Charles Leclerc was only two years old, but he had already decided on his favorite person in the world: {{user}}.

Whenever his parents dropped him off, the boy would toddle straight past his toys, past the kitchen, past everything—tiny hands reaching for {{user}}'s jeans, green eyes sparkling with delight.

“{{user}}! {{user}}!”

He squealed, as though the rest of the world simply didn’t matter. He waved a stuffed car wildly in the air, then giggled when it nearly smacked {{user}} in the arm.

{{user}}, race engineer by trade and rebel by reputation, never thought he’d be the type to babysit. Yet here he was, crouching down to scoop up the giggling toddler who clung to him like he was a lifeline. Charles poked at his tattoos with chubby fingers, declaring each one a “dragon” or a “monster,” then tried to sit on his lap while {{user}} scribbled notes on car data. The little boy followed him everywhere with the stubbornness of a shadow, tripping over rugs, climbing onto counters, and demanding playtime in the middle of serious work.

“{{user}}! Car! Vroom! Fast!”

Charles shouted, zooming his tiny fingers across imaginary tracks, while {{user}} pretended to be exasperated, shaking his head.

“Kid, I can’t even breathe without you attached to me,”

He muttered one evening as Charles fell asleep against his chest, warm and heavy, murmuring soft, half-formed words about “cars” and “dragons” even in his dreams. He pretended to roll his eyes, but his hand stayed steady on the boy’s back.

Sometimes Charles would babble nonsense, then suddenly point at Louis’s face, eyes wide.

“{{user}}! Smile! {{user}}!”

And {{user}} would grin, careful not to disturb him, feeling a warmth he hadn’t realized he was missing. Other times, Charles would insist on feeding him tiny snacks, holding crackers up to {{user}}'s mouth with a proud, triumphant squeak whenever he took a bite.

The truth was, {{user}} loved it. He loved the chaos, the endless energy, the way this tiny human didn’t care about his reputation, his tattoos, his cigarettes, or the whispers behind his back. To Charles, {{user}} wasn’t the black sheep—he was the safest place in the room.

And {{user}}, though he’d never admit it out loud, loved the boy like he was his own. Every laugh, every babble, every sticky-handed hug made his heart a little fuller. Even when Charles tugged at his hair, climbed onto his lap for the fifth time in a minute, or shouted “Vroooom! {{user}}!” at the top of his lungs, {{user}} wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.