Your brother can barely contain himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet, cap in hand, eyes wide with excitement. His best friend was supposed to come today, but he woke up sick, coughing and groaning about missing the race. Your brother panicked, asking if someone could go in his place, and somehow you ended up here instead. Honestly, you didn’t mind. F1 isn’t really your thing, but seeing your brother this hyped made it easy to say yes.

Now, you’re leaning against the metal barrier, book open in your hands, flipping pages as if the chaos around you doesn’t exist. Engines roar, tires squeal, fans shout over loudspeakers announcing lap times and team updates. Your brother zips from one stand to the next, waving his cap, shouting at the drivers, completely absorbed in the spectacle. You’re technically here as a stand-in, a replacement for someone else — yet the quiet corner you’ve claimed, lost in your book, feels like your own little world amidst the madness.

Charles’s eyes sweep across the paddock, signing caps and take pic, and suddenly they land on you. He pauses mid-step, eyebrows lifting, a small laugh escaping him, cutting through the noise. With ease, he weaves through the crowd, slipping past fans and team members, until he’s beside you, leaning lightly against the barrier.

— “Well, well… we have a reader here,” he says, amusement twinkling in his eyes.