crashing quietly | c.l.

Charles' POV

The second the door clicked shut, the silence hit harder than the noise outside.

It was cooler in here. Still. A little too bright. The backroom of Soleil wasn't meant for people. It was for backup. Overflow. Emergency storage. Spare crates of wine and more bottles of bitters than anyone realistically needed.

He stood near the wall, arms folded, eyes on the door like he might be able to see through it.

Cara hadn't said much.

Just, "Come with me." No softness. No explanation.

She didn't look at him after she shut the door. Didn't wait for thanks.

He hadn't expected her to.

And still—she did it. She moved. She protected him.

Even now, that part of him—so used to being recognized, picked apart, pointed at—was waiting for the fallout. The lecture. The look.

It didn't come.

Instead, Carlos found the unopened bottle of something dark and expensive on the shelf and poured four glasses like this was just another post-qualifying cool-down.

Lando kicked off his shoes like he lived here.

Pierre was already texting someone. Probably a bad decision.

But Charles just stood there.

"Man, that was intense," Lando muttered, leaning back on a stack of crates like it was a beanbag chair. "That one guy was way too excited."

"She handled it," Carlos said. Quiet. Like he was impressed.

"She always does," Charles said before he could stop himself.

Pierre looked up. "So... you told her yet?"

Charles didn't answer.

Pierre rolled his eyes. "Bro. She pulled us into a backroom like some kind of indie film heroine. If she doesn't already know who you are, she at least knows you're not just a guy."

"She knows," Charles muttered. "Now."

Lando, sipping his whiskey: "And how'd that go?"

Charles didn't respond.

It hadn't gone. Not yet.

Because what could he say?

Hi, I'm Charles. I've been lying by omission and emotionally loitering in your café. Also I drive cars for a living and millions of people know my name, but I only care that you didn't.

He leaned against the wall, shoulders tense.

"She brought us here," he said quietly. "That means something."

Pierre raised an eyebrow. "Or she just didn't want your face trending on TikTok for the wrong reason."

Charles gave him a look.

Lando, in a rare moment of not being loud: "You like her."

Charles didn't say anything. Which was enough of an answer.

Carlos tilted his glass toward him. "Then tell her."

Charles shook his head. "Not like this."

It was too soon.
Too messy.
Too... real.

And she was still out there, running the bar, acting like the ground hadn't shifted.

And for once, he didn't know how to fix something that wasn't on a track.

He looked at the door again.

Still closed.

He didn't know if she'd open it again.

The door opened again.

He looked up instantly.

Cara stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind her with a calmness that did not match the storm in her eyes.

The bar outside was mostly empty now—he could hear chairs being stacked, music cut off mid-song, the quiet hum of end-of-night clean-up. But in here? The air went still.

She didn't speak right away. Just looked around the room like she was trying to figure out which one of them to start with.

Pierre raised both hands, amused. "If this is about me, I'd like to point out that I was mostly respectful."

"You flirted with a whiskey glass," Carlos said under his breath.

"I flirt with everything."

"Guys," Lando cut in. "Not the time."

Cara crossed her arms, eyes landing on Charles.

"So," she said, voice calm but loaded, "just to clarify—you're all Formula 1 drivers?"

No one moved.

Lando cleared his throat. "Technically yes."

"Like... the kind with the cars and the podiums and the champagne?"

"Also crashes and chaos," Pierre added helpfully.

Cara stared at Charles.

He nodded once. "Yes."

She exhaled. "Cool. Love that for me."

Carlos stepped forward a bit. "Look, we didn't mean to ambush you. We were just coming to hang out after the race. Charles said this place was quiet. Safe."

Her eyes flicked to him. "It was."

Ouch.

"Cara," Charles said gently, "I didn't lie."

"You didn't tell the truth either," she replied, sharp and quiet.

That hit harder than anything else.

Lando, bless his chaotic heart, tried to save it.

"So—George just texted. He's at this rooftop club down the hill, and honestly, I think we've worn out our welcome here, so..."

Pierre perked up. "Do they have bottle service?"

Carlos rolled his eyes. "We're going to apologize with shots and bad dancing. Come on."

They filed out one by one, muttering thanks and promises to "not be weird next time," leaving Charles standing alone in the room with her.

She didn't say anything.

He didn't move.

The silence stretched.

"I didn't want to ruin this place," he said finally.

"You didn't," she said, brushing past him. "You just changed it."

The door clicked shut behind her.

And for the first time in weeks, the backroom felt cold.

//

okeyy

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