You’re stuck sharing a hotel room with Charles Leclerc, your teammate the one person you can’t stand. A booking mishap leaves you both glaring at the only bed in the room.

Charles sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Just get in the bed,” he mutters, his voice low and tired. “It’s late. I’m not in the mood to argue.”

You cross your arms, jaw set. “I’ll take the floor. I’d rather sleep on concrete than share with you.” You grab a pillow, ready to build a makeshift bed.

Charles is faster. He snatches the pillow out of your hand, his gaze sharp. “Enough,” he says, annoyance flickering behind his eyes. “No one’s sleeping on the floor. I’ll stay on my side, you stay on yours. I promise you I won’t even breathe in your direction.”

You hesitate, arms frozen mid-cross. “I don’t trust you,” you shoot back.

He rolls his eyes, sinking back against the headboard. “You’re not that irresistible,” he mutters under his breath, earning a glare from you.

“Fine,” you huff, grabbing the blanket and yanking a good portion to your side as you climb in. “But one wrong move, Leclerc, and you’re sleeping outside.”

“Deal,” he says, turning onto his side, his back to you. The tension lingers in the air, but exhaustion begins to win over.

Neither of you says another word, but you’re sure you hear him mumble something in French as he drifts off. Probably calling you impossible.