crashing quietly | c.l.

Charles' POV

Spain was loud.

Sun, drinks, grilled food at midnight. The guys argued about pool floaties like it was a strategy meeting. Pierre tried to DJ. Lando wore shorts that were offensively small. Daniel bought a speaker that kept dying mid-song. Carmen and Alba organized group cardio yoga. Max refused to participate and sat under an umbrella like a judgmental cat.

It was everything a summer break should be.
And Charles was absolutely losing it.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.
Just... quietly.

He laughed. He swam. He raced Oscar down the beach once.
But when his phone buzzed, he checked it too fast.
Every time.
Every. Damn. Time.

Because she wasn't there.
Cara.

⸻

She texted. Not a lot. But enough to keep the thread barely alive.

Cara:
A guy asked me today if your "energy" is real or just for the cameras.
I told him it's 70% real, 30% espresso.

Charles:
I'm honored. And slightly offended.
Also I miss your coffee. And possibly your face. But mostly the coffee.

She left that one on read for four hours.

When she replied-

Don't get too soft, Leclerc. I'll have to ban you.

He smiled for, like, an hour.

⸻

The others noticed. Of course they did.

Carlos: "You've checked your phone more than your lap times this season."
Max: "You're texting like a teenager."
Daniel: "Want me to fly her in? I have airline miles and emotional range."

Charles said nothing.
Just looked at the sea and texted:

Charles:
How's Soleil? Still standing?

Cara:
Barely. We had three tourists ask for the "Leclerc Latte." I considered arson.

Charles:
You love me.

Cara:
I love quiet cafés. You've ruined everything.

Charles:
You're dodging the question.

No reply.

⸻

That night, after dinner, wine, and Pierre almost setting the outdoor couch on fire with a citronella candle, Charles ended up alone on the balcony.

It was past midnight. Sea breeze. The kind of warm that didn't need fixing.

He pulled out his phone.
Scrolled to her name.
Hesitated.
Then hit FaceTime.

⸻

Cara's POV

She was already in bed.

Hair in a bun. One sock on. Laptop open beside her playing a half-watched movie she wasn't paying attention to.

When her phone lit up-Charles Leclerc calling-her stomach did something stupid.
Of course it did.

She stared at the screen.
Then picked up.

⸻

His face filled the screen-messy hair, hoodie, the moonlight painting him in silver and soft shadows.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said, trying not to smile.

"You busy?"

"Obviously. I'm watching Pride and Prejudice and judging your fans."

He grinned. "You look tired."

"I've been dealing with espresso bros who think latte art is flirting."

"I could fly in. Handle it."

She rolled her eyes. "You'd make it worse."

They didn't say anything for a few seconds.

He looked down. Then up again. "I wish you were here."

Silence.

She hated how much she liked hearing that.

"I know," she said softly.

He rested his head on the pillow. "Max is starting to say things."

"Max always says things."

"No, like... emotional things."

"Oh no."

"He told me to stop being a coward."

Cara blinked. "About what?"

Charles didn't answer.

Just stared at her through the screen like she was something worth naming.

She looked away. "You're going to regret calling me."

"No," he said. "I'm going to regret not calling sooner."

Her heart did the thing again.

She hated that thing.

⸻

They talked for almost an hour.

About nothing. About everything.
About a new playlist she made.
About the race schedule.
About her favorite color when she was six.
About his worst haircut.

She laughed.

He let her.

When they finally hung up, neither one of them said what they wanted to say.
But it didn't matter.

Because it was coming.
They both knew it.

⸻

wait they so pookies
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