Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

Charles doesn’t have a guest room in his apartment.

I realize this the second I step inside.

The place is spacious, modern, and annoyingly well-decorated—clean lines, neutral tones, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. It screams I have money but I’m effortlessly cool about it. But there’s one crucial thing missing: an extra bedroom.

I turn to him, arms crossing over my chest. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, dropping his keys onto the sleek marble counter. “I don’t usually have guests.”

I exhale sharply. “Then where exactly am I supposed to sleep?”

Charles gestures toward the oversized L-shaped couch in the living room. “It’s comfortable.”

I stare at it, unimpressed. “You expect me to sleep on that?”

“It’s a very expensive couch,” he deadpans. “I’d say it’s an upgrade from your car.”

I narrow my eyes. “And what about you?”

“I’ll take my bed.”

I scoff. “Of course you will.”

Charles smirks, unbothered. “Do you want the bed?”

“No.” I say it too quickly.

His smirk deepens, like he’s entertained by how defensive I sound.

I glare. “I don’t.”

“Okay.” He lifts his hands in surrender. “The couch is yours.”

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. This entire night has been a mess, and now I’m standing in Charles Leclerc’s stupidly nice apartment, about to sleep on his stupidly expensive couch, because my stupid sister decided to disappear with some guy.

I need sleep.

I toe off my shoes and make my way to the couch, grabbing one of the plush throw pillows to set up a makeshift bed. Charles watches me for a second before disappearing into his bedroom.

A moment later, he returns with a blanket, tossing it onto the couch next to me.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

He leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “Do you need anything else?”

“For you to stop staring at me like I might rob the place.”

He chuckles. “Noted.”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence where neither of us really knows what to say.

Then, finally, he nods toward his room. “Goodnight, Amy.”

I hesitate before responding. “Goodnight, Charles.”

He disappears, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the quiet hum of the city outside.

I lay down, staring at the ceiling.

____

I don’t know how long I lay there, staring at the ceiling, but it’s clear I’m not going to sleep anytime soon.

The apartment is too quiet. Too unfamiliar.

I close my eyes, trying to block it out.

And then I hear it.

Footsteps.

They’re quiet but deliberate, moving through the dimly lit apartment. A moment later, I see Charles emerge from the hallway, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his hair messier than usual.