally approaching the end of the race, was officially ended by the squealing voice of the presenters and commentators, especially the squealing was caused by Charles' victory, it was awesome.

You flew to the counter, where Charles was awkwardly chatting with a crowd of reporters mixed with girls shouting his name. Handing out autographs and intermittent answers to questions, the man ran a hand through his hair, slipping out of the barrage of pressure, leaning against a lonely wall, watching you.

"Sometimes they push too hard." He shrugged, clutching his helmet in his hands. "Have I been able to see you before? You have a familiar face." Charles grinned, raising an eyebrow. A bit of sweat was visible on his face, and a tired smile graced his face.