Summary: The choice of a lifetime is yours to make, your husband and lover both longing for your heart. They face conflict, choices and most importantly, one another.

Word Count: 8.4K [& a bit more]

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and dishonesty, manipulation, hospital talk.

Note: The fact I was a newbie to F1Blr when this started and now...here we are. I want to thank each and EVERY person who has ever read this series. It's changed everything for me, it is truly my love letter to you all and I hope you enjoy the finale. You are all forever in my heart and I cannot thank you all enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: ‘You Think, You Know’ | PART 4: 'Love Will Always Show'

Love is a gentle hand cradling your back. 

Time had suspended when your body had collapsed onto the rough floor outside of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality. Immediately, several scarlet-clad personnel were running over, shouts echoing across the open space, somebody mumbling that they needed to get you somewhere safe and warm before your body temperature dropped dangerously. 

There’s a question of who to call; your father wasn’t in the country, ever since your mother’s funeral, he’s become silent, your siblings having been lovingly sent to stay with a close aunt. He had been absent from the previous Ferrari meeting, his assistant having sent a message to say he would be absent for a little longer. Clearly, the death of your mother was taking a toll. 

The next obvious choice of course, was your husband. However, with the win that he had been craving for oh-so-long, he was currently wrapped up in press, endless ‘congratulations’ messages from celebrities and presenters alike. Nobody would know where to find the monegasqué right now, let alone how to tell him of his wife’s status whilst surrounded by endless television cameras and sly reporters. 

There’s no need for him, anyway. Leaving the media pen after vigorous questioning of his loyalty to the team and his current emotions on a premature end to the race, Carlos’ dark eyes quirk to the side, registering the crowd of bodies circling the hospitality area. They only widen when the realization dawns on his clouded mind that it’s you, your body is the one thing they are all crowding around. 

His steps break into a run, no signal being given to his media manager nor his cousin. He speaks a few sharp, spanish words, creating a break in the circle, able to insert his toned body into the sea of red, immediately squatting, one hand coming out to elevate the back of your head. He knows how particular you could be with your hair, how you insisted on now sleeping on silk pillowcases to keep it healthy. Asphalt ground was not comfortable nor hygienic. 

There’s talk; talk about whether to take you to the hospital, whether to wait for your husband to return and make the decision. Carlos feels his blood curdle at the use of marital status. His teammate, the man who had treated you no better than the way he had treated bonds of trust, was the one to make a choice of your health and wellbeing. 

He simply cannot stand for that. 

“We need to take her to the hospital.” He interrupts the commotion, the strong tone settling over the panicked employees. “Surely that is the best place for her if she is unconscious, no?” The whispers and mumbles which echo the surrounding members of the team signify agreement. 

There’s a discussion of how to bring you in without drawing attention to the media. Surely, if a giant ambulance or even a medical car was to storm through the paddock, no doubt endless media outlets would be creating headlines before even bothering to speak to anybody present. The Spaniard is already making his own choice, using his arms to gently adjust your body.

He shouldn’t; he really shouldn’t be moving you, not when you haven’t been checked for broken bones or concussion. Yet, the idea of the most beautiful girl, Mariposa, lying on a hard floor with no form of comfort or safety sickens him to his stomach. Carlos is still gentle with the movements, letting your head lean into his stomach, one hand is supporting your back, tanned fingers digging gentle patterns into the curve of your skin. The other one traces once, twice, three times around your cheekbone, dark eyes transfixed on your features. 

You must have hit your skin when falling to the ground; there’s a graze dancing across your cheekbone, specks of dirt resting in between each knock. The man cradling you is gentle, moving his shirt just enough up his body that he’s able to take the hemmed end, feather it across your cheek in an attempt to remove the offending chunks. 

Someone nudges Carlos’s shoulder, more in an attempt to tell him somebody was just outside the Paddock; that they could drive you to the hospital right now. He…he can’t bring himself to leave you. A strong grasp lifts you from the ground, holding you close to his chest, murmuring that he would get you there, and he supposed somebody would have to find Charles. 

The area grows quiet; Carlos’ pace draws away from the Paddock and to the back entry. He was thankful that the entirety of the drivers were still either trapped in the media or with their own teams, celebrating or commiserating. He had enough of that for one day; an entire six laps was barely worth speaking about. 

You’re still unconscious, still limp in his arms. However, there’s a rise and fall of your chest, you’re still breathing. That’s all he could ask for at this present time. He silently promises himself there and then that when you wake up, he’s making his final move. Where Charles has been playing chequers, he is playing chess; he had proven that even whilst you were stuck with your estranged husband, he would love you regardless.

There’s a people carrier in the car park, he’s certain he’s seen various drivers use it before; a built-in stretcher lies in the back, it’s ideally a discreet ambulance. The media could be brutal with gossiping when any driver had to leave the track. It would look worse if Charles Leclerc’s wife was seen leaving the paddock with his teammate. The driver of the vehicle nods when seeing the two get closer, stepping to sit in the driver’s seat whilst Carlos adjusted his grasp. 

He lays you down onto the stretcher; it’s secured, you’ll be safe for the drive. The man can’t help but feel a draw of protectiveness over you. What on earth had caused it to collapse? Had he done something? Blood boiled, if your husband had done anything to cause this, he could personally guarantee that Charles would not be finishing any races for the remainder of the season. He would make sure of that. 

His attention is caught by the glimmer of silver on your left hand; your wedding band. When he reaches the car, tucks you into the seat carefully and makes sure the seatbelt is secure around your frame, his fingers glide over your hand, removing the band and putting it in his own pocket. 

‘It’s for your own good,’ he tells himself. ‘If your fingers swell up, they may need to cut it off.’ He could tell himself this story a thousand times; it doesn't hide the fact that his true intention in this moment is simple; for once, he could be the devoted husband, taking his wife to be nursed back to health. 

The Spainard leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring that you were going to be okay, that he would stay with you the entire time. The driver shouts, telling him to take a seat so they could get there before the press figured out something was wrong. He kisses your skin once more, before closing the doors, sprinting to the backseat, throwing his body in carelessly. 

Angst overtakes his senses, shouting at the driver to start the car, he doesn't care about being strapped in. This way, he’s able to lean over the backseat, one hand reaching out to clasp at your own. You need to know that somebody is there, that he is there for you. He’s always been there for you. The car pivots out of the parking space, beeling for the main road and to the hospital. 

Love is a scream for your name. 

“Charles, tu dois ralenir!” Joris is insisting he needs to slow down the car; turning the current Leclerc in hospital into a duo would not be a satisfying outcome. 

Ever since he’s been told, all your husband can see is red mist. One Ferrari employee had sprinted up to him whilst he was in the midst of cameras, the grin on his face as he’s finally able to seek his wife out, wanting nothing more than to skip on the Scuderia celebrations and take you instead, your beaming smile radiating the energy he had been bathed in. 

It’s funny how life can change in the matter of a few moments; one second, he’s on top of the world, the next, Charles is pushing through every media outlet, fan and celebrity, barging himself into his driver’s room. He doesn't have time to remove his fireproofs, to pick up any of his belongings apart from his car keys. He isn’t communicating, french profanities fall from his lips, shaking his head in rage that nobody could find him to tell him. Tell him that his wife had been taken to hospital. 

Joris had been the one to sprint after him; he knew better than most, when Charles saw nothing but mist, there was no getting to him, not whilst he was determined to do something. The driver knew in his heart his best friend was not to blame; after all, he had no idea of your disappearance, he had been with Charles almost the entire time. And yet…he can’t bring himself to even speak to Joris. Not until the duo make it to his rented car, Charles is adamant he is driving. 

He only starts speaking when his best friend tells him to slow down. The driver barely does, only drawing to a slower pace when he sees the traffic lights start to build in front of him. Even in a panic, he respects road rulings. Drawing to a stop, the man finally has a second to take a shaky, unbalanced breath, angry tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes. 

“Why did nobody tell me my wife was at the hospital?” His voice is strained, he’s clearly holding back tears, whether they’re angry or fearful is a different question. “She’s my- she’s my wife!” He can’t stop repeating it, as if it’s a prayer. His wife. His wife. 

“She’ll be okay.” Joris knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to his best friend, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say. “She will be. C’est juste par précaution.” 

“Putain!” Charles’ words are sharp, immediately pressing on the acceleration as the light switches to green, overtaking three cars in a matter of moments. He’s a man of regret, he has been ever since he realized how much he adores you. In that moment, he can’t help but think of everything he could have done differently that afternoon. He could have come and found you right after the podium, could have given you his jacket and told you to stay in his driver’s room, he would come and get you after. He could- he could of-

He could of waited with you after the funeral. He could have come and picked you up from Milan when you went to spend time with Carlos. He could have deleted his mistress’ number, and told her he was married. 

“Tourner à gauche.” Joris tells his best friend to turn left, the Hospital Car Park coming into view. Charles turns the car, immediately eyes are roaming for any space, anywhere he could put the car. A sharp whistle and point from his best friend shows him a space right by the Emergency Department, parking the vehicle in possibly the worst way he ever has done. Within three seconds, the engine is switched off, seatbelts are unbuckled, and he’s shouting to Joris to pay for the parking, he needs to get inside. 

For a driver, his sense of direction is becoming worse. It takes him a solid minute to read a sign, before his legs break into a sprint, skidding into a bustling Emergency Room. There’s old men, leant over in pain, convinced they’re dying. A child snuffling, masses of paper towels on her head. A woman with a twisted ankle, her attention engrossed by the magazine in her grasp. It smells of hand sanitiser and bleach, the yellow walls are hurting his eyes. 

A woman behind the desk taps the counter, drawing his attention. “Hey- Sir!” She snaps. You can’t blame her; it’s hour thirteen of her fifteen hour shift. “You can’t be in here unless you’re hurt-”

He shouts your name. It’s as if he completely forgets he’s in a building. Charles is embedded in a maze, even if a lady in front of him can pull up your immediate location, he needs to find you himself, and he needs to find you now. 

It isn’t until Joris comes in, having heard his best friend scream your name, that he overtakes Charles so overcome that he’s now hiding his head in his hands, unable to say anything that wasn’t your name. His ears prick up when the second man starts speaking, giving the woman your first name, your last name- Leclerc- and when you had been bought in. There’s a light tapping of the keyboard, she tells Joris you are in the department round the corner, room ten-

Charles is gone before she can finish her sentence, catapulting down the hallway, dodging round endless people, frantically searching for doors with numbers, not names. He sees the number four. Six. Eight. 

Number Ten rolls into view. Without a single word, his hand latches around the door handle, pushing so violently the door smacks onto the inside wall. His eyes immediately fly to the bed, you’re lying there, so unconscious, still so beautiful, some strips over the graze on your cheek. Still, arms to either side, one hand connected to an IV, clearly in an attempt to rehydrate you. His first question is the location of your wedding ring, where on earth was it? Has it been taken away? It’s a question he completely forgets about when his gaze travels further. 

The other hand is being held by a Spanish man he knows all too much about. 

Love is notes left on a coffee cup. 

Both men stood, silently hovering over your body whilst the nurse came in to run a course of tests, check your blood pressure, the IV line, make sure you were being cared for in the best capacity. Each held a coffee cup, Charles’ still primarily full, he couldn’t stomach anything; he felt sick from seeing you lie here, not laughing, smiling, speaking. Carlos had downed the drink bought in by Joris in a matter of moments; to him, it was fuel. Something to keep him awake until you woke up. 

Whilst Charles was the one to ask questions; ‘Do you know what caused this? Is she going to have any long-term issues? Does she need any assistance when she wakes up?’ Carlos has captured the marker which has rested alongside the clipboard of your notes, his tongue poked out in concentration. The marker grazes along the cup, leaving a note, drawing a tiny picture of a butterfly- Mariposa- and placing the cup on your table, a silent message for if you woke up and god forbid- he wasn’t there.

The nurse draws away from your body, diverting her next task to the two men. 

“I need to continue the examination but…” She looks to the door. “I cannot have you both in here. You need to wait outside, the Doctor will come in for further tests-”

“Can one of us wait here?” Carlos is the first to interrupt, the look on the woman’s face tells him he’s made a mistake. 

“Both.” She clarifies, pointing at himself, then at his teammate. “One and two. You need to wait outside. If she wakes up or there’s any…issues, we will let you know.” 

It turns out, both men are hesitant to leave you; Charles moves first, crouching by your side, running a gentle hand over your hairline, pressing his lips carefully to your temple. He’s murmuring, french words of adoration and comfort, that he will be right there when you need him. 

When one steps away, the other comes forward. Carlos doesn't say anything, instead tracing a gentle finger across your cheek. His touch tells you everything, it speaks volumes. He loves you, he’ll be outside, don’t be afraid to come running into his arms like you had done once before. The nurse begins to lose her patience, ushering both men out into the corridor, telling them to sit in the plastic chairs provided or go somewhere else; she really didn’t care. 

The scene is reminiscent of two boys sitting outside of the principal’s office; Charles’ head hides in his hands, leaning forward, still dressed in his fireproofs. He’s tied the sleeves around his waist, the dark undershirt now drenched in sweat from the driving, both on track and to the hospital. 

He feels movement next to him, Carlos’ hand dips into his pocket, pulling out something small, silvery. Her wedding ring. He supposes Carlos means it as a sign of goodwill, that he kept it safe. In the Monégasques mind, it’s the fuel to light the fire. Scoffing, he snatches the jewelry off of his teammate, placing the band onto his pinky finger, it’s the only one it would fit on, the only way he could keep it safe. 

“Funny. You took it off her.” He’s growing mad, aggravated that Carlos wouldn’t just go away and leave him and his wife alone. Hadn’t he done enough already? “Why don’t you go back to Natasha?” The blonde ex-media woman for their team is referenced. Carlos opens his mouth, ready to snap back, it was a low blow for Charles to reference his history with the woman. 

“I know what you did.” He huffs. There’s something…different. Different in the way he speaks to Carlos now compared to every other day. The polite, civil conversation is gone, the fact he couldn’t pass judgment because of his own actions has evaporated. “I know you invited her to Madrid just to make a move.” He remembers seeing the instagram stories, how your eyes were wide, full of life. He made you remember life is beautiful. “You kept her close. You wanted her and didn’t like that she was mine.” 

“Yours?” He scoffs. “She’s not your property, Charles.” 

“No. But she’s my wife. I’m the one she lies next to every night, I’m the one who will care for her in sickness and health, who’s shoulder was leant on through every bad time.” He pauses. “Who picked her up after you coaxed her into your bed.” He laughs. Actually, laughs. The memory replayed in his head, how sleepy you looked as he guided you back into the SUV, how your heart sank when seeing the blonde approach his front door. In that moment, you had convinced yourself you meant nothing to Carlos apart from lust. 

Charles was a jealous man; he had taken pride in stripping off his teammates' clothing, wrapping you in his own, soft hoodie. You were his. Carlos wouldn’t care for you the way he did, he was a man too full of lust. He was convinced the Spainard didn’t make you laugh, didn’t make you smile, didn’t make you come- 

“You corrupted her, Carlos.” He finishes. “I know what you did-”

“-And I know what you did.” Carlos snarls. He doesn't care about anything more; he knows all too well that his teammate could go crying to the Ferrari bosses, have him removed from the team in a blink of an eye, throwing some false information out which he would have to comply with. But he doesn't care. His affection has grown too strong for that. 

“I know everything, Charles.” He’s monotone, he’s stating facts. “I know how she waited at home for you on her birthday, whilst you were in your mistress’ bed.” Carlos remembers asking you about your plans the previous week, how you had brushed them off. “I know how she made you dinner every night, how you refused to eat it.” Charles feels his stomach drop, the endless leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, the meals he had never bothered to try. “I know on your wedding night, you came into the hotel room drunk, covered in bites and she slept on the sofa-”

“Enough!” Charles’ voice shouts, standing up from the plastic chair in the corridor. He doesn't have to hear this, he can’t bear to hear this. One mistake a day was something he was always able to brush off. Hearing each and every one of his infidelities laid out in front of him sent his mind into overdrive. “You have no right to comment on-”

“On what?” The Spainard is standing up now, chest out and arms folded. “On your marriage?” He laughs, he smirks. “Can you call it that? A marriage is a bond between two people who love one another-”

“I love her!” Charles cuts him off, stepping closer. “I love her.” He repeats himself. Carlos looks gobsmacked, shaking his head in denial. 

“You have a really weird way of showing her you love her.” He continues to poke, to prod. “Sharing a bed with another woman is not how you show love-”

“I admitted to my mistakes!” He’s quick to defend himself, how the restraining order was placed and a lawsuit filed, how he promised if you wanted to know anything, see anything, he would let you. How he would spend the rest of his days always feeling dread and regret. “I fixed them-”

“Who says she still loves you?” Carlos has snapped.

Charles hates to admit that he may be right. Is it really fair for him to expect your love after everything that has happened in the past year? It didn’t matter how many times he begged, he pleaded or promised. The man you had married had spent the better part of 365 days in the arms of another woman, a woman that as he stood here, clinging onto any hope of his marriage, meant absolutely nothing to him. 

His slim fingers trail down, circling the cool band which rested on his left finger. He had decided there and then, he would keep it on, always. There would be no more reasoning, none. If Lewis could wear his earrings, Charles would wear his wedding ring. He looks back up, Carlos still boring into him with dark eyes, the anger he radiated almost entirely visible. 

“Do you love her?” He presses. He needs to know; he doesn't bring himself to care that you had spent a night in his arms, not when he had done it to you a thousand times over. The idea makes him sick, but nothing compared to the idea that you are in love with somebody that isn’t him, not when he needs nothing but for you to come home, back to your home with him. 

Charles swears he feels vomit rise into his mouth when Carlos nods. He’s not stupid, not really. He knows how he fell for you properly in the past few weeks, how for Carlos who has been in awe of your affection and attention, the center of every race weekend you had reluctantly attended. It may have been to support him, but you could still enjoy the fact that Carlos would be there, too. 

Your husband isn’t sure what he wants to do anymore. If there wasn’t an examination happening, he would have run into your private room and locked the door. Instead, his glassy eyes gaze up, catching Carlos’ dark ones. It hits him at once; his teammate, somebody who he once considered a close- no, best friend, was the one who had taken his wife away from him. His brain can’t catch up with his body movements, the red mist clouds over once more. 

Charles Leclerc punches Carlos Sainz in the nose. 

He doesn't intend for it to be a strong punch; Formula One drivers are a lot stronger than they realize, and the contact not only causes the Spaniard to knock back, shouting out in pain, but a sharp sensation rockets through Charles’ clenched fist, wiggling his fingers as they relax. Carlos’ nose is immediately red, becoming scarlet by the moment, though no blood has fallen. Your husband’s immediate reaction is ‘Should have punched him harder.’

He doesn't have time to think about anything else, not before he has two strong hands on his chest, shoving him harshly. The sudden sensation causes him to lose balance, falling to the floor and landing on his back. A shock radiates through his body, Carlos looming over him, clearly ready for a second punch. 

That thought is drawn away when the door to your room opens, both men immediately staring at the nurse, her hair worn and eyes tired. Before either man can throw a question at her, she speaks. 

“She’s still not awake, we’re going to bring her around in an hour, but she’s going to have to stay overnight for observation. If one of you could get her some overnight things-”

“I can.” Charles immediately cuts off the nurse, pulling himself to sit up and stand from the floor. “I’m her husband. I will get them.” It’s a subtle jab to the man in front of him, Carlos still holding his nose, convinced it was about to start bleeding any moment. He would have gone and sought out attention for himself, if he hadn’t felt a sharp vibration in his back pocket, a phone call. In any other time, he would have ignored it. But he knows who it is, he knows how important it is. 

Without a word, Carlos answers the call, rapidly speaking in Spanish as he walks down the hall. 

Love is a pocket square at the bottom of a suitcase.

The contrast of Charles leaving the hospital was night and day to him arriving. He hadn’t spoken a word to Joris, apart from expressing that he needed to go back to the hotel to get your overnight items. Although it was barely a ten minute drive away, every minute felt like a century; he wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit by your side and hold your hand until you woke up. 

He could have sent Joris back, given him the room key and told him to grab some things, but it didn’t seem right. The idea of his best friend going through your suitcase didn’t sit comfortably with him. Moreover, he didn’t know. Charles knew; he knew what pajamas you found the most comfortable, what outfit would be easiest for you to travel back in, how you wanted your panties and socks paired together and how your phone charger had to loop clockwise. 

The ornate hotel room looks dull without you; your suitcase still rests in the bottom of the wardrobe; you had hung up evening wear, dresses for the inevitable after-parties. Folded in your suitcase remained your other clothing. Charles is quick to select his items; the tropical cotton pajamas. You had bought him a pair in the same fabric, telling him that they would be the comfiest thing to sleep in. Your stitched jumper and comfiest jeans. You had worn those jeans when you had tagged along to his photoshoot for the Ferrari livery, holding his water and the APM Monaco jewelry he couldn’t wear. Your outrageously expensive hairbrush. You had brushed his hair through after a particularly bad race, whispering promises that it would get better, that the car was going to evolve for him, the best driver on the grid. 

Bile rises to Charles’ stomach and with no warning, he sprints to the bathroom, dropping to his knees by the toilet and throwing up the barely-there contents of his stomach. He had barely eaten, barely drank any water, but couldn’t help the sickness in his tummy. 

He pulls away from the toilet basin, eyes watery, breath trying to catch up with the speed and cries.

Charles doesn't realize it’s happening at first, he hasn’t cried like this in so long; the kind of crying where you can’t fathom words, you don’t make a sound because you’re crying so deeply. The kind where your chest is exploding and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The kind where all he wants is for his mother to cradle him like she did when he was five, run her hands through his hair and whisper him words of comfort.

This time, he doesn't want his mother, he wants you. 

It’s selfish, it’s so incredibly selfish and it hurts to know that it’s taken him until now to realize what you mean to him. It would never happen, but his wound-up head can only close his eyes and visualize you running in, pulling his head into your chest and running your hands through his dark tufts, pressing cool lips to his forehead and promising him over and over that it was going to be okay. You were going to be okay. 

He lets himself cry for five minutes; he times it because he wants to collect your things and make his way back, Joris was waiting in the car. When the five minutes are over, he pinches his nose, taking short, ugly gasps until his eyes remain bloodshot but not blurred. The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the hotel room, making his way out of the bathroom and to the items he had hurriedly dropped atop of your suitcase.

Nimble fingers cradle each item, carefully rolling and tucking them into a pillowcase; he didn’t have a bag big enough to suffice each item and couldn’t bring himself to bring your entire suitcase along, it almost seemed as if once you had it, you could disappear from his life. At least this way, he could have one final farewell if you chose to leave. The items are almost secure, until his grip on the pillowcase folds, glassed eyes catching a glimmer of blue hidden at the bottom of the case. With no hesitation, he pulls on the fabric. His heart drops on the realization of the item. 

It’s a pocket square. More specifically, it’s his pocket square from your wedding. 

You don’t know when you had started packing it, but you supposed it was from your mother’s own doings. After her wedding to your father, she had always carried around her ‘something blue,’ as a gesture of good luck, of safety. After the first time you had found out about Charles’ mistress, you had discreetly tucked the fabric into your bag, carrying it around, a silent hope your husband would return to you. 

It hadn’t worked in Jeddah. In Imola. In Spa. In Monaco. You had reluctantly taken it from your bag one evening, on the plane home from consoling your family, using your pen to doodle in the very corner ‘Mr and Mrs Leclerc,’ a silent fantasy of the loving marriage you had dreamed of. 

That night was the first time you and Charles ever shared a bed. 

The fabric lingers between his fingers, the blue contrasting against the silver of your ring, still resting on his pinky finger. Now changed into his own clothes, he slides the ring off, wrapping it gently in the pocket square and sliding it into his trouser pocket. As he does, he recognises your handwriting, the titles printed in the bottom of the fabric. 

He can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks once again. 

Love is a desperate telephone call.

Carlos is still pacing around the outside courtyard of the hospital, having been on hold for a grand total of seventeen minutes. He is not a man of patience, he is not a man of quiet. 

The phone buzzing in the corridor had been a welcome call, despite the situation. His lawyer, finally ringing him back after what felt like days of apprehension. He had dipped from the public eye to try and grab hold of some privacy, slipping in his wireless headphone so as not to hold the device to his ear for hours upon hours. 

Almost thirty minutes ago, his lawyer had called him, confirming his thoughts of the previous days. 

"You're not wrong." His lawyer has already clarified it once, twice, three times. "If there is evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is the correct term for a divorce.

Carlos feels his blood run cold. He loves her, he's as certain as that as he is of the fact that the sky is blue and his win in Silverstone. The man wants nothing more than to make her feel cherished, adored. Taking a bite out of his teammate was just a bonus feature. 

That had been a few days ago, when the anger had surpassed him after Natasha’s return, how that made him look as bad, if not worse than Charles. He’d immediately sent her packing, blocked her on every form of media, gone as far as to insist if she ever came for a visit, he wouldn’t be present. 

The second part, the evidence, had been laid out all too perfectly. 

The line suddenly clicks, signaling his lawyer had returned. Carlos doesn't wait for a verbal queue, the audible sign of his return is more than enough. 

 “Do you have it?” He asks, barely any time to let the man on the other end of the phone respond. “You must have it, no? It should have been sent. I made sure it was sent.”

“I have it.” He clarifies. “I have them right here.” A rustle of paper is heard from the other end of the telephone, content of an envelope being spilled onto his desk. “Are you sure you want me to send these to be confirmed as evidence? That the women in the photographs will not retaliate?”

Carlos had not been entirely honest with you. Not about his knowledge of Charles’ situation. Ever since the confession all those months ago, the understanding that you knew of Charles’ affair, he had been playing a long, patient game. He had photographs, evidence of the mistress’ appearance at each paddock, her arms snaking around Charles’ body, kisses between the duo. How he could continue to do so, whilst you, the epitome of beauty, sat in his drivers’ room, playing the doting wife.  At one point, he had considered going directly to the press, directly to Ferrari themselves to out their ‘Golden Boy.’ 

And then…he had seen you with him in the Paddock that one race, looking through the window of his driver’s room. How your fingers latched onto one another, how genuinely shattered you looked when she had shown up yet again, lingering outside of the hospitality area. The guilt snuck through him, how he had seen her arrive, and yet failed to mention to you, give you any warning of her presence. 

Even if he had been the one to invite her. Even if he had been the one to press her about sending the photographs to Charles, not blackmail. Merely a reminder of his actions, how much he supposedly missed his mistress. 

“She wouldn’t.” He’s quick to respond. “She wouldn’t care.” He’s not wrong, his mistress being in the limelight would only elevate her status, with the way his teammates’ brain worked, it would more than likely draw them back to one another. 

“And Mrs. Leclerc?” 

It’s the first time Carlos has hesitated. Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he knew that your relationship with Charles had grown, that ambient it was made paper-thin, the trust was slowly beginning to come back. He thinks about how your eyes blinked widely, in awe of your husband on the podium earlier that day, how it supposedly didn’t matter he had spent most of your marriage wrapped in her arms, you still looked at him like that. Did you look at him like that? Like the way he looked at you. 

This action could draw out a multiverse of reactions but at the end of the day, he had settled with two. The first was that you understood, that you would see the evidence, and understand the case. Divorce Charles and marry him, even if it meant he would give up everything. 

The second is that you would see the chaos he caused and you would never speak to him again. 

“Mr. Sainz?” The voice at the end of the telephone draws him from his questioning, running a hand across his red, swollen nose. It wasn’t broken, but god it was hurting. Bruised, most likely. “I need an answer.” 

He needed to speak to you. 

“Can you just-” He huffs, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers almost getting caught in the strands. Of course his hair was tangled, he’d been doing nothing but pulling on it ever since he arrived at the hospital. “Let me speak to her. Hold it for 24 hours. You can do that, yes?” It’s not even a question now, nor a request. It’s a demand. He can’t do this, he can’t openly destroy your marriage for his own sake without speaking to you, without knowing for a fact that you love him.

Your name is carved onto his soul, onto his skin. The first thing he thinks about in the morning, and the last thing he would think about at night. There is no life he wishes to live in if you’re not there. Even as his friend. 

There’s suddenly a light tap against glass, snapping the man’s attention from his device. He mumbles something in Spanish, telling his lawyer he would call him back, dreading who was coming out into the private courtyard. 

He visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just a man, sneaking out whilst tears pool on his lower lashline, giving Carlos a warming nod. 

“You don’t mind if I join you, do I?” The Spainard shakes his head. “My wife- she’s just being induced and wanted some space. She’s…” He gestures, trying to explain to a complete stranger how a few minutes ago, his wife wanted to cry and shake her head, but wanted nothing to do with him. It was all his fault. 

Carlos offers a warm hand on his back, patting him firmly. “Congratulations. Do you know what you're having?” He’s invested, anything to distract him from his previous phone call, the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

The stranger grins. “A girl.” He smiles harder. “I don’t mind, as long as they arrive happy and healthy. But god- a girl, just like her.” He thinks. Carlos thinks. In an alternative universe, he’s sat by your side, pressing kisses and praises to your skin, holding you tighter as your daughter enters the world, ready to meet her mother and father. She would be like you; your eyes, hair, smile. It would be another you to love, to adore. 

“Your first?” Carlos presses his question. The man sighs, shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks into the polished corridor. 

“No. She’s…” He pauses. “We got together after hiding how we felt for so long, how we wanted to be with one another.” He looks to Carlos, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of the situation. “I know how it sounds, but sometimes you can’t help it. I- I love her.” 

A band snaps in Carlos’ stomach; love knows no bounds. 

Love is waking up to think of your person.

The first thing you register when you come around is brightness. You’re not in the soft glow of the luxurious hotel room you and your husband had been given, nor the candle-lit bedroom of Carlos’ apartment. No, the light is bright, blinding. An off-white which made your eyes squint. 

Your senses are heightened; the only scent which flares through your nostrils is hand sanitiser and overpowering lilies. Nose scrunched, you attempt to wiggle your body upwards, aware of the IV line pinned into your hand. Panic immediately settled through your tummy, until your eyes flickered to the bag, realizing it was just water, they just wanted to rehydrate you. 

Hesitantly, you wiggle each part of your body. Arms, hands, fingers. You’re able to move, though you couldn’t…you couldn’t remember why you got here. Memories are hazy, you remember Charles’ podium, the way he kissed you so deeply, so lovingly. Carlos’ hand on your waist, pulling you back to stop you from the champagne trickling over your body. You were overwhelmed, overworked and…you guessed it just all became too much. 

You just about manage to turn your body, the first thing you’re aware of is that your cushion smells familiar. Warm nodes, sandalwood and seasalt. It’s a smell you’ve grown all too accustomed to, burying your face into their chest whilst you took refuge in his arms, in a hotel room. Charles had been there, already. His celebrations had clearly been cut short, whether or not it was for show or because he cared. 

The second thing is the coffee cup. Cardboard, the contents clearly already drained, but handwriting etched onto the side in a thick, black marker. The handwriting, the doodle of a tiny butterfly. Carlos had been there, too. 

There’s a sharp pinch on your cheek, fingers reach up to your skin and feel the butterfly strips against you. Immediately, a thousand questions come back to your mind, none of them being answered through your own memory. Instead, the door opens, a nurse in clean, bright uniform walking in, closing the door behind her. She beams at the realization you’re awake, shoulders relaxing. 

“You’re awake!” Her tone is incredibly warm, seemingly very happy you’ve decided to wake up on your own terms. She’s quick to move to your bedside, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling? Have you warmed up?” You’re not sure what she’s referencing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the look on your face as unknowingness, able to fill in the gaps. 

“You collapsed on the track.” She’s trying to get through everything she needs to tell you. “We did some tests, you’re incredibly dehydrated for a start, you need to try and get some rest.” She pauses. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, we have collapses from dehydration every so often, more than you would realize.” Her eyes flicker down, finding it hard on how to phrase the next part of the question. “You also seem…incredibly worried.” You’re not sure how she could tell that from simply examining you, but you nod in confirmation. “Your blood pressure, it’s incredibly low. That’s why you fainted.”

“Yes.” You pause. How on earth were you about to explain the past twelve months to a nurse, a complete stranger? “There’s been some…reasons. You know, for the stress.” Her eyes soften, but the questioning continues. 

“Are you trying for a baby?” You shake your head. “Moving house?” A shake. “Have you…lost somebody recently.” 

You freeze, memory flickering to your mother, how in the midst of fixing your marriage, discovering your affection towards another, she had disappeared from the world. This time, you nod your head, drawing your knees up to your body, shivering. The nurse is quick to wrap a blanket over your shoulders, closer to the answer. 

“I lost my mother.” You breathe out, shaking your head. “I lost my mother, and she’s the only one I can go to.” Now you’ve started speaking, you can’t finish. “I want to make them happy. I want to make him happy.” There’s tears glassing over your eyes.

You want him. You want him right now. 

She sympathizes, she understands. “Sometimes, all you need is for them to tell you it’s going to be okay, right?” She lets her words trail off, turning to the door of your room. “He’s outside. He’s been waiting to see you.”

Your blood freezes.

“Would you like me to get him?” 

You nod before you’ve even realized, your body clearly knows better than your mind. The nurse stands up straight, pacing towards the door as you feel your heart begin to race harder, frantically. She steps out of the room, a minute mumble on the other side, clearly a warning to be incredibly careful. It’s barely a minute before the door swings back open, dark hair and frantic panting. 

You glance up, your heart softens at those eyes. 

The eyes that you, the reader, wanted to see as you glanced to the door.

GREEN EYES [CL16 Ending]

BROWN EYES [CS55 Ending]

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover@barnestatic@omgsuperstarg@chimchimjiminie16@caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog@junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt@crowdthena@screemqueen@lewislvr@styles-sunflower@itspaddockprincess@adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins@formulanando@lorarri@christianpulisic10@gaypoetsblog@thisbitxhs-blog@goldsainz@ru-kru@magical-spit@hrlzy@nooshytushie@gaslysainz@marvel-at-stucky@sugarvibez@adeptustemptations@roseseraj@leclercdream@pjofics@hecatesfavoritechild@poseforme@thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19@heavenlyiecreature@pink-teddy-bear@nooshytushie@strawberries-and-racing@milasexutoire@ohthemisssery@florkt@obsessedwiththeideaofyou@ru-kru@myhomeworksnotdone@ineedafictionalman@bregarc@allywthsr@summerslike11@wildcupcake@willowpains@marlenamallowan@leclercloml@katzenwahnsinn@be-your-coffee-pot

currently writing for steve rogers and bucky barnes primarily, but have also written for ransom drysdale and august walker (that fic is on my ao3). may write for other chris evans, sebastian stan and henry cavill characters in the future. am open to requests but i'm a mood writer so no guarantees i'll ever fill it!

disclaimer: a lot of my works contain 18+ content, minors please do not interact! some works have dark themes like dub-con, so please proceed with caution—there are full content warning lists on each fic. all reader inserts are fem but i try to be as inclusive as possible.

✑ ao3

✮𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭✮

Rules here!

About Me here!

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House of The Dragon: Daemon Targaryen ⤸

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬; Prologue, Ch. I, Ch. II, Ch. III, Ch. IV, Ch. V, Ch. VI, Ch. VII, Ch. VIII , Ch. IX, Ch. X, Ch. XI, Ch. XII, To be continued….

𝐌𝐲 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮 || 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 ‘𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬’ here!

𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐈 𝐀𝐦? || 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 ‘𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬’ here!

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 || 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 ‘𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬’ here!

𝐌𝐞? 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧? || 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 ‘𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬’ here!

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The Originals/The Vampire Diaries: Elijah Mikaelson ⤸

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫; Prologue, Ch. I, To be continued…

Maleficent Mistress of Evil: Udo ⤸

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝; Prologue, To be continued…

(no comment on my last two….just shhh) that’s it for my masterlist! there will be more in the future! <3