Finally. Summer vacation. Beach, parties, drinks, travel—no more studying, no more responsibilities. Just rest. You had just stepped into your hotel in Spain, heart fluttering with excitement for the days ahead. The sun was already shining through the balcony glass at 6 a.m. Dropping to the floor to unpack, you reached for your main suitcase. But the moment your hand touched the handle, your smile vanished.

Men’s clothes? Cologne? Sneakers two sizes too big? Your brows furrowed.

“What the hell—this isn’t mine,” you muttered, your excitement quickly turning into confusion. Standing up abruptly, you stared at the bag. “Who would mix up two suitcases without checking the name tag?!”

Right on cue, your phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number. You answered sharply.

“Who is it?”

A man’s voice, slightly breathless: “Hi...uh...is this {{user}}?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, it is. Why?”

A sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God! My bag is with you.”

Your jaw clenched. “So you’re the one who mixed them up!”

“I know, I know, I was in a rush"

Later…

You rolled the suitcase behind you, a RIMOWA Silver Trunk Plus. Only now you noticed—yours had been a plain grey one. This… this was expensive. You were ready to let the guy have it. But then you looked up. Grey sweatpants, relaxed T-shirt, crisp white sneakers. Headphones rested around his neck, and his brown hair was tousled like he’d just run a hand through it. Glasses framed his face—but not enough to hide those striking, familiar features.

You blinked.

Charles Leclerc. Of course it had to be him. And suddenly… you weren’t so mad anymore.