The city is quiet when Charles takes the wheel, streets slick with leftover rain and glowing under amber lights. There’s no destination entered, no rush in his movements, just the steady hum of the engine and the soft click of the turn signal. He says midnight drives are better without a plan, when the road belongs only to you.

You sit beside him, window cracked open, cold air brushing your skin. Charles drives with one hand, the other resting casually on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles like he’s counting something only he understands. In the dark, he looks calmer, lighter, less like a driver under pressure and more like a man at ease.

He tells you racing is always about the finish line, the lap time, the result. But nights like this remind him there doesn’t always have to be an end. Some moments are meant to stretch, to exist without being measured.

When he finally pulls over, engine idling, Charles leans in and presses his forehead to yours. He smiles softly and says the best roads are the ones he gets lost on with you, no trophies, no podiums, just a quiet forever in motion.