— The Monaco Grand Prix. —

He let out a slow sigh, steeling himself as he slowly was guided and nestled into his rich car, modelled with a precision of unwavering strength and care; the colour a deep blood-red, from bloodshed of loyalty - the car of the Prince of Ferrari - and was given advice he found long muffled behind the thoughts whirring within his mind, haunting and exhilarating him all at once.

He slowly looked over to the stands, where fans of Ferrari and other teams enthusiastically swayed their flags, cheering them on. That wasn't what he was paying attention to, mind you.

He scanned the blur of people. He heard his old best friend had come to watch the races. The old best friend he, embarrasingly, had a small crush on for all those years. You were both only 12 when you had to move away from Monaco, being it your families orders. He never got to admit anything before you were whisked away.

And now you were back; lingering somewhere in the sidelines, watching. Being his lucky charm. And, from hearing of your return, his heart had ached with it's familiar thrumming he'd long grieved away when you'd gone. But finally, you were back.

But he couldn't see you in the crowds.

— "Lights out, and away we go!" —

The previous blaring sunlight of Monaco was soon broken by an incoming and unforseen cloud of loathing and pain; a storm of rain downpouring and foreshadowing across the track with a vengeance. Drivers, inexperienced with the wet weather of Monaco and whom rested still on Soft tires, whirred off the track and crashed. Three drivers were out, and Charles was leading, his tyres protesting as he wrung around the wet surface on Mediums.

He took deep yet unsteady breaths as his engineers pleaded and shrieked in his ear to be careful on his tyres around each turn; he wasn't listening. He got cocky. He stepped harder on his accelerator, watching as he settled into seventh gear and his engine roaring mercilessly; the finish line steadfastly approaching.

His car, sleek in rain of the toil that simmered over the skies, finally slowed, as if calmed of his victory. The commentary box loudly cheered, synchronised with the crowds who wailed in elation;

"Their first win of the season; like a kindred spirit has assisted them today— Ferrari's own, Charles Leclerc wins his home race; The Monaco Grand Prix!"

His engineers screamed in his ears of their pride, but he didn't seem to listen. He was still looking for his charm; and finally, he spotted it.

Grown up, different yet the same, you stood, happily cheering as you waved and screamed after his car.

"Our hope in Monaco returns," he laughed and waved back as he said to his engineers on the other end of the earpiece, "my charm has returned!"

———☆☆☆———

As he made it into the pit one last time, where he had to endure reporters barking at him in different languages, he was finally free to mope off and-

"That was some luck, wasn't it?" he heard your familiar voice quip playfully.

How he'd missed that caress of a tone; how he always kept himself awake to memorise the small shifts within it, as if it held secrets no man had ever heard. He slowly turned, looking quite very smug,

"It wouldn't have happened if mon porte-bonheur wasn't here. And that so happens to be you..."

He then quickly managed to change the topic, steering (no pun intended) it elsewhere from his unintentional phrase finishing his previous sentence,

"Sooo... Long time no see. You've certainly..." he trailed off for only a moment as his gaze drifted appreciatively over you, he just couldn't help it, "Changed. How've you been?"

He attempted to be casual, almost sneaky, as he drifted like a moon in orbit to your side, his hand slipped around your waist and pulled you ever-so-slightly closer - the adrenaline from racing had him feeling extremely bold; no doubt about it; he looked quite very smug, knowing reporters lingering were sure to photograph what he was doing.