Marvel Masterlist

Empathy- MASTERLIST

Pairing- Bucky x Empath!Reader

Summary- Y/N is an empath tasked with helping the Avengers but healing only comes if you want it. 

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3  Chapter 4

Summary: She falls in love with Bucky Barnes from the moment she sees him. Bucky, still in love with a woman from his past, hates Y/N and plans to make her life miserable. To both their dismay, they are assigned together to go undercover into The Capitol for six months. There, they develop a heartbreaking friend with benefits agreement. Modern AU. Dystopian. Rated M.

You can also read this story on: WATTPAD or AO3

Chapter 1  

Chapter 2   

Chapter 3  

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6  

Chapter 7  

Chapter 8  

Chapter 9  

Chapter 10

Chapter 11  

Chapter 12 

Chapter 13  

Chapter 14  

Chapter 15  

Chapter 16  

Chapter 17  

Chapter 18  

Chapter 19  

Chapter 20  

Chapter 21  

Chapter 22  

Chapter 23

Chapter 24  

Chapter 25  

Chapter 26 

Chapter 27  

Chapter 28 

Chapter 29  

Chapter 30  

Chapter 31  

Chapter 32  

Series Trailer | Series Soundtrack

MOODBOARDS 

*DISCLAIMER* I own NONE of these photos. I do not claim them as mine, they are merely for inspiration and imagination purposes. Credit goes to their rightful owners.

Masterlist

Unbothered queen

Aphrodite of Formula 1

Aphrodite of Formula 1, Part 2

Aphrodite of Formula 1, Part 3

Aphrodite of Formula 1 (side story)

Dark Stories:

Age is just a number

Age is just a number (Part 2)

Age is just a number (Part 3)

Age is just a number (Part 4)

Age is just a number (Part 5)

My requests are open for everyone!!!!

The Aphrodite of Formula 1 stories aren't really connected to each other, but it's in the same univers💗

I also write some dark stories, but rarely smut.

Love Again

Charles Leclerc x widow!Reader

Summary: you never thought you would be able to let someone else into your heart after your husband passed away, but when a bucket list your husband left you to fulfill inadvertently leads you straight into Charles’ path, you learn exactly what it means to love again

Warnings: death of significant other

The funeral is everything you expected it to be and nothing like you imagined. The church is suffocatingly full, every pew occupied, and the walls themselves seem to press in on you.

You sit in the front row, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white against the black fabric of your dress. You haven’t said a word since you walked into the church, since you caught sight of the casket at the front, draped in a flag. You can’t speak because if you open your mouth, you’re certain you’ll break apart.

You focus on the details instead. The way the flowers — lilies, his favorite — are arranged with too much precision. The way the air smells faintly of old wood and incense. The way the murmur of the crowd sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Your head is spinning, but your body is still, a statue carved out of grief and shock.

You hear the scrape of a chair being moved and look up just in time to see the man taking the pulpit. You recognize him, vaguely, as someone from the organization — Doctors Without Borders. He was there when it happened. He was there with him.

He clears his throat, glances down at a piece of paper in his hand, then up at the crowd. “I’m not sure I have the right words for this,” he begins, his voice low and trembling just enough to be noticeable. “But I’ll try.”

You hate him a little for that — for having to try. You don’t want him to try. You want him to fail, to stumble over his words, to not be able to get them out. But he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and continues.

“James was ... the best of us. You all know that. He was selfless, tireless. He didn’t just want to save lives — he did it. Every day. In the most dangerous places, under the most terrifying conditions. He was a healer in the truest sense of the word.” The man’s voice catches for a second, but he pushes through it. “And he was my friend.”

You flinch at that, a sharp pain slicing through your chest.

“He saved us that day,” the man says. “He saved all of us.”

The church is so quiet now, you could hear a pin drop. You can’t take your eyes off the man at the pulpit. You want him to stop talking. You want him to stop telling you things you can’t bear to hear. But he doesn’t stop.

“We were in the middle of the compound when the shelling started. It came out of nowhere. One minute we were patching up a kid who’d been hit by shrapnel, and the next, the whole world was exploding around us. We were trapped. There was no way out.” The man’s voice lowers, almost like he’s talking to himself now. “But James ... James didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the blast, toward the fire. He pulled people out, dragged them to safety.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you swipe it away angrily.

“He was hit by the last shell,” the man continues, his voice trembling now. “He was trying to get one of the nurses out. She was trapped under some debris. He managed to free her, but then the shell hit, and ...” The man’s voice falters, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “He didn’t make it.”

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, a ripple of shock that moves through the room like a wave. You feel it crash over you, pulling you under. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but sit there and listen as the man finishes his eulogy.

“He died a hero,” the man says, his voice breaking. “He died saving lives, the way he always wanted to. And I ... I don’t know how to make sense of it. I don’t know how to make it okay.”

He steps back from the pulpit, his head bowed, and there’s a moment of silence so thick, it’s suffocating. You feel like you’re drowning, like the walls of the church are closing in on you. You need to get out, but you can’t move. You’re frozen in place, trapped in your grief.

Finally, you manage to take a breath, and it feels like your lungs are on fire. You get to your feet, unsteady, and start to make your way down the aisle. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the church on you, but you don’t care. You need to get out. You need air.

You push through the heavy wooden doors and stumble out into the daylight, gasping for breath like you’ve been underwater for hours. The sky is too blue, the sun too bright. Everything is too much.

You lean against the wall of the church, pressing your forehead to the cool stone, trying to steady yourself. But the tears come anyway, hard and fast, and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

You don’t know how long you stand there, sobbing into the wall, but eventually, you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is — your husband’s best friend.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, hesitant.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You just keep crying.

“I ... I’m so sorry,” he says. He steps closer, and you can feel the warmth of his presence beside you. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say,” you manage to choke out, your voice raw.

He’s silent for a moment, and then he takes a deep breath. “James ... he gave me something. To give to you. In case ... in case something happened.”

You turn to look at him, your vision blurred by tears. He’s holding an envelope, white and plain, with your name on it in James’ handwriting. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“He asked me to give it to you,” he says, holding the envelope out to you. “But only when you’re ready.”

You stare at the envelope like it’s a bomb about to go off. You don’t want to take it. You don’t want to know what’s inside. But you reach for it anyway, your hand shaking.

“Take your time,” he says softly. “There’s no rush.”

You nod, clutching the envelope to your chest like it’s a lifeline. You can’t bring yourself to open it, not yet. You don’t even know if you ever will.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He nods, his eyes full of sympathy and something else — something you can’t quite place. “I’m here if you need anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak. He lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something more, but then he just gives you a small, sad smile and walks away.

You watch him go, the envelope still clutched tightly in your hand, and you feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest. You know that whatever’s inside is going to change everything, and you’re not sure you’re ready for that.

But you don’t have a choice.

***

The envelope sits in the top drawer of your nightstand, hidden beneath an old notebook and a stack of receipts you keep meaning to throw away. It’s been there for over a year, untouched.

Some days, you forget about it entirely, letting the routine of work and lonely dinners numb the ache in your chest. But most days, it lingers in the back of your mind, a quiet hum of guilt and grief that you can’t quite shake.

You know you’re supposed to open it — James left it for you, after all. But every time you reach for the drawer, your hand hovers just above the handle, frozen. Because what if the letter makes it worse? What if the words on the paper bring everything crashing back down on you, when you’ve spent so long trying to build yourself back up?

So you leave it. Days turn into weeks, and then months, until a whole year has passed. Friends have stopped asking how you’re doing, their well-meaning calls and texts fading away into awkward silence. You don’t blame them. It’s not like you’ve been much of a person to be around.

But today, for some reason, you can’t ignore it any longer.

It’s raining outside, the kind of steady drizzle that makes the world feel smaller, quieter. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the drawer like it’s going to open itself. The house is still, too still, and the sound of the rain against the window only amplifies the silence.

Your hand trembles as you pull the drawer open. The envelope is right where you left it, the edges slightly yellowed now, but the ink still bold and clear: your name, in James’ handwriting. Seeing it sends a pang through your chest, like someone’s reached inside and squeezed your heart.

You sit there for a long time, just holding it. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just paper. But it feels heavier than anything you’ve ever held.

“Just open it,” you whisper to yourself, but the words feel hollow, like they belong to someone else.

Finally, with a shaky breath, you tear the seal.

Inside, there’s a folded letter. Beneath it, another piece of paper — something thicker. You hesitate, then unfold the letter first. The handwriting is familiar, the slant of the letters uniquely his. You read it slowly, your eyes scanning the words with a mix of dread and longing.

My love,

If you’re reading this, then I’m not there with you. And I’m so, so sorry for that.

I wish I could tell you how much I wanted to come home. How much I needed to come home to you. But I know that wherever I am now, I’m still with you in some way. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I think I’d lose my mind.

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you to be strong, to keep living your life. And you will. I know you will. But it’s okay to fall apart first. It’s okay to break, to cry, to scream at the universe for being so damn unfair. I would.

There are so many things I wish we could’ve done together, so many things we talked about but never got the chance to do. So I’m leaving you with something. A list. It’s not a list of things you have to do — it’s a list of things I wish we could’ve experienced together. But more than that, it’s a list of things I want you to experience. For both of us.

The first one’s a bit selfish. But the last one ... that one’s for you.

I love you more than words can ever say. And if there’s any way for me to still be with you, to still be a part of your life, then I hope this is it.

Yours always,

Jamie

By the time you finish reading, tears blur your vision, dripping silently onto the letter. You wipe at your face, but the tears just keep coming. His words cut through you, raw and tender, like a wound that’s never fully healed.

You sit there for what feels like hours, the rain outside matching the rhythm of your sobs. It’s only after you’ve cried yourself out that you remember the second piece of paper, still folded in the envelope.

With a shaky breath, you unfold it.

It’s a bucket list. Five items, written in James’ scrawled handwriting. Your heart clenches as you read them, one by one.

1. Go to an F1 race. You know how much I wanted to see one in person. Do this for me. I want you to feel the rush, the excitement. It’s something I never got to experience, and I want you to feel it for both of us.

2. Visit that little café in Paris we always talked about. The one by the Seine with the red awning. We were supposed to go there on our honeymoon, remember? Have a coffee, eat too many croissants. Just sit there and watch the world go by.

3. Take a road trip with no destination in mind. Just drive. Don’t plan anything. Turn down random roads, get lost, stay in tiny motels, and eat at diners where they don’t know your name. I always wanted to do that with you.

4. Dance in the rain. We talked about doing it, but we never did. Just let go and do it. Don’t care if people are watching. Don’t worry about looking silly. Just feel the rain and think of me.

5. Find love again. I know this one is hard, and I know you might not want to think about it right now. But promise me that one day, when you’re ready, you’ll open your heart again. It doesn’t have to be soon. It doesn’t have to be anyone like me. But don’t close yourself off to it. You deserve that kind of happiness.

You sit there, staring at the list, your chest tight and your hands trembling. It’s so ... James. The way he could be both lighthearted and deeply thoughtful, the way he always wanted you to live fully, even if he couldn’t anymore.

But how can you? How can you even think about doing these things without him?

You read the list again, and this time it feels different. Less like a burden, and more like a challenge. A promise, almost. To live. To try.

But the last item — that’s the one that breaks you. Find love again. The words echo in your mind, and you can barely breathe through the weight of them. It feels impossible, inconceivable. And yet, it’s the one thing James wanted most for you.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts. You quickly wipe your eyes, folding the letter and the list back into the envelope before shoving it into the drawer again. You stand up, trying to compose yourself.

When you open the door, you find his best friend, the one who gave you the letter in the first place, standing there. His expression softens the moment he sees your face.

“You finally opened it,” he says gently.

You nod, unable to speak for a moment.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “I’ve been wondering when you would.”

“I ... I couldn’t,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not until today.”

He sits down on the couch, and you join him, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable.

“What did he say?” He asks softly.

You hand him the list, unable to find the words yourself. He reads it, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reaches the last item.

“That’s James,” he says, shaking his head. “Always thinking about everyone else.”

You laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob. “How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to just ... live my life without him?”

“You’re not,” he says, his voice gentle. “You’re supposed to live your life with him. By doing these things, you’re keeping him with you.”

You stare at the list again, your heart aching. “But the last one ...”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then, quietly, he asks, “Do you think he’d want you to be alone forever?”

You shake your head, tears spilling over again. “No. But I don’t know how to ... move on.”

“You don’t have to move on,” he says. “You just have to keep moving. One step at a time.”

You nod, even though it feels impossible. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe this list isn’t just about James’ dreams. Maybe it’s about helping you find your way back to yourself.

“I guess I’d better start with number one,” you say, your voice shaky but determined.

He smiles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you can do this.

***

The roar of engines echoes through the air as you step out of the taxi, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The circuit sprawls out before you, a sea of red, blue, and green flags waving in the hands of thousands of fans, all buzzing with excitement. You clutch your ticket tightly, the edges crumpled from your nervous grip.

It took everything in you to get here. The flight, the hotel, the whole ordeal of buying a ticket from some sketchy reseller online — all of it felt like a test of your resolve.

But this is for James. You repeat that to yourself like a mantra. He would’ve loved this, you think, as you look up at the towering grandstands. The hum of the engines, the electricity in the air, the sheer intensity of it all — it’s exactly the kind of thing he would have dragged you to, his enthusiasm infectious.

But now, you’re here alone. And that thought twists in your chest, a painful reminder of why you’re doing this in the first place.

You make your way to the entrance, the ticket clenched in your hand. The queue moves quickly, fans eager to get to their seats, their conversations a mix of English, French, Italian, and other languages you can’t quite place.

You try to blend in, keep your head down, and avoid drawing attention to yourself. Just scan the ticket and get inside. That’s all you have to do.

When it’s finally your turn, you hand your ticket to the attendant, offering a small, nervous smile. He takes it without much thought, scanning the barcode with the device strapped to his wrist. But instead of the usual beep, there’s nothing — just a blank screen.

The attendant frowns, tries again. Still nothing.

“Uh, let me just check something,” he says, his tone suddenly cautious.

You feel a cold knot forming in your stomach. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t answer right away, fiddling with the scanner, trying different angles. The queue behind you is growing restless, and you can feel eyes on your back. Finally, he looks up at you, sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m really sorry,” he says quietly, “but this ticket isn’t valid.”

You blink, not understanding. “What do you mean? I bought it online ...”

“It’s a fake,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You must’ve been scammed. It happens sometimes with resellers.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You feel the color drain from your face, your mind reeling. Fake. Scammed. The ticket crumples in your hand as you step aside, trying to make sense of it. How could this happen? You did everything right — or at least, you thought you did.

“But ... I paid a lot for this,” you stammer, the reality of it sinking in. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m really sorry,” the attendant repeats, glancing over your shoulder at the impatient crowd behind you. “There’s nothing I can do. You’ll have to contact whoever you bought it from.”

You nod numbly, stepping away from the gate. The world around you seems to blur, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. You feel like you’re suffocating, your chest tight with a mixture of humiliation and despair. This was supposed to be the first thing you did for James, and you can’t even get that right.

You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away from the entrance, away from the people. Your legs carry you to the far side of the parking lot, where the crowds thin out and the noise dulls to a low hum. You lean against a concrete pillar, your breath coming in shaky gasps.

It’s too much. The weight of it all — the grief, the loneliness, the pressure you’ve put on yourself to make this trip meaningful — it’s crushing you. You slide down to sit on the curb, burying your face in your hands as tears spill over.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words meant for James, though you know he can’t hear you. “I’m so sorry ...”

You’re so caught up in your tears that you don’t notice the figure approaching until he’s right in front of you. When you finally look up, your vision is blurry from the tears, but you can make out the silhouette of a man standing there, watching you with concern etched on his face.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice is soft, with a lilting accent you can’t quite place, but it’s gentle enough to cut through the fog of your despair.

You quickly wipe at your eyes, trying to compose yourself, but it’s a losing battle. “I’m fine,” you manage to choke out, though it’s clear to both of you that you’re anything but.

He doesn’t move, just crouches down in front of you, his brow furrowed. “You don’t look fine. What happened?”

You shake your head, embarrassed by the whole situation. “It’s stupid ... I just — I bought a ticket, and it’s fake, and I ... I just don’t know what to do.”

The words tumble out between hiccups and sniffles, and you feel ridiculous for crying in front of a stranger. But he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his expression grows even more sympathetic.

“That’s not stupid at all,” he says gently. “You came all this way for the race, didn’t you?”

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying again. “Yeah. But now I can’t even get in. I feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he reassures you, his tone firm but kind. “People get scammed all the time. It’s not your fault.”

You look up at him then, really look at him. He’s young, probably around your age, with messy brown hair and striking green eyes that seem to radiate warmth. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans, nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd, but there’s something about him — maybe the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only person in the world that matters right now — that makes you feel a little less alone.

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not really a fan. It’s just ... something I had to do.”

He tilts his head, curiosity in his eyes. “For someone else?”

You nod again, fresh tears welling up. “My husband. He ... he passed away, and this was on a list of things he wanted me to do. I thought ... I thought I could at least get this right.”

The man’s expression softens even more, if that’s possible. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sits there with you, letting the weight of your words settle between you.

“I’m really sorry,” he says finally, and you can tell he means it. “That must be so hard.”

You shrug, wiping at your face again. “It is. But I wanted to do it anyway. For him.”

He nods, and then, after a brief pause, he says, “What if I told you I could help?”

You look at him, confusion and hope warring in your chest. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, and it’s a kind, genuine smile that makes you feel like maybe things aren’t as hopeless as they seem. “I might be able to get you into the race. If you’re okay with that.”

Your heart skips a beat, a flicker of hope sparking to life. “How? Are you some kind of VIP or something?”

He laughs, a soft, melodic sound that eases some of the tension in your chest. “Something like that. Just trust me, okay?”

You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe it’s because he’s the first person who’s really listened to you in a long time, or maybe it’s because you’re so desperate to make this work. Either way, you nod.

“Okay,” you say, your voice a little stronger now.

He pulls out his phone and dials a number, glancing back at you as he waits for the call to connect. “This might take a minute,” he says with a reassuring smile.

You watch him, your heart pounding as you wonder just who this man is and how he plans to help you. But as you sit there, your tears drying and the noise of the race humming in the background, you can’t help but feel a glimmer of something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

***

Charles doesn’t leave your side while he waits for the call to go through, his green eyes focused on you as if making sure you’re still okay. The sincerity in his gaze is almost unnerving, and for a brief moment, you forget about the pitiful mess you’ve become, losing yourself in the quiet strength he radiates.

Whoever he is, it’s clear he’s not just a fan — there’s something about him that feels different, like he’s used to handling situations like this with a calm confidence that most people can only fake.

He speaks briefly into the phone, in a language you don’t understand, and within minutes — faster than you would’ve thought possible — a Ferrari team member rushes toward you both, holding a shiny red VIP pass. The emblem glints in the sunlight, and as he hands it over to Charles, your brain starts to catch up. Your eyes flicker between the pass, the Ferrari logo, and Charles, who’s now holding the pass out to you with that same reassuring smile.

“Here,” he says gently, placing the pass into your trembling hand. “This will get you into the paddock, and pretty much anywhere else you want to go.”

You stare at the pass, then at him, the realization dawning on you slowly. Ferrari. VIP. Charles. It suddenly clicks into place, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment. He’s not just a concerned fan. He’s someone important.

You swallow hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Who ... who are you?”

He chuckles, but it’s soft, not mocking, more like he finds the situation endearing. “I’m Charles. Charles Leclerc. I drive for Ferrari.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, the words you want to say sticking in your throat. You’re mortified that you didn’t recognize him, that you didn’t put it together sooner. You’ve heard the name before, of course — who hasn’t? But you’ve never been into F1, and you hadn’t expected to meet someone famous today.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, looking down at your feet. “I didn’t realize ...”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Charles interrupts, waving off your apology. “You’ve had a rough day. The last thing you need to worry about is recognizing some racing driver.”

“But I should’ve known ...” you begin, but he cuts you off again, this time with a playful smile.

“Now, why would you know that? You already told me you’re not a fan,” he teases lightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And I’d much rather be remembered as the guy who helped you out than as that Ferrari driver you didn’t recognize.”

You can’t help but laugh, albeit weakly. His charm is disarming, and it’s hard to feel embarrassed when he’s making it so clear that he doesn’t care about your mistake.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it. “For all of this. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Charles shakes his head, his expression turning serious again. “You don’t need to repay me. Just enjoy the day. Experience everything to the fullest — in honor of your husband.”

You blink at him, the mention of James sending a fresh wave of emotion through you. But instead of the sharp pain you’ve grown accustomed to, it’s more of a gentle ache this time, softened by the kindness of the stranger-turned-friend standing before you.

“I know what it’s like to lose people you love,” Charles continues, his voice low and sincere. “And I know how important it is to keep their memory alive by doing things they would’ve loved. It’s not easy, but ... it’s worth it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. The depth of his words, the understanding in his eyes — it’s like he’s speaking directly to the part of you that’s been hurting the most. And suddenly, you feel a connection to him that goes beyond the superficial. He gets it. He understands.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “Really, thank you.”

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a long moment before he stands, offering you his hand. “Come on. Let me show you around.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip is warm and steady, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. You let him lead you through the bustling parking lot, your heart still pounding but now for a different reason.

There’s something surreal about walking next to Charles Leclerc, knowing he’s one of the biggest names in the sport and yet treating you like you’re the important one.

As you approach the entrance to the paddock, the atmosphere shifts. It’s a different world in here, a world of precision, speed, and power. Team members rush about, focused and intense, the hum of engines a constant background noise. But as you pass by, more than a few heads turn, eyes widening as they take in the sight of you walking with Charles. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“Here we are,” he says as you reach the Ferrari hospitality area, gesturing to the sleek red building with the prancing horse logo proudly displayed. “You’re my guest today, so feel free to make yourself at home. The team will take good care of you.”

You look up at the building, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say. This is ... it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much,” Charles insists, his tone gentle but firm. “It’s exactly what you deserve today. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stops you. He’s serious. He really wants this for you, and the sincerity in his voice makes it clear that this isn’t just about being nice. It’s about giving you something good in a time when good things have been hard to come by.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice soft. “I’ll try.”

Charles smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay. “That’s all I ask.”

He leads you inside, where the air is cool and the decor is modern and sleek, all polished surfaces and red accents. A few team members glance your way, but Charles waves them off, his focus entirely on you.

“I have to get prepped for the race,” he says, stopping just inside the entrance. “But I’ll come see you afterward, okay?”

You blink, taken aback by his offer. “You don’t have to do that,” you stutter. “You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

Charles just shakes his head, that same determined look in his eyes. “I want to. Besides, I’ll probably be in a better mood if I know you’re here cheering me on.”

The thought of actually cheering for him, of being invested in the race, is a foreign one. But the way he says it, so casual and confident, makes it seem almost natural.

“I don’t really know much about racing,” you admit, feeling a little silly.

He grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up quickly. And if you have any questions, there’ll be plenty of people around who can help. Just relax and enjoy it.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of your depth but also oddly comforted by his words. He makes it sound so simple, so easy, like all you have to do is show up and everything else will fall into place.

“Okay,” you agree. “I’ll try my best.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Charles says, his smile widening. “I’ll see you after the race.”

He gives you a small wave before turning and heading off, his stride confident and unhurried. You watch him go, still trying to process everything that’s happened in the last hour.

It’s almost too much to take in — the ticket fiasco, meeting Charles, the VIP pass, and now being his personal guest for the day. It feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life, one filled with glamor and excitement, so different from the quiet, grief-stricken world you’ve been living in.

But as you take a deep breath and look around at the world Charles has invited you into, you can’t help but feel a spark of something you haven’t felt in a long time — hope. Maybe, just maybe, today will be a good day.

***

You sit in the Ferrari hospitality suite, watching the festivities from a distance. The energy in the room is electric, everyone buzzing with excitement over Charles’ win.

His face is plastered on every screen, grinning as he holds up the trophy, spraying champagne with the other drivers on the podium. The cheers echo in your ears, but there’s a strange numbness in your chest, a disconnect between the celebration and what you’re feeling.

You’re happy for him, of course you are. But the fact that Charles just won a race feels surreal, like something out of a dream. And you’re not sure where you fit in the dream — or if you fit in at all.

The hospitality suite is more crowded now, filled with people congratulating one another, toasting with glasses of champagne and sparkling water. The clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter fill the air, making the room feel smaller, more enclosed.

You keep to the side, clutching your phone and fiddling with the VIP pass Charles gave you earlier. The weight of it around your neck is a constant reminder that this isn’t your world.

The minutes tick by, each one stretching longer than the last. You tell yourself it’s okay to leave, that Charles won’t mind if you slip out quietly. After all, he’s got plenty of people to celebrate with. People who belong here, who know him well, who are part of his world. You’re just a stranger he happened to help.

But something keeps you in your seat, a small flicker of hope that he might actually come back. It’s silly, really — he’s a race winner, he should be out there celebrating, soaking in the victory. Still, you find yourself glancing at the door every few minutes, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he’ll keep his promise.

Nearly an hour and a half after the race ends, just as you’re convincing yourself to leave, you spot him. Charles enters the suite, now changed into a Ferrari branded polo, hair damp from what you assume was a quick shower. He’s scanning the room, and when his eyes land on you, they light up in recognition.

Your breath catches in your throat as he makes his way over, weaving through the crowd with a purposeful stride. He looks different out of the car, more relaxed, though there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless when he finally reaches you. “Sorry it took me so long. There were media duties, and then a debrief with the team after the podium ceremony.”

You blink up at him, stunned that he actually came. “You — You came back.”

“Of course I did,” he replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I told you I would.”

You shake your head, still in disbelief. “But you should be out there celebrating. You just won a race, Charles. You didn’t have to come just to see me.”

Charles waves away your concerns, his smile widening. “I came because I wanted to. Celebrations can wait.”

There’s a sincerity in his tone that takes you off guard. He’s not just saying it to be polite or to make you feel better. He actually means it. You search his eyes for a sign that he’s just being nice, but all you find is that same genuine warmth that he’s shown you from the start.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” you murmur, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from anything.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Charles reassures you, his voice gentle. “I’m glad you stayed.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of place, but his words soothe some of your anxiety. “Congratulations, by the way. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “It was a good race.”

There’s a brief silence, the noise of the room fading into the background as you stand there, just the two of you. You’re not sure what to say next, the weight of the moment making it hard to think straight. But Charles doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, his presence calm and unhurried.

After a few moments, Charles clears his throat, his voice hesitant. “Are you staying nearby?”

The question catches you off guard, and you blink up at him, not quite sure where he’s going with this. “Um, yes, I’m staying at a hotel downtown.”

His eyes brighten at that, and he gives you a small, almost shy smile. “I’m staying in the same area. There’s a great restaurant nearby. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

You’re taken aback by the offer, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. Dinner? With Charles Leclerc? It feels like too much, like something you shouldn’t accept. You don’t want to intrude on his life any more than you already have.

“Charles, you don’t have to spend time with me,” you start, shaking your head. “You’ve already done so much-”

He interrupts you gently, his voice firm but kind. “I want to spend time with you.”

The way he says it, so straightforward and sincere, leaves no room for doubt. He’s not asking out of obligation or pity — he genuinely wants your company. And the thought of having dinner with him, of spending more time with someone who actually seems to care, is suddenly more appealing than anything else.

“Okay,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I’d like that.”

His smile widens, and you can see the relief in his eyes. “Great. Let’s get out of here, then.”

You follow him as he leads the way out of the suite, the noise of the celebrations fading behind you. The cool evening air greets you as you step outside, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets. Charles is quiet as he walks beside you, his presence comforting in its steadiness.

As you reach the paddock parking lot, you spot the familiar red of a Ferrari, and you can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s fitting, in a way, like everything about this day is part of some surreal, unexpected adventure.

Charles opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you’re settled before rounding the car to get in himself. The engine purrs to life with a smooth growl, and you feel a thrill of excitement as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

You glance over at him, taking in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the easy way he handles the car. It’s strange how comfortable you feel with him already, like you’ve known him for longer than just a few hours. Maybe it’s the way he’s treated you from the start — with kindness and understanding — or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself, with a quiet confidence that makes you feel safe.

As you drive through the city, the lights of downtown reflecting off the car’s polished surface, you can’t help but wonder what this evening will bring. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this way — hopeful, curious, maybe even a little excited. And as Charles navigates the streets with practiced ease, you start to think that maybe, just maybe, you’re finally ready to start living again.

***

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, it’s all exposed brick, warm lighting, and rustic charm. The kind of place that feels both intimate and alive with history, where every detail seems to whisper stories of countless other dinners, other nights, other lives.

You follow Charles to a corner table, noticing the way the candlelight flickers across his features, softening the angles of his face. There’s a natural ease about him, a kind of unspoken confidence that makes you feel a little more at home in this unfamiliar setting. He holds out a chair for you, and as you sit down, you can’t help but feel like you’ve stepped into a scene from someone else’s life.

“This place is incredible,” you say, glancing around at the cozy surroundings. “How did you find it?”

Charles smiles, settling into the chair across from you. “It’s one of my favorites. A friend introduced me to it a few years ago. I come here whenever I’m in town.”

You nod, taking in the atmosphere, the scent of fresh bread and herbs mingling with the low hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place that feels special, even if you didn’t know anything about it.

The waiter appears to take your order, and before you know it, the table is filled with plates of beautifully arranged dishes, each one more enticing than the last. Charles gestures for you to start, and you pick up your fork, feeling a little more at ease with each bite.

“This is amazing,” you say between mouthfuls, savoring the flavors. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like this.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Charles replies, watching you with a soft smile. “It’s one of the things I miss most when I’m traveling — good, simple food.”

There’s a comfortable silence as you both enjoy the meal, the clinking of silverware and the quiet murmur of the other diners providing a gentle backdrop. You’re grateful for the peace, for the way Charles doesn’t push you to talk, doesn’t ask any questions that feel too invasive.

But as the meal draws to a close, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Charles seems to be choosing his words carefully, his expression thoughtful as he looks across the table at you.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he begins, his tone gentle, “but ... would you like to talk about your husband?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you can answer it. It’s been so long since anyone asked, since anyone cared enough to ask, and you’re not sure if you’re ready to go back to that place, to open up the wound that’s still so raw.

But there’s something in Charles’ eyes, a quiet understanding, that makes you feel like it’s okay to share this part of yourself with him. Like maybe he can handle it, even if you’re not sure you can.

“He was on a mission in ... well, it doesn’t really matter where. There was an attack — one of those random, senseless things that happen in places like that. He was helping a patient when it happened. They said he died a hero, but ... it doesn’t feel like that to me. It just feels like he’s gone.”

The tears that you’ve been holding back all evening finally spill over, and you don’t even try to stop them. You’re tired of pretending to be strong, tired of keeping it all inside. And somehow, with Charles sitting there, listening so intently, it feels okay to let it out.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like.”

You wipe at your eyes, trying to pull yourself together. “It’s been over a year, but ... it still feels like it was yesterday, you know? Like I’m still waiting for him to walk through the door, to tell me it was all some terrible mistake.”

Charles reaches across the table, his hand covering yours in a gesture that’s as comforting as it is unexpected. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he says softly. “And you don’t have to rush through it either. Grief doesn’t have a timeline.”

His words are like a balm, soothing some of the raw ache that’s been sitting in your chest. You nod, unable to speak, afraid that if you do, the tears will start again and won’t stop.

There’s a brief silence, and then you continue, feeling the need to explain, to make him understand. “He left me a letter ... and a list. A bucket list, of things he wanted us to do together, but he didn’t get the chance. He asked me to do them for him, to ... to live the life he didn’t get to.”

Charles leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on yours. “What’s on the list?”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you reach into your purse, pulling out the folded piece of paper that’s become a permanent fixture in your life. You unfold it carefully, smoothing out the creases before passing it across the table to him.

He takes the list from you, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before he begins to read. You watch his face as he scans the items, his expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper, something almost reverent.

He’s quiet for a long time, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s judging you for carrying out such a personal task, for holding on to a life that’s no longer yours.

But when he looks up at you again, there’s no judgment in his eyes — only empathy, and maybe even a touch of admiration.

“Have you done any of these yet?” He asks, his voice soft.

You nod your head. “I’ve only just started. The first item was to go to an F1 race ... that’s why I’m here.”

Charles’ gaze softens even more, and he nods slowly, as if understanding the weight of what you’ve shared. “And Paris?” He asks, his tone careful.

You can’t help but laugh a little, despite the heaviness in your chest. “Paris ... I mean, who doesn’t want to go to Paris? But I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to tick that one off the list.”

Charles is quiet for a moment, then he hesitates, as if he’s debating something in his mind. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and tentative. “You know ... the summer break has officially started. I don’t have another race for a month, and I don’t have anything I have to do for over two weeks.”

You blink at him, not quite understanding where he’s going with this. “Okay ...”

“I’ve always loved Paris,” he says, his gaze steady on yours. “And ... I know we’ve only just met, but I would love to help you tick off the second item on your list.”

You stare at him, your mind reeling from what he’s suggesting. Go to Paris? With him? It’s crazy — it’s absolutely insane. You don’t know him, not really, and the idea of going on such a personal trip with someone you’ve just met feels like stepping into a world that doesn’t belong to you.

But there’s something in the way he’s looking at you, something in his voice, that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, it’s not as crazy as it seems. Maybe it’s exactly what you need.

“Are you serious?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles nods, his expression earnest. “Sometimes the best things in life are crazy and spontaneous. And ... I know it’s a lot to ask, but I really would love to help you with this. I want to be there for you.”

You feel a lump forming in your throat, a mix of emotions swirling inside you — fear, excitement, uncertainty, and something else you can’t quite name. It’s terrifying, the idea of letting someone new into your life, of opening yourself up to the possibility of connection, of loss.

But at the same time, it feels like a lifeline, like a chance to finally start living again.

“I ... I don’t know,” you stammer, unsure of how to respond. “It just seems so ...”

“Crazy?” Charles finishes for you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” you admit, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Crazy.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with those steady, kind eyes. “Maybe it is. But sometimes the craziest things turn out to be the most important.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you weigh the decision. It would be so easy to say no, to stay in your safe, controlled world where nothing ever changes. But where has that gotten you? Nowhere.

And then, almost without realizing it, you find yourself nodding, your voice small but determined. “Okay.”

Charles’ eyes light up with something close to relief, and he smiles at you — a genuine, warm smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this is the right choice.

“Okay?” He repeats, as if needing to hear it again.

“Okay,” you say again, a little more certain this time. “Let’s go to Paris.”

You both sit there for a moment, the reality of what you’ve just agreed to sinking in. It feels like the beginning of something — something that scares you as much as it excites you.

Charles reaches across the table, gently taking your hand in his. “Thank you,” he says, his voice sincere.

You look at him, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone in this.

***

You’re still reeling from the decision when the check arrives at the table. Charles grabs it before you can reach for your purse, waving away your protests with an easy smile.

“Trust me,” he says, his tone light but firm, “this one’s on me.”

You thank him, still half-convinced that this is all some surreal dream you’ll wake up from any minute. As you step outside, the cool evening air brushes against your skin, grounding you in the reality of what just happened.

You’re going to Paris. With Charles Leclerc. You glance at him, wondering how he can be so calm when your world has just been flipped upside down.

“Okay, so ... what’s the plan?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady as your mind races with all the logistics you need to sort out.

He turns to you with that relaxed smile, as if planning a spontaneous trip to Paris is the most natural thing in the world. “Plan? We drive back to the hotel, grab our things, and head to the airport.”

“The airport?” You blink at him, thrown by the suddenness of it all. “I haven’t even booked a flight yet. Or a hotel. Or anything.”

Charles chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. I’ve got it covered.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that you can’t possibly let him do this, but he cuts you off before you can say a word.

“Really,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s no trouble at all. I’m an F1 driver, remember? I’ve got more than enough resources, and I want to do this for you.”

You stare at him, at the easy confidence in his tone, at the sincerity in his eyes. You know he means it, but it still feels like too much. “Charles, I ... I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not.” He steps closer, his expression softening. “This is something I want to do. For you. For your husband. Please, let me help you.”

There’s a quiet intensity in his voice that makes it impossible to argue. You nod slowly, feeling a mix of gratitude and disbelief. “Okay ... thank you. I just — I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assures you. “Just pack your things and meet me back here in a few minutes. We’ll take care of the rest.”

And just like that, you find yourself heading back to your hotel, your heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. You pack quickly, throwing your essentials into your suitcase with trembling hands. The reality of what’s happening starts to sink in, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the sheer craziness of it all.

You pause, standing in the middle of the room with your half-packed suitcase, wondering if you’re really doing this. Paris. With a man you’ve just met. It’s all too surreal, too spontaneous, too-

There’s a knock on your door, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You open it to find Charles standing there, his expression calm and reassuring.

“Ready?” He asks, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

You take a deep breath, nodding. “Yeah ... I think so.”

“Good.” He smiles, and somehow, that simple gesture is enough to steady you. “Let’s go.”

You follow him downstairs, your heart racing as he drives you both back to his hotel. He parks the car, and you watch as he disappears inside, returning a few minutes later with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“That’s it?” You ask, surprised at how little he’s carrying.

He nods, tossing the bag into the back seat. “The team will pack up the rest of my stuff and have it sent home later.”

You don’t have time to process the implications of that before he’s back in the driver’s seat, navigating the streets with the kind of ease that comes from years of traveling. You try to keep up with the conversation, but your mind keeps drifting to what lies ahead, to the sheer audacity of what you’re about to do.

It’s only when you pull up to a private airstrip that the full reality of the situation hits you. You step out of the car, staring in awe at the sleek, chartered jet waiting on the tarmac. The sight of it leaves you breathless, the sheer scale of what Charles is doing for you almost too much to comprehend.

“Charles ...” you begin, your voice catching in your throat.

He turns to you, his expression soft. “Yes?”

“This is ... I mean, I don’t know what to say. This is more than I could have ever imagined. Are you sure-”

“I’m sure.” His tone leaves no room for doubt, and he reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Come on. We’ve got a flight to catch.”

He leads you up the steps, and before you know it, you’re inside the luxurious cabin, sinking into a plush leather seat. Everything about the jet screams opulence — the polished wood accents, the soft ambient lighting, the quiet hum of the engines in the background. It’s the kind of luxury you’ve only ever seen in movies, and you can’t quite believe that it’s real, that you’re really here.

Charles takes the seat across from you, his expression relaxed as he buckles his seatbelt. “Comfortable?”

You nod, still too stunned to form a coherent response. He smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, and you realize that this kind of thing must be second nature to him. For you, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For him, it’s just another day in the life of an F1 driver.

“Just sit back and relax,” he says, as if sensing your thoughts. “We’ll be in Paris before you know it.”

The flight itself is smooth and uneventful, the hours passing in a blur of disbelief and quiet conversation. Charles keeps things light, sharing stories from his racing career, and you find yourself relaxing more with each passing minute. It’s easy to forget about your worries when you’re with him, easy to get lost in the charm of his stories and the warmth of his smile.

Before you know it, the plane begins its descent, and the lights of Paris come into view below, twinkling like a sea of stars. The sight of the city leaves you breathless, the sheer beauty of it almost too much to take in. You press your face to the window, unable to tear your eyes away from the breathtaking panorama of the City of Light.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Charles’ voice is soft, and when you turn to look at him, there’s a wistfulness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.

“Yes,” you whisper, feeling a surge of emotion welling up inside you. “It’s ... it’s perfect.”

The plane touches down smoothly, and within minutes, you’re whisked away in a sleek black car, driving through the streets of Paris as the city comes alive around you. The streets are bustling with life, the cafes and bistros glowing with warm light, the air filled with the sound of laughter and music.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined and more, and you can’t believe you’re really here, experiencing it all with Charles by your side.

The car pulls up in front of an exclusive, centrally located hotel, and you step out onto the cobblestone street, your heart pounding in your chest. The hotel is grand, its facade illuminated by golden lights, and as you step inside, you’re greeted by a world of elegance and sophistication.

You barely have time to take it all in before you’re being led to a two-bedroom suite with the most stunning views of the Eiffel Tower you’ve ever seen. You stand by the window, staring out at the iconic landmark as it sparkles against the night sky, the reality of your situation hitting you all over again.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles steps up beside you, his gaze focused on the view outside. “Believe it,” he says softly, his tone filled with quiet conviction. “You’re here. We’re here. And tomorrow, we’ll start checking off that list.”

You turn to look at him, your eyes filled with gratitude and something else — something you’re not quite ready to name. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”

He smiles, a warm, genuine smile that lights up his face. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad I can be here for you.”

You feel a surge of emotion welling up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s a long, lingering embrace, filled with all the gratitude, all the emotion you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that makes you feel safe, comforted, understood.

When you finally pull back, there are tears in your eyes, but they’re tears of relief, of something like hope. “Good night, Charles,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

“Good night,” he replies, his voice just as soft. “Sleep well. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

You watch as he heads to his own room, and then you turn back to the window, staring out at the glittering Eiffel Tower. It feels like a dream, but for the first time in a long time, it’s a dream you’re ready to embrace.

***

The sun is already high in the sky when you finally open your eyes, the weight of the past few days still pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. The exhaustion is bone-deep, the kind that makes every movement feel like wading through thick syrup.

You stretch out in the luxurious hotel bed, the cool sheets tangling around your legs as you blink against the soft light filtering through the curtains. Paris. You’re in Paris. The thought slips through your mind, almost unreal, as if you might wake up any second to find yourself back in the monotony of the past year.

You sit up slowly, taking in the spacious room with its elegant furniture and the faint sounds of the city outside. It’s almost noon, you realize, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. Just as you’re about to contemplate the day ahead, there’s a gentle knock on the door connecting your room to Charles’. You almost forgot about him for a second — almost.

“Good morning,” you call out, your voice still thick with sleep.

The door opens, and Charles steps in, a smile lighting up his face as he sees you. “Good afternoon, you mean,” he teases lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “I was beginning to think you might sleep through the whole day.”

You rub your eyes, shaking your head as you try to fully wake up. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

He nods, his expression softening. “No rush. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

It’s that statement that hits you more than it should. All the time in the world. You used to believe that too. You push the thought away quickly, not wanting to drown in it.

“What’s the plan?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on the present, on this strange, wonderful day that’s somehow yours.

Charles grins, his eyes sparking with something mischievous. “How do you feel about lunch at a little café by the Seine?”

Your heart skips a beat. The café. The red awning. It’s what your husband wanted, what he wrote down on that list. You swallow, trying to keep your emotions in check. “That sounds perfect.”

Charles seems to sense the shift in your mood, his smile softening into something more understanding. He doesn’t push, just nods and steps back, giving you space to get ready. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

When he’s gone, you take a deep breath and head to the bathroom, the reality of where you are and what you’re doing starting to sink in. You can’t help but think of the letter, the list. Of the man who should be here with you instead of buried under the earth. You splash cold water on your face, trying to shake off the melancholy that clings to you like a second skin.

By the time you join Charles downstairs, you’ve managed to put on a smile, though it feels fragile, like it might shatter at any moment. He greets you with a warm, reassuring look, his eyes scanning your face as if to check that you’re really okay. You nod, and he leads you outside, where a car is waiting.

The ride to the café is quiet, filled with the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of the city. Charles doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, and you’re grateful for that. Instead, he lets you stare out the window, watching as the streets of Paris unfold before you like a storybook.

When the car finally pulls up in front of the café, your heart clenches. There it is, just like your husband described it: the small tables lined up outside, the red awning casting a warm glow over everything, the view of the Seine just beyond. It’s almost too much. You hesitate, feeling a lump in your throat, but Charles is already out of the car, holding the door open for you.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, his gaze steady on yours.

You nod, though you’re not sure if you believe it. “Yeah. Just ... it’s exactly like he said.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, just offers his arm in a gentle, old-fashioned gesture. You take it, letting him lead you to a table by the water. The waiter greets you with a smile, and Charles orders for both of you without hesitation — coffee and croissants, just like on the list.

The sun reflects off the Seine, making the water shimmer like it’s made of liquid gold. You sip your coffee slowly, savoring the rich taste, though your thoughts are a million miles away. You can almost see your husband sitting across from you, that goofy grin on his face as he tries to explain something in broken French to the waiter. You smile at the memory, even as it twists something painful deep inside you.

Charles doesn’t interrupt your thoughts, just lets you have this moment. You’re grateful for that. The croissants arrive, warm and flaky, and you find yourself laughing softly as you break off a piece, thinking of how your husband always complained that they never made them right back home. Here, though ... here they’re perfect.

“This was his favorite place,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “He talked about it all the time. Said it was the best spot in Paris, hands down.”

Charles listens, his eyes never leaving your face. “He had good taste.”

You smile, though it wobbles a bit. “He did.”

There’s a pause, a comfortable one, where you both just sit there, watching the world go by. It’s everything your husband wanted, everything he put on that list. And yet, it feels different — like you’re living a dream that isn’t entirely yours.

After a while, Charles speaks up, his tone gentle. “Have you thought about what you want to do next?”

You blink, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “Next?”

“With the list,” he clarifies, his eyes searching yours. “I mean, you don’t have to ... but if you want to keep going, I’d like to help.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Charles holds up a hand, cutting you off before you can start. “I know what you’re going to say,” he continues, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And I’m telling you right now, you’re not bothering me. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”

You look at him, really look at him, and see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. It’s overwhelming, this kindness he’s showing you, this willingness to be a part of something so deeply personal. You don’t know what to say, how to express the jumble of emotions swirling inside you.

“Charles, I-” You falter, trying to find the right words. “This isn’t your responsibility. You’ve already done so much ...”

He shakes his head, cutting you off again. “It’s not about responsibility. It’s about doing something that feels right. And this — being here with you, helping you through this — it feels right.”

The tears well up before you can stop them, spilling over as you look away, embarrassed by how easily they come. Charles doesn’t say anything, just reaches across the table to take your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice breaking on the words.

He squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to thank me.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want you to feel obligated ...”

“I don’t,” he assures you, his voice firm but kind. “I promise you, I don’t.”

You nod, blinking away the last of your tears. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He echoes, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You smile back, a real one this time. “Okay.”

There’s a quiet moment where everything feels ... settled, like a weight has been lifted from your chest. It’s not gone — not by a long shot — but it’s lighter, more manageable. You can breathe a little easier, see a little clearer.

Charles leans back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief. “So, what do you say we finish this coffee, eat a few more croissants than is probably advisable, and then figure out what our next adventure is?”

You laugh, a real laugh that surprises you with its brightness. “I think I’d like that.”

And so you do just that. You sit there with Charles, sipping coffee and eating too many croissants, watching the world go by as the sun moves slowly across the sky. It’s peaceful, almost idyllic, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of something that might be happiness.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, Charles brings up the rest of the list again, but this time, you don’t try to wave him off. Instead, you find yourself talking about it, really talking, and it feels good to share it with someone who actually seems to care.

You tell him about the road trip with no destination in mind, about the other things your husband wanted you to experience. It’s bittersweet, but there’s a warmth to it too, a sense of connection that you didn’t expect to find.

“We’ll enjoy a few more days in Paris,” Charles says, his voice steady and reassuring, “and then we’ll hit the road. No plans, no deadlines. Just ... see where it takes us.”

You look at him, feeling that same pull, that same inexplicable draw that’s been there since the moment you met him. It’s crazy, all of this — crazy and spontaneous and completely out of your comfort zone. But maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

“Let’s do it,” you say, your voice stronger than you expected. “Let’s do the road trip.”

Charles’ smile broadens. “Perfect. We’ll make it an adventure.”

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains of your hotel room, casting a golden glow that seems to soften the world around you. You stretch in bed, feeling a lightness in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. There’s a sense of anticipation humming through your veins as you get ready, knowing that today marks the beginning of a new adventure.

When you step into the lobby, Charles is already there, leaning casually against a pillar, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans. He grins when he sees you, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Ready to go?” He asks, his voice warm.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach.

Charles nods, gesturing for you to follow him. “Come on, then.”

You step outside, and your breath catches in your throat. Parked at the curb is a sleek black Ferrari, its curves gleaming under the morning light. You glance at Charles in surprise, your eyebrows shooting up.

“Where did you get this?” You ask, your voice tinged with disbelief.

He chuckles, shrugging nonchalantly. “Let’s just say I know a guy.”

You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “Of course you do.”

Charles opens the trunk, helping you load your bags inside. There’s a thrill in the air, a sense of freedom that you haven’t felt in ages. Once everything is packed, he opens the passenger door for you with a small bow, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Your chariot awaits,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but the gesture makes your heart warm. You slide into the car, sinking into the plush leather seat as Charles walks around to the driver’s side.

“Ready?” He asks, his hand resting on the gear shift.

You glance over at him, meeting his gaze. There’s something reassuring in his eyes, something that makes you feel like, for the first time in a long time, everything might just be okay.

“Ready,” you say, and with that, he starts the engine, the car roaring to life.

The two of you set off, the city of Paris fading in the rearview mirror as the open road stretches out before you. There’s no set destination, no strict itinerary — just miles of road and the promise of wherever the day might take you.

For the first hour, you drive in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the wind rushing past your ears. You watch as the landscape changes, the bustling city giving way to rolling fields and quaint villages. The farther you go, the more the tension in your chest eases.

Eventually, Charles turns to you with a grin. “Pick a direction. Left or right?”

You blink, looking at the fork in the road ahead. “You’re letting me decide?”

“Of course,” he replies. “This is your adventure, after all.”

You hesitate for a moment, then point to the right. “Right.”

Charles nods and turns the wheel, the Ferrari smoothly gliding down the chosen path. “Right it is.”

The day passes in a blur of laughter and easy conversation. You turn down random roads, sometimes doubling back when you realize you’re hopelessly lost, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no rush, no pressure to be anywhere but right here, right now.

You stop at a tiny roadside café for lunch, the kind of place where the menu is handwritten on a chalkboard, and the waitress knows the regulars by name. The food is simple but delicious, and you can’t help but savor every bite, feeling more alive than you have in months.

After lunch, you continue driving, the hours slipping away as you explore hidden corners of the French countryside. You pass through small towns where time seems to have stood still, with cobblestone streets and old stone houses that look like something out of a fairytale.

As evening approaches, you start to feel the weight of the day settling in your bones. You glance over at Charles, who looks just as content as you feel, his hand relaxed on the steering wheel.

“Should we start looking for a place to stay?” You ask, your voice soft.

He nods, glancing at a sign by the side of the road. “There’s a small inn a few miles ahead. We can try there.”

You hum in agreement, the idea of a cozy inn sounding perfect after a day on the road. The Ferrari winds its way through narrow streets until you arrive at the inn, a charming, ivy-covered building that looks like it’s been plucked straight out of a storybook.

Charles parks the car, and the two of you head inside. The lobby is quaint, with old wooden beams and a stone fireplace crackling in the corner. The innkeeper, a kindly older woman with a warm smile, greets you as you approach the front desk.

“Bonsoir,” she says in a lilting accent. “How can I help you?”

Charles steps forward, his voice polite as ever. “Bonsoir. We were hoping to get a room for the night.”

The innkeeper’s smile falters slightly, and she glances at the reservation book. “Ah, I’m afraid we are nearly full tonight. There is only one room left, and it has only one bed. I’m sorry.”

Your heart sinks, and you glance at Charles, unsure what to do. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but you also don’t relish the idea of finding another place so late in the evening.

Charles, however, seems unfazed. He turns to you with a reassuring smile. “It’s up to you. We can stay or keep looking.”

You bite your lip, weighing your options. The day has been long, and you’re both exhausted. Finally, you nod. “Let’s stay.”

The innkeeper hands Charles the key, and he leads you upstairs to the room. It’s cozy, with a low ceiling and a large, comfortable-looking bed dominating the space. There’s a small window overlooking the garden, where the last rays of sunlight are casting everything in a golden hue.

You drop your bags by the door, glancing at the bed. It’s big enough for two, but the thought of sharing it with Charles makes your heart flutter nervously.

Charles seems to pick up on your hesitation. “I can sleep on the floor,” he offers, his tone gentle. “It’s no trouble.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods, his expression softening. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

You both get ready for bed, the atmosphere between you growing more relaxed. When you finally climb under the covers, you can feel the warmth radiating from Charles’ side of the bed, a comforting presence in the quiet room.

For a while, you both lie there in silence, the only sound the faint rustling of the sheets as you try to find a comfortable position. Despite your earlier nerves, you find yourself inching closer to him, drawn by the sense of safety he brings.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the darkness.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice soft.

You close your eyes, letting out a slow breath. And then, almost without thinking, you shift closer, until your head is resting on his shoulder, your body curled against his side.

Charles tenses for a moment, and you almost pull away, but then his arm wraps around you, holding you gently. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you is enough. It’s not romantic or suggestive — just a simple, comforting embrace that makes you feel less alone.

You relax into his warmth, feeling a sense of peace wash over you that you haven’t felt in what feels like forever. The road trip, the bucket list, everything fades into the background as you allow yourself to just be in this moment.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of Charles’ arms, you can’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — you’re starting to heal.

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the small inn room. You stir slightly, the warmth of the shared bed coaxing you into a slow wakefulness. Charles is still beside you, his breath even, his face relaxed in sleep. It’s almost surreal how peaceful this moment feels, as if the world outside has paused just for the two of you.

You turn onto your side, propping yourself up on an elbow, and watch him for a moment. The lines of worry that usually crease his brow are gone, replaced by a serenity that makes him seem younger, almost boyish. You wonder how he manages to carry so much weight on his shoulders and still offer you comfort, still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The faint clatter of dishes from downstairs pulls you out of your thoughts. You slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. The cool wooden floor sends a shiver up your spine as you pad over to the small window. The view outside is a picturesque scene of rolling hills and a cobblestone street winding through the tiny village. It’s the kind of place that feels untouched by time, where life moves at a slower, more deliberate pace.

A soft knock on the door startles you. You glance back at Charles, who stirs but doesn’t wake. Quietly, you open the door to find the innkeeper, a woman in her late fifties with a kind face and a warm smile.

“Good morning,” she whispers. “Breakfast is ready whenever you and your friend are.”

You nod, offering her a smile in return. “Thank you. We’ll be down soon.”

She leaves you with a slight nod, and you close the door softly behind her. Turning back to the bed, you see Charles is awake now, blinking away sleep. He stretches lazily, his eyes finding yours, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you reply, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “The innkeeper says breakfast is ready.”

He nods, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I’ll be down in a minute. You go ahead.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you nod and head downstairs. The small dining area is cozy, with a fireplace crackling softly in one corner. The smell of freshly baked bread and brewed coffee fills the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation. You take a seat at one of the wooden tables, the innkeeper greeting you with a pot of coffee.

“Is it just the two of you?” She asks, pouring you a cup.

“Yes, just us,” you say, taking a grateful sip. The warmth of the coffee spreads through you, waking you up fully.

“Such a lovely young man,” she comments, a twinkle in her eye. “You’re lucky to have someone like him.”

You smile at that, unsure how to respond. Are you lucky? It feels strange to think of Charles in that way when the loss of your husband is still so fresh, still so raw. But you can’t deny that Charles has brought something into your life that you didn’t know you needed — comfort, companionship, and maybe even a little bit of hope.

Charles appears a few minutes later, his hair slightly tousled from sleep, but he looks more awake now. He greets the innkeeper with a polite nod before taking the seat across from you.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, reaching for a piece of the fresh bread.

“I did,” you admit. “And you?”

“Better than I have in a while,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his tone that makes you believe him.

The innkeeper returns with plates of food — scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and more of the bread you’ve already sampled. It’s simple, but it’s the kind of breakfast that warms you from the inside out, reminding you of the comforts of home.

As you both eat in companionable silence, Charles looks up at you, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Have you ever been to Monaco?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. “No, I haven’t. I’ve heard it’s beautiful, though.”

“It is,” he agrees, a smile playing on his lips. “Would you like to go?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Of course I would, but realistically, I know I probably never will. Life has a way of getting in the way of things like that.”

Charles’ smile widens, his eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s not true at all, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow, not sure where he’s going with this. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because my mother is expecting us for dinner tonight,” he says casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You stare at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. “Wait, what?”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You heard me. We’re going to Monaco. My mother has been asking about you, actually.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find the words. “Charles, I ... I don’t know what to say. That’s ... that’s incredibly sweet, but I don’t want to impose. And we haven’t exactly been planning on going to Monaco.”

“You’re not imposing,” Charles insists, reaching across the table to take your hand. “She’s already expecting us, and it would make her really happy to meet you.”

You look down at his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into your skin. There’s something about the way he says it, so earnest and sincere, that makes it hard to say no.

“Are you sure?” You ask, your voice soft.

“Absolutely,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “Let’s make the most of this adventure, okay?”

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay. Let’s go to Monaco.”

The drive to Monaco is nothing short of breathtaking. The Ferrari roars to life as Charles maneuvers it expertly along the winding coastal roads, the Mediterranean Sea sparkling to your right. The windows are down, and the wind whips through your hair, carrying with it the scent of saltwater and the promise of something new.

Charles hums along to the music playing softly through the speakers, glancing over at you every so often with a contented smile. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your heart flutter, and you find yourself smiling back, unable to resist the infectious energy that seems to surround him.

When you finally cross the border into Monaco, it feels like stepping into another world. The city is a blend of old-world charm and modern luxury, with grand buildings perched on cliffs overlooking the sea and sleek yachts bobbing in the harbor. The streets are bustling with life, but there’s an air of sophistication and elegance that sets it apart from anywhere else you’ve been.

Charles navigates the narrow streets with ease, eventually pulling up in front of an apartment building that exudes quiet elegance. He cuts the engine and turns to you with a smile. “We’re here.”

You take a deep breath, your nerves suddenly kicking in. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

Charles reaches over and takes your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You have nothing to be nervous about. She’s going to love you.”

You nod, trying to calm the butterflies in your stomach as you step out of the car. Charles comes around to your side, taking your hand once more as he leads you up the steps to the building. The door opens with a soft creak, and you find yourself in a beautifully decorated foyer, the scent of fresh flowers filling the air.

Charles leads you down a hallway, stopping in front of a door with a gold number plate. He looks at you, a reassuring smile on his face, before knocking softly.

The door opens almost immediately, and there stands a woman who can only be Pascale. She’s petite, with kind eyes and a warm smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. Her face lights up when she sees Charles, and she immediately pulls him into a hug.

“Charles, mon chéri,” she says, her voice filled with affection.

Charles hugs her back, and you can see the love between them in the way they hold each other, the way they speak without words. When they finally pull apart, Pascale turns her attention to you, her smile softening even more.

“And you must be Y/N,” she says, stepping forward to embrace you as well. Her hug is warm and comforting, the kind of hug that only a mother could give.

You hug her back, feeling a wave of emotion wash over you. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this kind of maternal warmth, and it brings tears to your eyes. But they’re good tears, the kind that remind you that maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to heal.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you,” Pascale says, pulling back to look at you. “Charles has told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you reply with a small smile, trying to compose yourself.

Pascale laughs softly, a musical sound that fills the hallway. “Only the best.”

Charles takes your hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Shall we?”

Pascale nods, stepping back to allow you both inside. As you step into the warm, inviting space, you can’t help but feel a sense of belonging. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

Pascale’s apartment is cozy, filled with warm lighting and the comforting smell of something delicious simmering in the kitchen. You’re still standing by the door when she pulls you into a tight hug, her embrace firm yet gentle, and in that moment, you feel a wave of unexpected comfort.

“Welcome, mon ange,” Pascale murmurs in your ear, her voice soft and motherly, the kind you haven't felt in so long. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

You blink back the tears that suddenly prick at your eyes. There’s a part of you that’s still surprised to be here, in Monaco, of all places, with Charles — let alone meeting his mother. “Thank you,” you manage to say, feeling a little overwhelmed by her warmth.

Charles gives you an encouraging smile as he slips out of his shoes, motioning for you to do the same. “Come on,” he says lightly, “I told Maman we’d help with dinner.”

You glance at Pascale, who’s already moving toward the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Nonsense,” Pascale calls over her shoulder. “You’re our guest, and in this house, guests are family.”

Charles nudges you playfully. “She means it. Better get in there before she tries to do everything herself.”

You follow them into the kitchen, trying to shake off the nerves that have settled in your stomach. The space is as welcoming as the rest of the apartment, filled with the sounds of something sizzling on the stove and the scent of fresh herbs. Pascale is already at work, her hands moving deftly as she chops vegetables with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

Charles rolls up his sleeves and grabs a cutting board, handing you one as well. “Here,” he says with a grin, “let’s show Maman what we’ve got.”

You’re not much of a cook, but there’s something about the way Charles and Pascale move around the kitchen that makes you feel at ease. Before long, the three of you are working together, chopping and stirring and laughing as Pascale regales you with stories from Charles’ childhood.

“He was always getting into trouble,” she says with a fond smile, passing you a bowl of something that smells divine. “Climbing trees, chasing after the neighborhood cats ...”

“Maman,” Charles groans, but he’s grinning, his eyes sparkling with that same mischievous glint you’ve seen more than once.

You chuckle, picturing a younger Charles, wild and full of energy. It’s easy to see where he gets his charm — Pascale is a force of nature, and the love she has for her son is palpable in every word, every look she sends his way.

As dinner comes together, you find yourself opening up to Pascale in a way you didn’t expect. She asks about your life, your past, and though it’s hard to talk about your husband, something about her gentle demeanor makes it easier.

“I’m sorry,” you say at one point, when the conversation dips into quieter territory. “I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

Pascale shakes her head, her eyes full of understanding. “You didn’t, dear. It’s important to talk about the people we’ve loved and lost. It keeps them with us.”

Her words resonate with you, and for a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth of the kitchen and the comfort of their presence wash over you.

“Your husband,” Pascale says after a beat, her voice soft. “He sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

“He was,” you whisper, your throat tightening with emotion. “He really was.”

Pascale reaches out, covering your hand with hers. “And you,” she says gently, “are an incredible woman.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod, swallowing back the tears that threaten to spill over. Charles catches your eye from across the kitchen, giving you a small, encouraging smile, and you feel a surge of gratitude for him — for bringing you here, for making you feel like you’re not alone.

Dinner is a simple affair, but it’s one of the best meals you’ve had in a long time. The conversation flows easily, and for a while, it feels like you’re part of something you’ve been missing for so long — a family.

At some point during the evening, you and Pascale find yourselves alone at the table. Charles has stepped out to take a call, leaving you with Pascale, who has been watching you with a thoughtful expression.

“You know,” she begins, her voice gentle, “when Charles told me about you, I could see how much he cares. He’s a good boy, my Charles, but he doesn’t let people in easily.”

You feel your cheeks warm under her scrutiny. “He’s been ... incredibly kind to me,” you say softly. “I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

Pascale nods, as if she already knows. “He’s been through a lot, just like you. Losing his father, and then Jules ... it changed him.”

There’s a sadness in her eyes, and you realize that, like you, she’s carrying her own grief. “I’m sorry,” you say, the words feeling inadequate. “I didn’t mean to bring up-”

“Don’t apologize,” Pascale interrupts, reaching across the table to take your hand. “It’s good to talk about these things, to remember. Charles ... he doesn’t talk about it much, but I know it’s there, always.”

You nod, understanding all too well. The weight of loss is something that never truly goes away; it just becomes a part of you.

“I see a lot of his father in him,” Pascale continues, her voice wistful. “That determination, that drive to be the best. But it’s more than that. He’s got a good heart, my Charles. He cares deeply, even if he doesn’t always show it.”

You smile, thinking of the way Charles has been with you — patient, understanding, always knowing just what to say to make you feel better. “He does,” you agree. “He’s ... he’s been more than I could have ever asked for.”

Pascale’s gaze softens, and for a moment, she just looks at you, as if she’s seeing something she’s been hoping to find. “I’m glad he has you,” she says finally. “I think you’re good for each other.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that, so you just nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions swirling inside you. It’s too soon to think about what all of this means, but there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder where this is going — what it could become.

Before you can dwell on it too much, Charles returns, his usual easygoing demeanor back in place. “Everything okay?” He asks, glancing between you and Pascale.

“Perfect,” Pascale replies with a smile, but there’s something in her eyes that makes you think she knows more than she’s letting on.

The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable blur, with more stories and laughter, and by the time you’re getting ready to leave, you feel like you’ve known Pascale for much longer than just a few hours.

As you’re putting on your coat, Pascale pulls Charles aside, and you see her lean in close, whispering something to him. He nods, his expression serious, and when he glances back at you, there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

“What did she say?” You ask when you’re finally alone with Charles, walking back to the car.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just that she likes you,” he says simply. “A lot.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but there’s also a flicker of something else — something that feels a lot like hope.

“She’s wonderful,” you say honestly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Charles stops walking, turning to face you. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly. “I’m just glad you came.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re an incredible person, you know that?”

You blink, taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. “I’m just trying to get by,” you admit quietly.

He nods, his hand lingering on your cheek for just a moment longer. “Aren’t we all?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just give him a small smile, hoping he understands.

You reach the car, and Charles opens the door for you, his hand resting lightly on your back as you slide inside. There’s something different in the air between you, something unspoken but undeniably there, and as you drive away from Pascale’s apartment, you can’t help but wonder what it all means.

What you do know, though, is that you’re not alone anymore — not really. Charles is here, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

The drive from Pascale’s apartment to Charles’ place is filled with comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional hum of the engine and the soft tunes playing on the car’s stereo. You find yourself stealing glances at Charles every now and then, noticing how relaxed he seems, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, the other is lightly to the rhythm of the music. His calmness was contagious, and you lean back in your seat, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

When the car finally pulls into an underground parking garage, Charles cuts the engine and turns to you with a soft smile. “Ready to meet Leo?” He asks, his tone almost teasing.

“Leo?” You echo, raising an eyebrow.

“My dog,” Charles clarifies, his smile growing. “He’s ... enthusiastic, to say the least.”

You laugh lightly. “I think I can handle enthusiastic.”

Charles leads you to the elevator, and a few moments later, you are stepping into a sleek, modern apartment. It is tastefully decorated, with large windows that offer a stunning view of the city. Before you could take in all the details, a high-pitched bark echoes through the space, and a small beige dachshund comes skidding around the corner, his tiny legs moving at lightning speed as he raced toward Charles.

“Leo!” Charles greets the dog with a wide grin, crouching down to scoop him up. The dachshund wiggles excitedly in his arms, his tail wagging furiously. “This is Y/N,” Charles introduces, turning Leo’s attention to you. “Be nice.”

You kneel down, and Leo wasted no time leaping from Charles’ arms to yours, showering your face with a flurry of enthusiastic licks. You can’t help but laugh as you try to fend off the affectionate assault, gently rubbing the little dog’s back.

“He’s adorable,” you say, looking up at Charles with a wide smile. But when your eyes meet his, you noticed the way he was watching you — softly, intently, as if seeing you in a new light. It was the kind of look you hadn’t seen since ... since James. The thought hits you with a sudden pang, but there is no sadness in it. Just a quiet, tender acknowledgment of the past and the present.

Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat as he straightens up. “I’m glad you like him,” he says, his voice a touch quieter now. “He’s been good company.”

You stand, Leo still wriggling happily in your arms. “I can see why.”

Charles smiles again, that same gentle warmth in his eyes. “Come on, let me show you to your room. I had one of the guest rooms made up for you.”

You follow him down a short hallway, the soft pads of Leo’s paws following close behind. Charles pushes open a door, revealing a cozy, well-appointed room with a large bed, a dresser, and a window that looks out over the city skyline. Your bags are neatly placed at the foot of the bed.

“I hope it’s comfortable enough,” Charles says, glancing around the room as if assessing it himself.

“It’s perfect,” you assure him, setting Leo down on the floor. The little dog immediately hops onto the bed, circling a few times before settling into a comfortable spot.

Charles chuckles. “Looks like you’ve already got company.”

You smile, sitting on the edge of the bed and giving Leo another affectionate pat. “He’s a good boy.”

There’s a pause, comfortable and full of unspoken things. Charles lingers by the door, as if he wants to say something but is weighing his words.

“If you need anything,” he finally says, “my room’s just down the hall. Don’t hesitate to knock.”

You nod, appreciating the offer more than you could put into words. “Thank you, Charles. For everything.”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, it seems like he might say something more. But instead, he simply nods, giving you a small, almost bashful smile before stepping back into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, his voice warm and sincere.

“Goodnight, Charles.”

As the door closes behind him, you’re left alone in the quiet room, Leo’s soft breathing the only sound. You sit there for a moment, letting everything that had happened over the past few days wash over you. The unexpected kindness of a stranger who is becoming so much more, the gentle way he helped you navigate the grief that still lingered like a shadow ... and the way he looked at you, as if he saw something in you that you’d almost forgotten was there.

With a deep breath, you lie back on the bed, Leo curling up beside you. The city lights twinkle through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. You stare up at the ceiling, feeling a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. Maybe, just maybe, you are beginning to heal.

And as you drift off to sleep, you find yourself thinking of the days to come, and the possibility of something new and beautiful growing from the ashes of what you’d lost.

***

The next morning, Charles is practically buzzing with excitement as he leads you out of his apartment and towards the harbor. His hand is warm and sure around yours, and you can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

The sky is a brilliant shade of blue, the kind of color that seems to only exist in this part of the world, with the sun glinting off the water and the scent of salt in the air. The harbor is alive with activity, the gentle hum of boats rocking in the marina, the occasional laughter of tourists, and the distant sounds of a city going about its day.

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” Charles says, his voice light and cheerful. “It’s a bit of a hidden gem. The tourists don’t usually find it, but the locals love it.”

You laugh softly, looking up at him as you walk side by side. “Sounds perfect. I’m always up for good food.”

Charles grins at that, his eyes twinkling with a boyish charm. “Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”

The walk is leisurely, and as you near the harbor, you notice how Charles slows his pace, as if wanting to savor every moment. The way he talks about Monaco, you can tell how much he loves it here, how much this place means to him. It’s like seeing the city through his eyes, and you find yourself appreciating the little details more — the old stone buildings, the narrow streets, the way the sunlight reflects off the water.

The brunch spot is tucked away, a small, unassuming place with a few tables outside, shaded by a striped awning. The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods wafts through the air, and you immediately feel at home. Charles greets the owner like an old friend, exchanging a few words in rapid French before leading you to a cozy table by the window.

You sit down, and Charles orders for the both of you — pastries, fresh fruit, eggs cooked just the way you like them, and, of course, coffee.

As you sip your coffee and nibble on a flaky croissant, you take in the surroundings. The café is quaint and charming, with wooden tables and mismatched chairs, the kind of place where you could easily spend hours just watching the world go by. It’s clear that Charles has a deep connection to this place, and you feel honored that he’s sharing it with you.

“This place,” you say, setting your coffee cup down, “it’s perfect.”

Charles smiles softly, his gaze lingering on your face. “I knew you’d like it.”

For a while, the two of you talk about everything and nothing — his childhood in Monaco, your favorite books, the little things that make life sweet. There’s a comfort in the conversation, a sense of ease that comes from being with someone who understands you, who doesn’t need you to be anything other than yourself.

After brunch, Charles suggests a walk along the harbor. The day is warm, the sun high in the sky, and as you walk, you can feel the tension of the past few days begin to melt away. The conversation flows easily, laughter coming more often than not, and you realize how much you’ve missed this — missed feeling alive, missed the simple pleasure of being in the moment.

But as the afternoon wears on, the sky begins to darken. You glance up, noticing the heavy clouds gathering overhead, and before you can say anything, the first raindrop falls.

Charles looks up at the sky, a grin spreading across his face. “Looks like we’re in for a bit of rain.”

You laugh, holding out your hand as the raindrops begin to fall faster, harder. “A bit? This looks like a full-on storm.”

The rain comes quickly, turning from a light drizzle to a steady downpour in a matter of moments. The tourists around you scatter, seeking shelter under awnings and in shops, but Charles doesn’t move. Instead, he looks at you, his expression playful, his eyes daring.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand again, this time with more urgency. “Let’s do something crazy.”

You’re about to ask what he means, but then you see the look in his eyes, and you know. You know exactly what he’s thinking.

Without another word, he pulls you into the open, right into the middle of the empty street. The rain is cold against your skin, soaking through your clothes in seconds, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything in this moment except the feeling of the rain on your face, the sound of Charles’ laughter, the way he spins you around like you’re in the middle of some grand ballroom instead of a rain-soaked street.

You let go. You let go of all the sadness, all the pain, all the fear. You let go and dance, not caring if you look silly, not caring if anyone is watching. It’s just you and Charles and the rain.

For the first time in a long time, you feel free.

And then, without even thinking, you lean in, and Charles is there, meeting you halfway. His lips are warm and soft against yours, a stark contrast to the cold rain, and you can feel the gentle pressure of his hands on your waist, holding you close, grounding you in this moment.

The kiss is slow, tender, as if Charles is trying to convey everything he’s feeling without saying a word. There’s a sense of rightness in it, like this is where you’re supposed to be, like this is what you’ve been missing.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, the rain still pouring down around you, but neither of you seems to care. You look up at Charles, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his face, and you can’t help but smile.

“I’ve never danced in the rain before,” you say, your voice barely audible over the sound of the downpour.

Charles grins, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Neither have I. But I’m glad my first time was with you.”

You laugh softly, leaning your forehead against his. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

He chuckles, his arms tightening around you. “Maybe a little. But sometimes the best things in life are a little crazy.”

You close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you, feeling the weight of the past few weeks slowly lifting off your shoulders. For the first time since you lost James, you feel like you’re truly living again. And it’s because of Charles.

The rain shows no signs of stopping, but you don’t care. You could stand here forever, in this moment, with Charles’s arms around you and the rain falling like a blessing from the sky.

But eventually, the cold starts to seep into your bones, and Charles pulls back, his hands still on your waist, his eyes searching yours.

“Let’s get out of the rain,” he says softly. “We don’t want to catch a cold.”

You nod, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace, and together you make your way back towards the apartment, the rain still falling around you, but your heart feeling lighter than it has in months.

As you walk, Charles slips his hand into yours again, and you glance over at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. You’re not sure what’s happening between you and Charles, but for the first time, you’re not afraid of it. You’re not afraid to see where this might go.

When you reach the apartment, you’re both soaked to the bone, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, but you’re laughing, unable to stop the joy bubbling up inside you.

Charles unlocks the door and ushers you inside, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I think we might need to dry off a bit.”

You laugh, nodding in agreement as you look around the familiar space. Leo is waiting by the door, his tail wagging furiously as he barks excitedly, clearly not pleased that you both got caught in the rain without him.

Charles crouches down, rubbing Leo behind the ears. “Hey, baby. We didn’t mean to leave you out of the fun.”

Leo licks Charles’s face enthusiastically before trotting over to you, looking up with big, expectant eyes. You can’t help but smile as you reach down to pet him, feeling a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the rain.

Charles stands, his eyes soft as he watches you with Leo. “Let’s get you some dry clothes,” he says gently, leading you down the hall.

You follow him, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. There’s something about being here, with Charles, that feels right. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And as Charles hands you a towel and one of his oversized shirts, you realize that maybe you’re finally ready to start letting go of the past and embracing whatever the future holds. With Charles by your side, it feels like anything is possible.

As you dry off and change into the warm, comfortable clothes Charles gave you, you can’t help but smile at the thought. Maybe this isn’t just about ticking off items on a bucket list. Maybe it’s about finding yourself again. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about finding something more.

***

You fall asleep that night, still feeling the warmth of Charles’ arms wrapped around you as he whispered a soft goodnight. His gentle kiss, tentative yet filled with an unspoken promise, lingers on your lips even as you drift into slumber.

But in your dreams, the world shifts.

You find yourself standing in a place both familiar and strange — a field of golden wheat, the sun setting in the distance, casting a warm, orange glow across the horizon. The sky is endless, blending into shades of pink and purple, as if the heavens themselves were painted with the softest brushstrokes.

And there he is. James.

He’s standing a few feet away, his back to you, hands in his pockets, the way he always used to stand when he was deep in thought. The wind rustles the wheat around him, and for a moment, you just watch him, your heart aching with the longing that never really goes away.

“James ...” Your voice is soft, trembling, almost afraid that speaking his name will shatter the dream.

He turns slowly, his familiar smile, that same one that used to make you feel like everything would be okay, spreads across his face. He’s exactly as you remember him — tousled brown hair, slightly crooked nose from that time he tried to impress you by skiing down a slope far too steep, and those eyes, those deep, warm eyes that always seemed to understand you better than you understood yourself.

“Hey, you,” he says, his voice carrying the same teasing lilt that always made you laugh, no matter how bad your day had been.

You move towards him, your feet sinking into the soft earth, but it feels as though the distance between you never changes. The closer you try to get, the farther he seems. “I miss you,” you say, and your voice cracks under the weight of the words. “I miss you so much, Jamie.”

“I know,” he says, and his voice is soft, understanding. “I miss you too, but I’m here now.”

You finally reach him, your fingers itching to touch him, to feel his warmth, but there’s a hesitance within you, a fear that touching him will break the fragile illusion. “I’m scared,” you confess, the tears that have been gathering in your eyes finally spilling over. “I’m scared of moving on, of letting go … of forgetting you.”

James takes a step closer, and suddenly, he’s right in front of you. You can feel his warmth now, the comforting presence that had always been your anchor. He lifts a hand, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, just like he used to.

“You won’t forget me,” he says gently, his voice a soothing balm to your wounded heart. “You carry me with you, always. I’m a part of you, just like you’re a part of me.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, memorizing the feel of him, the sound of his voice. “But it feels like I’m betraying you … with Charles.”

James chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through you, filling you with a warmth that you hadn’t felt in so long. “Charles Leclerc, huh?” He steps back slightly, enough to meet your gaze fully. “Never knew you had a thing for fast cars and dangerous men.”

You can’t help but smile through your tears. “He’s … different. He’s kind, and patient, and he makes me feel … alive again.”

“That’s good, Y/N,” James says, his tone earnest, as if he’s trying to make you understand something crucial. “That’s what I want for you. I don’t want you to be stuck in the past, living with a ghost. I want you to live, to be happy, to love again.”

“But you-”

“I’ll always be with you,” he interrupts gently. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here,” he says, pressing a hand over your heart. “But you need to let yourself be happy. You need to let yourself find love, even if it’s not with me.”

A sob escapes your lips, and you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle the sound, but James pulls you into his arms, holding you close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s okay to love someone else. I want you to. You deserve that.”

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the scent that’s so uniquely him — earthy and warm, like freshly cut grass on a summer’s day. “I don’t know if I can,” you whisper. “It feels like losing you all over again.”

“You’re not losing me,” he reassures, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re gaining something beautiful. And if you’re worried about my approval ...” He grins, that mischievous glint in his eye that you always loved. “I mean, he’s no Max Verstappen, but Charles Leclerc? I guess he’s almost good enough for you.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, even as tears continue to fall. It’s absurd, really, this moment, this conversation, but it’s exactly what you needed.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” you murmur, shaking your head with a small smile.

James shrugs, a carefree gesture that was so him. “What can I say? I always had a soft spot for Max. But Charles … he’s got potential. Just … give him a chance, okay? For me?”

You nod, even though the idea terrifies you. “I’ll try,” you whisper. “For you.”

James smiles, a sad, but proud smile, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, the same way he used to when he wanted to comfort you without words. “That’s all I ask. And Y/N ... don’t wait too long, okay? Life is too short for that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, even though your heart is heavy with the thought of truly moving on.

James takes a step back, his form beginning to fade into the golden light of the sunset. “I love you, Y/N. I always will. But it’s time for you to live again.”

“Goodbye, Jamie,” you say, your voice trembling as he becomes more and more ethereal, like a shadow dissolving in the light. “I love you.”

He smiles one last time, his figure almost completely faded now. “And I love you. Always.”

The dream fades, and you’re left standing in that field of golden wheat alone, the sun sinking below the horizon, casting the world into twilight. But there’s a peace in your heart that you haven’t felt in a long time, a quiet acceptance that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to start letting go.

When you wake, your cheeks are damp with tears, but there’s a soft smile on your lips. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying the dream in your mind, feeling the weight of James’ words settle in your heart.

You know what he said is true. You know it’s what he would want. And you know, deep down, that it’s time to start allowing yourself to heal, to open up, and to let someone else in.

And as you think of Charles, of his patience, his kindness, his quiet understanding, you can’t help but feel a tiny spark of hope flickering in your chest — a hope that maybe, just maybe, you can find love again.

***

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Charles’ dining room, casting a soft, golden hue over the room. You sit at the table, trying to focus on the breakfast in front of you — a selection of pastries, fresh fruit, and coffee that Charles had lovingly laid out. Yet, the thoughts swirling in your mind make it hard to concentrate. Charles sits across from you, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet yours, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

The memories of the past few days are almost surreal: the unexpected road trip, the rain-soaked dance that ended with your first kiss, and the way Charles held you afterward, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. It’s been a whirlwind, but a beautiful one. And yet, as you take a sip of coffee, reality nudges its way back into your thoughts.

“I ... I should probably head back home soon,” you say, your voice hesitant, as if saying the words might make them less real. “I need to get back to work.”

The air in the room shifts. Charles’ smile fades just a little, replaced by a look of understanding, tinged with something you can’t quite place. Sadness? Disappointment? He sets down his coffee cup, his fingers playing with the handle as if it could offer him some guidance on what to say next.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone gentle, though you can hear the effort it takes to keep it light. “You have responsibilities, a life back home ...”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches a moment into something heavier, more significant. The silence is thick, filled with the unspoken truth that neither of you wants to confront: this bubble of time you’ve been living in, where only the two of you exist, is about to burst.

“I like you,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. They hang in the air, raw and vulnerable.

Charles looks up, his eyes locking onto yours. “I like you too,” he says, his voice low, steady, and filled with something that makes your heart skip a beat.

You both sit there for a moment, staring at each other, the weight of your mutual confession settling between you like a third presence at the table. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“I want to see where this goes,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly as you try to gather your thoughts. “But I don’t know how ... I mean, you’re always traveling for the races, and I-”

“Come with me,” Charles interrupts, his voice firm, almost urgent. “To the next race. And the one after that. I don’t want this to be just a beautiful memory. I want you there with me, every step of the way.”

His words hit you like a wave, washing over the fears and doubts that had been quietly gnawing at the back of your mind. The idea of uprooting your life, of stepping into his world, is daunting — but the thought of not being with him is even more unbearable.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “Are you sure?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to get in the way, or make things complicated.”

Charles leans forward, his hand reaching out to cover yours. His touch is warm, grounding. “You wouldn’t be in the way. I want this. I want you. And if it gets complicated, then we’ll figure it out together.”

The sincerity in his eyes is almost overwhelming. You’ve spent so long guarding your heart, protecting yourself from the pain of losing someone again, that the idea of opening up to love, to Charles, feels both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Two and a half weeks,” he continues, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s when the next race is. Come with me. We’ll have more time to figure this out, whatever this is.”

You nod slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay,” you say, your voice firming up with the decision. “I’ll come with you.”

A bright, relieved smile breaks across Charles’ face, and in that moment, you know you’ve made the right choice. Whatever happens, you’ll face it together. The thought is both comforting and thrilling.

Charles stands up, pulling you gently to your feet. “I think we should seal this decision properly,” he says, his tone light, teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the mood from becoming too serious. “And how do you propose we do that?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he steps closer, his hands coming to rest on your hips as he leans in, capturing your lips with his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s different from the kiss you shared in the rain — this one is slower, more deliberate, filled with the promise of everything that could be. You melt into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders as you kiss him back, letting yourself get lost in the moment.

When you finally pull away, breathless and a little dizzy, Charles rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a contented smile on his lips. “I’m really glad you’re coming with me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of emotion.

“So am I,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and anticipation.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you stand there in Charles’ arms, the future doesn’t seem so scary anymore. In fact, it looks pretty damn wonderful.

***

18 Months Later

The cemetery is quiet, a solemn stillness that wraps around you and Charles as you walk down the winding path lined with weathered tombstones and ancient trees. The sky above is a muted gray, the kind that seems to reflect the heavy emotions you’ve been carrying with you.

Your hand is tightly clasped in Charles’, his grip firm and reassuring, but you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. He’s nervous, though he tries to hide it behind a small, gentle smile.

You haven’t been here since the funeral, since that awful day when you laid James to rest. The thought of returning to this place has always felt too overwhelming, like reopening a wound that never fully healed. But now, over a year and a half later, you’re here again, and this time, you’re not alone.

You lead Charles to the spot where James is buried. It’s a modest grave, marked by a simple headstone that bears his name, his dates, and a short inscription that never fails to bring tears to your eyes: Beloved husband, healer of hearts, taken too soon.

Charles lets go of your hand as you kneel in front of the grave, gently brushing away the few leaves that have settled on the stone. You trace James’ name with your fingers, the cold granite grounding you in a way that words never could. Charles stands a few steps behind you, giving you space, but his presence is a comforting anchor in this sea of grief.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, silent and lost in memories, before you finally speak. “Hi, James,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I-I brought someone with me. I think you’d like him.” You swallow the lump in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks. “His name is Charles. He’s ... he’s very special to me. You’d probably think he’s not good enough for me, but you were always a little biased.”

A small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you glance back at Charles, who’s watching you with a mixture of love and concern. “Would you ... would you mind giving us a moment?” Charles asks softly, stepping forward. “I — I’d like to talk to James, if that’s okay.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the request, but the earnestness in his eyes makes you nod. “Of course,” you murmur, rising to your feet. You lean in to kiss Charles on the cheek, squeezing his hand one last time before stepping away, giving him the privacy he’s asked for.

Charles waits until you’ve moved a respectful distance away, then turns his attention to the grave. He takes a deep breath, crouching down so he’s at eye level with the headstone. He feels awkward, talking to a man he’s never met, a man who was such a huge part of your life. But he knows this is important, that he needs to do this — for you, for James, and for himself.

“Hi, James,” Charles starts, his voice low and unsure. “I-I hope you don’t mind me talking to you like this. I’ve heard so much about you, and I know how much you mean to her.” He pauses, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving her the way you did, for making her so happy. She deserves that, you know? She deserves all the happiness in the world.”

Charles’ throat tightens, and he has to blink back the tears threatening to spill over. He hadn’t expected this to be so hard, hadn’t expected to feel this intense connection to a man he never knew. “I’m ... I’m going to propose to her,” he finally says, his voice shaking. “And I wanted to ask for your permission, if that’s okay. I know I can’t replace you, and I wouldn’t want to. You’ll always be a part of her, and I’ll never try to take that away.”

He swallows hard, his heart pounding in his chest. “But I love her, James. I love her so much, and I promise I’ll take care of her. I’ll do everything I can to make her happy, to make sure she feels loved every single day. I know she still loves you, and I’m okay with that. There’s more than enough room in her heart for both of us.”

Charles reaches out, placing a hand on the cool stone of the headstone, as if trying to make a connection with the man resting beneath it. “We’ve been talking about her moving to Monaco with me soon,” he continues, his voice steadying. “And I promise you, she’ll have free reign of my private jet to visit you whenever she wants. I’ll make sure she never feels like she has to choose between us.”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “I hope that’s okay with you, James. I hope ... I hope you’re at peace, wherever you are. And I hope you know that I’m going to love her with everything I have. I’ll do my best to make her as happy as you did. Thank you for that.”

Charles stays there for a moment longer, his hand still resting on the gravestone, before he finally stands. He wipes at his eyes, surprised to find them wet with tears, and glances over at you. You’re watching him, a mix of curiosity and love in your gaze, and he gives you a small, reassuring smile.

You walk back over to him, slipping your hand into his, and he squeezes it gently. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I ... I don’t know what you said, but thank you.”

Charles just nods, pulling you into a hug, holding you close as you both stand there in the quiet cemetery, the weight of your shared love and loss settling around you. It’s not an easy moment, but it’s one that feels right, like a necessary step forward in the journey you’ve been on together.

As you stand there in Charles’ arms, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. You know that James would have approved, that he would have wanted you to find happiness again, to find love again. And now, with Charles by your side, you finally feel like you can do that.

Eventually, you both turn to leave, hand in hand, walking back down the path toward the cemetery gates. As you reach the car, you glance back one last time at James’ grave, a soft smile on your lips. “Goodbye, Jamie,” you whisper. “Thank you for everything. I love you.”

Charles opens the car door for you, and as you slide into the passenger seat, you feel a sense of closure, of new beginnings. It’s not about moving on, you realize, but about moving forward — carrying the love you’ve known with you into whatever comes next.

And as Charles drives away from the cemetery, his hand resting on your thigh, you know that whatever comes next, you won’t be facing it alone.

***

The reception hall is filled with soft, warm light, the kind that makes everyone look beautiful and the world seem perfect for just a moment. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter create a background hum that feels almost comforting in its familiarity.

You stand at the edge of the room, looking out at the faces of friends and family, people who have watched you navigate the hardest years of your life and who are now here to celebrate this new chapter.

Charles is beside you, his hand resting gently on the small of your back, a touch so natural that it feels like it's always been there. When he smiles at you, there's a quiet understanding in his eyes, a love that has grown deep and steady, rooted in the soil of shared grief and the careful, tentative steps toward healing.

You know he can feel your nervousness — he’s always been able to read you so well — but there’s no rush, no pressure. Just his presence, anchoring you as you take a deep breath and step forward to the microphone.

The room gradually quiets as people realize you’re about to speak. The lump in your throat feels almost too big to swallow, and for a moment, you think you might not be able to get the words out. But then you feel Charles’ hand squeeze yours, a silent encouragement that you can do this, and suddenly, it’s easier to find your voice.

“Thank you,” you begin, and your voice wavers a little, but it’s steady enough. “Thank you all for being here today. I know that every bride says this, but it really does mean the world to us that you’re here to share this day with us.”

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with that same soft look he had when you first met Leo. His eyes are full of pride and love, and it gives you the strength to continue.

“Most of you know that today isn’t just about celebrating the love that Charles and I share, but it’s also about honoring the past that brought us here,” you say, and you can see some people nodding, their smiles tinged with understanding. “A few years ago, I lost my husband, James. He was an incredible man — kind, compassionate, and so full of life. And when he passed, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, let alone find love again.”

Your voice catches, and you have to pause to take another breath. The room is silent now, everyone hanging on your words.

“James left me a letter,” you say, and there’s a faint murmur as people who don’t know the story lean in, intrigued. “In that letter, he left me a bucket list of things he wanted me to experience, things he wished we could have done together but that he wanted me to do in his memory.”

You reach into your pocket and pull out the now well-worn piece of paper, carefully unfolding it as you speak. “The last item on that list was to find love again.”

A few people gasp quietly, and you can see some wiping their eyes, moved by the weight of those words. You feel your own tears threatening to fall, but you blink them back, determined to finish what you’ve started.

“For a long time, I didn’t think I could,” you admit, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think it was possible to let someone else into my heart after losing James. But then, I met Charles.”

You turn to look at him, and he smiles at you, a smile that is both gentle and reassuring. “Charles showed me that it’s okay to love again, that my heart is big enough to hold all the memories I have of James while still making room for new ones with him. He’s been patient, understanding, and so, so kind. And I know that James would have loved him just as much as I do.”

Charles’ eyes glisten with unshed tears, and when he squeezes your hand again, it’s not just to comfort you — it’s a shared moment of recognition, of understanding that this journey has been just as profound for him as it has been for you.

“I know that some people say you can only have one great love in a lifetime,” you continue, your voice growing steadier with each word. “But I think I’ve been incredibly lucky, because I’ve had two.”

The room is filled with the sound of sniffles and soft murmurs of agreement. You can see your family, who has been there through it all, nodding and smiling through their tears.

“So today, as we celebrate this new beginning, I want to take a moment to honor the man who brought us here. James, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you for loving me enough to let me go, for knowing that I needed to find happiness again. I know you’re here with us, in spirit, and I hope you’re proud.”

You pause, your heart heavy but full. “And to Charles, my Charlie … thank you for being brave enough to love me, even when it wasn’t easy. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to hold on to the past while embracing the future. I promise to love you with all of my heart, forever and always.”

The room is silent for a long moment after you finish speaking, and then the applause begins — soft at first, then growing louder as people rise to their feet, clapping not just for you and Charles, but for the love that has brought you both here, and for the man who made it all possible.

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to your temple as the applause swells around you. “I love you,” he whispers, and you can hear the emotion in his voice. “Thank you for sharing that with everyone. It was perfect.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back, your voice thick with tears. “And thank you, Charlie. For everything.”

The rest of the night is a blur of laughter, dancing, and celebration. But the memory of your speech, of standing up in front of everyone and sharing your heart so openly, will stay with you forever. And as you and Charles step onto the dance floor for your first dance as husband and wife, you feel a sense of peace, knowing that James is watching over you both, smiling as you take this next step forward together.

The music begins to play, a soft, romantic melody that wraps around you like a warm embrace. Charles pulls you closer, his arms around your waist as you sway together, and for the first time in a long time, you feel complete. It’s not that the pain of losing James has disappeared — it never will — but it has softened, and in its place, there is a new kind of love, one that is just as strong, just as true.

As you dance, you rest your head against Charles’ chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The guests fade into the background, and it’s just the two of you, moving together in perfect harmony. You know that this moment, this dance, is the beginning of a new chapter, one that you never imagined you would have, but one that you are so grateful for.

When the song ends, Charles lifts your chin with his finger, his eyes searching yours. “You okay?” He asks softly, his voice filled with concern.

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Instead, you press your lips to his in a tender kiss, one that says everything you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, and as you pull back, you see the tears in his eyes, a mirror of your own.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Charles smiles, his thumb brushing away the tear that slips down your cheek.

“No, thank you,” he says, his voice full of love and admiration. “For letting me be a part of this, for trusting me with your heart. I promise, I’ll take care of it.”

And as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you know that you’ve found what James wanted for you all along — someone who will love you just as deeply, just as fiercely, as he did. Someone who will walk with you through the good times and the bad, who will hold your hand and guide you through the darkest days, and who will celebrate the bright ones with joy and laughter.

You’ve found love again, just like James wanted, and it feels like coming home.

***

You park the car under the shade of a sprawling oak tree, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you step out, Charles following behind, holding Jacques in his arms.

The baby is cooing, tiny hands grabbing at Charles’ shirt as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. You pause for a moment, breathing in the cool air, trying to gather the courage to walk towards the familiar grave that you’ve avoided for so long.

Charles adjusts Jacques in his arms, the baby’s chubby legs kicking slightly as he looks around, taking in the new surroundings with wide eyes. You glance at Charles, and he gives you a small, encouraging nod. But this time, there’s no pressure. He’s letting you take the lead, letting you go at your own pace.

The last time you were here, you and Charles had just gotten engaged. The memory of Charles standing by James’ grave, asking for his blessing, is still vivid in your mind. And now, two years later, everything has changed. You’re married to Charles, and you have a beautiful baby boy. But standing here, in front of the man you once loved with all your heart, the weight of everything comes crashing down.

You take a deep breath and start walking towards the grave. The headstone is simple, elegant, just the way James would have wanted it. Fresh flowers have been placed there recently — probably by James’ parents, who visit regularly. A pang of guilt twists in your chest. You should have come sooner.

When you reach the grave, you kneel down, brushing your fingers lightly over the engraved letters of his name. The silence is thick, filled with everything you want to say but can’t find the words for. Charles stays a few steps back, giving you space, though you can feel his presence like a warm anchor, grounding you.

“Hi, Jamie,” you finally whisper, your voice trembling. “It’s ... it’s been a while, I know. I’m sorry for not visiting sooner.”

The words catch in your throat, and you have to pause, blinking back tears. You thought you were prepared for this, but being here, with so much time having passed, it’s harder than you imagined.

“I wanted to come sooner, but ... everything just got so overwhelming,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I’ve missed you so much. And I know you’re watching over us, but I needed to feel like I could do this ... like I could come back here and tell you everything.”

You glance back at Charles, who is now sitting on the grass with Jacques in his lap. The baby is looking up at the sky, oblivious to the somber mood, a tiny smile playing on his lips. When you turn back to the grave, the tears you've been holding back finally spill over.

“I want you to meet someone,” you say softly. You reach back, signaling Charles to bring Jacques over. Charles carefully lifts Jacques, walking over to you, and gently hands him to you. The baby gurgles, his small hand wrapping around your finger instinctively. You hold Jacques close, your tears falling onto his soft hair.

“This is Jacques,” you whisper, looking down at your son. “He’s named after you and Jules. Charles and I wanted to honor you both in some way.”

The name had been something you and Charles had discussed at length. When you found out you were pregnant, there was no hesitation in your minds who you wanted to name your son after. It felt like the right thing to do, like a way to keep a part of James alive in your new life.

“He’s ... he’s so beautiful, James,” you continue, your voice trembling with emotion. “I wish you were here to see him grow up. To be a part of his life. But I promise, I’ll tell him all about you. About how amazing you were, and how much you loved helping others. He’ll know his name carries a legacy.”

Jacques wiggles in your arms, and you press a soft kiss to his forehead. The tears continue to fall, but now they’re mixed with a sense of bittersweet acceptance. You look up at the sky, the clouds shifting lazily, and you wonder if James is watching, if he’s smiling down at you.

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with those soft eyes that seem to hold all the love in the world. He’s been so patient, so understanding, and in this moment, you realize how incredibly lucky you are to have found love again. It’s not something you ever thought would be possible, but here you are, standing between the past and the future, with a heart big enough to hold them both.

“Charles has been amazing,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’d like him, James. He’s so kind, and he understands ... he understands everything I’ve been through. He’s been so good to me, and to Jacques. I think you’d be happy to know that we found each other.”

Charles steps closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. The warmth of his body against yours is comforting, a reminder that you’re not alone in this. Jacques babbles, his tiny fingers reaching up to touch Charles’ face, and Charles chuckles softly, nuzzling his nose against Jacques' cheek.

You close your eyes, leaning back into Charles, letting yourself feel the full weight of the moment. The grief, the love, the hope — all of it swirling inside you like a storm that’s finally starting to calm.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I always will. But I’ve learned that it’s okay to move forward. To let myself be happy again. And I think ... I think you’d want that for me.”

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves in the trees, and for a brief moment, you swear you can feel James’ presence — like a gentle touch on your shoulder, a whisper in your ear, telling you that it’s okay. That he’s at peace, and he wants you to be too.

You turn slightly, pressing a kiss to Charles’ cheek, then look back at the grave, feeling a sense of closure that you didn’t think was possible.

“We’ll be back to visit,” you promise, your voice steadying. “I won’t wait so long next time. And Jacques will grow up knowing who you were, what you meant to us. He’ll know his name is special.”

Charles squeezes your hand, and you nod, letting him know you’re ready to go. You stand, brushing off your pants, and take one last look at James’ grave. The flowers sway gently in the breeze, and you feel a strange sense of peace settle over you. It’s not goodbye — it’s more of a “see you later.”

As you walk back to the car, Charles keeps his arm around your waist, holding you close. Jacques is still babbling happily, completely unaware of the emotional weight of the visit. But that’s okay — he’ll understand when he’s older. For now, you’re just grateful to have this moment, to feel like you’re honoring both the past and the future.

When you reach the car, you carefully buckle Jacques into his car seat, making sure he’s secure before you get in. Charles closes the door behind you, and as he starts the engine, you glance back at the grave, giving a small nod as if to say, “Thank you.”

As the car pulls away, you lean your head against the window, watching the trees blur past. Charles reaches over, taking your hand in his, and you smile softly, squeezing his hand in return.

It’s a long drive back home, but you don’t mind. You have everything you need right here with you. And as you close your eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you into a peaceful state, you realize that this is what James wanted for you — to find love again, to be happy, to live your life to the fullest.

And you will. For him, for Jacques, for Charles, and for yourself.

𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘 — 𝐝𝐣𝐬

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒...!

— when daniel forgets his relationship more the he likes to admit, his girlfriend, alaska, is done being put on the back burner of his life. ultimately deciding on breaking up with him, will daniel realize his mistake? or will we be left with only feeling grey?

chapter one.

chapter two.

chapter three.

chapter four.

chapter five.

chapter six.

chapter seven.

chapter eight.

chapter nine.

chapter ten.

chapter eleven.

chapter twelve.

chapter thirteen.

chapter fourteen.

chapter fifteen.

chapter sixteen.

chapter seventeen.

chapter eighteen.

chapter nineteen.

chapter twenty.

chapter twenty-one.

chapter twenty-two.

chapter twenty-three.

chapter twenty-four.

chapter twenty-five.

Masterslist 𝜗𝜚

Matthew Bernard Sturniolo 𝜗𝜚

Rated R video • Part 1 • Part 2 𝜗𝜚 •

Sexual Car video • Part 1 • Part 2 𝜗𝜚 •

(coming soon)

Wet Dreams 𝜗𝜚

Christopher Owen Sturniolo 𝜗𝜚

Crying on your birthday 𝜗𝜚

Rated R video (Chris’ Version) • Part 1 • Part 2 𝜗𝜚•

Moments with chris… 𝜗𝜚 (coming soon)

Back Scratches 𝜗𝜚 (coming soon)

Parents basement and pool tables 𝜗𝜚

(coming soon)

Nicolas Antonio Sturniolo 𝜗𝜚

Nothing yet!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Beneath the Bloodlines (Franco Colapinto) .𖥔 ݁ ˖.

“I don’t know. You seem... different, when no one’s watching.” ✶⋆.˚

Synopsis: You’re a privileged witch from a prestigious wizarding family, and you fall in love with Franco, a Muggle-born student. Forced to end your relationship to protect him, you’re torn between family duty and your own heart, struggling with the pain of your sacrifice as you can’t forget the love you lost.

Genre: Slowburn, Angst, Fluff

AU: Hogwarts!au

Pairing: Muggle!Franco x Pure-Blood!Reader

Warnings: Reader isn't a good person, but she means well. I gave them a good ending here because they lowkey weren't supposed to end up together, but I'm not that cruel I promise.

Note: Back to the Harry Potter fics while I try to figure out the ending to 'Cruising in Papaya' because I have so many things I wanna publish and have so many other fics planned. Anyways, I had fun writing this (aka breaking my own part), I hope you guys enjoy! Don't forget to like + reblog.

You sit at the end of a long dining table, the polished mahogany gleaming under the flickering light of enchanted chandeliers.

The walls of your family’s grand dining hall are lined with portraits of your ancestors—each one draped in regal wizarding robes, their eyes following you as if judging every breath you take.

Outside the frost-laced windows, the grounds of your estate stretch endlessly, blanketed by a soft mist that only adds to the manor’s imposing grandeur.

The clinking of silverware against fine china breaks the silence, but no amount of opulence can dull the sharpness in your father’s voice.

“Y/n, I trust you’ve been behaving appropriately at Hogwarts,” he says, his tone a mix of warning and expectation. His hawkish gaze fixes on you, and you feel the weight of the family name pressing down like the heavy pendant around your neck.

“Yes, Father,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral. It’s easier that way.

Your mother, seated to your left, places her wine glass down with a delicate hand. Her sharp eyes, so like yours, glint with something cold.

“Good. Because we’ve been receiving concerning reports about the school’s... lax attitudes. Headmaster’s leniency has allowed Muggle-borns to overstep their place.”

The word “Muggle-born” rolls off her tongue like a curse, and you’ve heard it too many times to flinch anymore. You’ve memorized the lectures, the justifications, the family’s obsessive need to uphold purity in the wizarding world. To them, tradition is everything.

“We’ve raised you to understand the importance of your bloodline,” she continues, her voice smooth but firm. “It’s not just your legacy—it’s your duty. And to ensure that you fulfill it, we’ve made arrangements.”

Your stomach tightens. You’ve been expecting this conversation, but the confirmation still twists something inside you.

“Arrangements?” you ask, keeping your voice steady, though you already know the answer.

Your father nods, a thin smile tugging at his lips.

“Charles Leclerc. A fine match. His family has the same values as ours, and their standing in the wizarding world is impeccable. He’s talented, from a distinguished bloodline, and will make a suitable husband.”

The room feels colder, despite the roaring fire in the hearth. You’ve met Charles a few times—at banquets, galas, and other events you’ve been forced to attend. He’s everything your parents want: charismatic, handsome, and firmly rooted in the beliefs that bind families like yours together. But to you, he’s a gilded cage waiting to snap shut.

Your mother’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know him better when he visits over the holidays. His family is eager to solidify this bond.”

They’ve decided your future, just as they’ve decided everything else. You nod, the weight of your family’s expectations sinking into your chest. You’re the perfect daughter in their eyes, but that perfection comes at a cost.

As the conversation shifts to other topics—affairs of the wizarding world, the latest scandals, and more disdain for Muggle-borns—you retreat into your thoughts. Outside, the mist deepens, cloaking the estate in an eerie quiet.

You wonder what it would be like to escape this life. To be free of the portraits’ judging eyes and your parents’ endless demands.

But then you think of him—the boy with a kind smile, who sees you as more than a name or a bloodline. Franco Colapinto, the one who’s already starting to unravel the carefully built walls around your heart.

Your mother’s voice interrupts again, crisp and demanding. “Y/n, are you listening?”

You straighten in your chair, the mask of obedience slipping easily back into place. “Yes, Mother,” you reply.

But in your heart and in your mind, the storm is already brewing. 

The first time you notice him, you’re standing in the middle of the Charms corridor, your wand clenched tightly in your hand. Around you, students bustle between classes, their chatter echoing off the high stone walls. But you’re stuck—utterly frustrated as the spell you’ve been practicing for weeks refuses to cooperate.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” you mutter again, flicking your wand in the precise motion Professor Flitwick demonstrated. The feather in front of you quivers but stubbornly refuses to rise.

You glance around, hoping no one’s paying attention. A member of your family struggling with such a simple spell? It’s mortifying.

“Try loosening your grip,” a voice says from behind you.

You turn sharply, surprised. Standing there is a boy you don’t recognize—dark hair slightly tousled, his tie a little crooked. He’s carrying a stack of books nearly as tall as he is, but there’s a kind smile on his face that somehow makes the intrusion feel less insulting.

“And why would I take advice from you?” you reply, your tone sharper than intended.

The boy’s smile doesn’t falter. “Because I’ve been watching you try for five minutes, and you’re gripping your wand like it’s about to run off.”

You blink, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. He doesn’t sound mocking—if anything, there’s a genuine attempt to help.

“Fine,” you mutter, adjusting your hold slightly. “Happy?”

“Not quite,” he says, stepping closer. He sets his books down and takes out his own wand. “It’s more of a swish and flick, like this.” He demonstrates the movement with practiced ease, and his feather floats gracefully into the air.

You mimic his motion, this time feeling the spell click into place. Your feather rises, bobbing gently in the air. Relief washes over you, but it’s quickly replaced by a mix of irritation and embarrassment.

“See? Told you,” he says, grinning.

You narrow your eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Franco Colapinto,” he replies, extending a hand. “I’m new this year. Muggle-born.”

There’s a beat of silence as the word sinks in. Muggle-born. Normally, it’s the kind of thing your parents would scoff at, the kind of thing you’ve been taught to look down on. But standing here, looking at his easy smile and his confidence, you can’t summon the disdain they’d expect from you.

“Y/n,” you say finally, ignoring his hand and raising an eyebrow instead. “You’re awfully bold for someone who doesn’t even know their way around the castle yet.”

“I know enough,” he counters. “Like how to help someone who’s too proud to ask.”

For a moment, you’re stunned into silence. Then, before you can think better of it, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“Thank you,” you say, though the words feel strange coming out of your mouth.

Franco shrugs, picking up his books again. “Anytime.”

As he walks away, disappearing into the crowd of students, you can’t help but watch him go. There’s something about him—something different.

You turn back to your feather, still floating in the air. For the first time, the corridors feel a little less cold, the walls a little less confining.

You don’t know it yet, but that moment will change everything.

The library is quiet, the only sounds being the rustle of parchment and the occasional whisper between students.

You sit at a corner table, your usual spot tucked away from prying eyes. Your open textbook blurs before you as your mind wanders to the task at hand—a complex potion formula that refuses to make sense.

“Stuck again?”

You glance up, startled. Franco stands there, a playful grin on his face, a quill tucked behind his ear.

“I’m not stuck,” you say quickly, closing the book as though that will prove your point.

He raises an eyebrow and slides into the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. “Let me guess. Amortentia?”

You freeze. “How did you—”

“You were muttering ingredients under your breath.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “The trick is to focus on the timing, not the amount. Most people get it wrong because they think adding powdered moonstone too early will speed things up.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”

Franco shrugs. “Reading ahead. You should try it sometime.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet, here I am, helping you.”

Despite yourself, you laugh softly. It’s strange how easy it feels—this banter, this warmth. With him, there’s no need for the polished facade your family expects.

The next time you run into him, the evening air is crisp as the last of the Quidditch practice wraps up. The field is littered with players still chatting and laughing, broomsticks slung over their shoulders. 

The sound of footsteps echoes as they move toward the changing rooms, leaving the pitch growing quieter with each passing second.

You remain where you are, perched on the edge of the Quidditch stands, watching the fading light of the day paint the sky in streaks of pink and gold.

You’re not one of the players—never have been—but something about the energy of the game draws you in. There’s a certain freedom in watching, in being part of something without actually belonging to it.

The seat next to you creaks, and you glance to your left. Franco is there, his broom tucked under his arm, hair slightly disheveled from practice. He’s out of breath, cheeks flushed with the excitement of the game.

“Not heading back to the castle?” he asks, his voice low but amused.

You shake your head. “I like the quiet up here.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you, his gaze scanning the empty field. “Sometimes, I just need to get away from the noise.”

You don’t respond at first, but the silence is comfortable, more comfortable than you expected. The hum of the breeze around you seems to fill in the gaps.

You glance at him, noticing the way the fading light makes his eyes seem lighter, warmer. He catches your gaze and gives you a small, knowing smile.

“What?” you ask, unable to hide the curiosity in your voice.

“Just thinking,” he replies, his voice quiet. “You’re not what I expected.”

You raise an eyebrow, not quite sure how to take that. “How so?”

“I don’t know. You seem... different, when no one’s watching.”

Your heart stutters for a moment, unsure how to respond to such an honest observation. The words hang between you, vulnerable and real, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of the way his presence fills the space beside you.

“Maybe I don’t like being watched,” you say after a beat, looking away, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of the bench.

He nods slowly, his expression softening. “I get that.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. You sit in the quiet together, the sounds of the castle now distant and muted. The only company is the soft rustle of the wind, the fading warmth of the sun, and the faint whispers of the past few hours of Quidditch practice.

Finally, Franco speaks again. “You know, it’s funny... I thought being on the team would be the thing that made me feel like I belonged here.” He laughs softly, almost to himself. “But it’s actually the opposite. I feel more myself when I’m not trying to be anything else.”

You turn your head to look at him, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. There’s a rawness to his words, something that feels utterly honest, something you never expected from someone like him—someone who comes from the exact world your family would call “unworthy.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re just playing a part?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Franco turns toward you, his gaze steady and searching. “All the time,” he says, but there’s no bitterness in his tone, just an acceptance that feels almost freeing. “But the trick is not to let it swallow you whole.”

His words settle over you, making your heart beat a little faster. It’s strange, how easy it feels to talk to him, to let down your guard in a way you’ve never allowed yourself to do before.

For a long while, neither of you moves. The field below you is empty now, the stands quiet except for the occasional gust of wind.

And just for a moment, you wonder what it might be like to live like him—to exist without constantly measuring every move, every word, every expectation. To simply be.

But that life isn’t for you. Not in the world you were born into.

Still, you sit there, side by side, feeling the weight of the world shift ever so slightly in his presence.

Finally, as the last light fades from the sky, you stand, reluctant to break the stillness between you.

“Guess I should go,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper.

Franco looks up at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’ll walk you back.”

You hesitate but nod. “Alright.”

As you walk side by side toward the castle, his presence beside you is somehow both grounding and unsettling, like a constant reminder of a world you don’t fully belong to, but can’t quite let go of.

The castle is eerily quiet at night, the only light coming from the torches lining the stone walls.

You walk beside Franco, your steps muffled by the thick rugs underfoot, the soft glow from the torches casting flickering shadows on the ancient stone. There’s something almost magical about the stillness, a sense that the world beyond these walls is far away.

“If we get caught, this is your fault,” you whisper, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. You can’t quite suppress the thrill of sneaking through the halls at night, the usual sense of duty and expectation left behind for a while.

Franco smirks, holding up a folded piece of parchment. “Relax. I’ve got the map. We’re fine.”

The Marauder’s Map. You could never have imagined him holding something so rebellious, yet somehow it seems to suit him perfectly.

“You’re entirely too comfortable breaking the rules,” you tease, a playful edge to your voice.

“And you’re entirely too afraid to.”

The words sting, but only because they’re true. You’ve spent your entire life obeying rules, living in the confines of expectations that you never questioned. His way, though, it’s reckless—and yet, it feels free.

You glance at him, his face lit by the faint glow of the torches, and for a moment, you wonder how he can walk so easily in a world that constantly tries to push him down. How does he stand tall with so much weight on his shoulders?

“How do you do it?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Do what?”

“Stay... you. When everything’s against you.”

Franco stops, his expression shifting from lighthearted to something deeper. His gaze locks with yours, the soft glow from the torches flickering across his features, making his eyes seem even more intense than usual. There’s no sarcasm, no teasing. Just quiet, raw honesty.

“Because I don’t let them decide who I am.”

It’s such a simple answer, but it hits you harder than any lecture or reprimand your family has ever given you. In that moment, you feel something shift—like a door cracking open, letting in light where there had only been shadows.

Your heart beats a little faster. You think of your family’s expectations, the path they’ve paved for you, how every step feels like it’s already been written.

You’re expected to be a perfect daughter, the ideal pure-blood witch, but... you’ve never really known what it means to be just you.

Franco watches you, his gaze steady, almost knowing.

“You should try it sometime,” he says with a small smile, echoing his words from the library.

For the first time, you wonder if he’s right. If you should try it.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words and the stirrings of something deep inside you. You don’t answer him right away. Instead, you keep walking, each step feeling heavier now, as though the weight of his question is lingering in the air between you.

Finally, you reach a narrow, quiet hallway—a place where the shadows seem to swallow sound, where no one would dare to pass at this hour. You glance around, feeling the pulse of adrenaline in your veins, the rush of doing something forbidden, yet exhilarating.

Franco leans against the stone wall, his posture casual, but there’s an intensity to him now, something quieter, almost waiting.

“What happens if we get caught?” you ask, your voice a little quieter than before.

Franco shrugs, his gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your heart race a little faster. “Then we deal with it. Together.”

The simplicity of his words sends a strange warmth through you. The way he says it—as though it’s nothing, as though the consequences don’t matter as long as you're not facing them alone. It’s almost enough to make you forget the fears that have been so carefully instilled in you.

You stand there, just looking at him for a moment, the quiet intimacy of the moment settling over you. And in that silence, you feel something shift between you—something more than friendship, more than mere companionship.

“You never answered me,” you say softly, breaking the tension. “How do you stay so... sure of yourself?”

Franco’s eyes soften, and for the briefest moment, he doesn’t look like the boy who defies every expectation placed on him. He looks like someone who’s seen the world in all its unfairness but still chooses to walk his own path.

“I don’t know if I’m sure,” he says quietly, “but I’m not going to live my life pretending to be something I’m not.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and honest, and you realize you don’t want to pretend anymore either.

But as your gaze locks with his, you feel the pull of your own truth, the truth you’ve been avoiding—the weight of your family, the future they’ve mapped out for you. The truth that, despite everything, still clings to you, no matter how far you try to run from it.

“I should get back,” you say, your voice a little breathless.

Franco straightens, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, he nods, offering you a small, understanding smile.

“Yeah, probably,” he says, but there’s something in his tone—something like a promise, unspoken but felt all the same. “But you don’t have to walk alone.”

You hesitate, the words hanging between you, and for a brief moment, it feels like the entire world might shift in this hallway, in the quiet between you.

But you turn away, your heart pounding, the decision already made.

You may not be able to live your life like Franco yet, but you know one thing for certain.

You don’t want to live it alone.

The days following your late-night walk with Franco seem to blur together in a strange mixture of tension and yearning.

Every glance you steal at him, every stolen word, feels like a rebellion against the life your family has set out for you. But you know better than to make any rash decisions. Your family’s hold on you is too tight—your future already mapped out, carefully planned like the stones in a wall.

Your parents intensify their efforts to push you toward Charles in the following weeks. They invite him to every possible Hogwarts event—dinners in the Great Hall, late-night study sessions in the library where you’re expected to assist him with his work, and even casual strolls around the grounds, as if the whole school should be able to see you together.

“You know, darling,” your mother says one evening, as she surveys you carefully while adjusting your robes, “Charles is such a fine young man. I’m sure you two will have so much in common.”

You give her a tight smile, nodding just enough to appease her. “Of course, Mother.”

She beams at you, oblivious to the knot tightening in your chest.

Charles is everything your family could hope for—polished, handsome, and above all, pure-blood in every sense of the word. He carries himself with the air of someone who has never known a life without wealth or privilege, his polished smile a constant reminder of his family’s legacy.

But as you spend more time with him, you begin to see the cracks in his carefully constructed façade. The charming exterior begins to falter when no one is watching.

At dinner one evening, he’s seated next to you, as always, his elbow resting casually on the table as he talks about his summer. 

“I can’t believe my parents are pushing me to spend my time on all these charity events,” he complains, swirling his wine idly.

“It’s all so tedious. I’d rather be at the Manor, relaxing. But no, they’ve got me running errands for other families who don’t even matter in the end.”

You glance at him, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “You’re not happy to help?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Charles laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. “I’m not happy to do anything that doesn’t benefit me. You should know that by now.”

The words sting, but you brush them off, feeling the weight of your family’s expectations pressing down on you. Still, there’s something in his words—something that feels more human than the polished image he likes to present.

Later that night, you find yourself alone with him in the courtyard, where the moonlight casts long shadows over the cobblestones. The cool air settles over you, and Charles’ voice breaks the silence once more.

“You know,” he starts, his voice quieter now, “Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in all this.” He gestures to the grounds, the towering spires of Hogwarts in the distance. “Everything is decided for me. My future, my connections. My parents won’t even listen to my opinions anymore.”

You study him carefully, surprised by the vulnerability he’s showing. It’s not the Charles you’re used to—the charming, confident heir to a prestigious family. This Charles seems... lost.

“I thought you wanted this,” you say softly.

“I thought I did, too,” he admits, his tone tinged with something like regret. “But now... it’s like I’m drowning in it.”

For a moment, you see the young man behind the title, the boy who is also a prisoner of his bloodline. He’s not just the golden child of a pure-blood family. He’s a person—a person who feels the weight of his own inheritance, who feels the chains that bind him as much as you do.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be free?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Charles doesn’t answer right away. He looks away, his gaze distant. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed him too far, but then he turns back to you, his smile weak but genuine.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says quietly, “to be the perfect heir, always expected to be more than you can be. It’s... it’s suffocating.”

You don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really thought about it that way—how Charles, too, is a puppet to his family’s expectations, bound by the same invisible strings that have always held you back.

“I think we’re both in the same boat,” you finally say.

He looks at you, his eyes searching yours as if looking for something—maybe understanding, maybe a shared truth. “Maybe,” he says slowly.

You don’t know what to make of it. The conversation lingers in your mind, like an unfinished spell.

The reality of it all—Charles’ struggles, his insecurities, his desperation to break free—sits uneasily with you. But even as you understand him a little more, the thought of your future with him feels colder, more distant.

And all you can think about is Franco—the boy who, despite everything stacked against him, dares to be himself.

The more you try to ignore it, the more it becomes impossible to resist. Every stolen glance, every whisper exchanged, feels like a forbidden secret pulsing between you and Franco. 

You’ve come to realize that the rules that once held your life together now feel more like chains—chains that, when broken, give you a taste of something real.

It starts innocently enough, these secret meetings—passing notes between classes, lingering after hours to talk in quiet corners. But soon, it’s not enough. You crave something more, something deeper. Something that, no matter how hard you try, won’t be denied.

One night, after the last bell has rung and the students disperse to their common rooms, you find yourself slipping out of your dormitory, the darkened hallways a comforting refuge. You glance over your shoulder, making sure no one sees, and move quickly through the castle’s winding corridors.

Franco’s waiting for you at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the shadows dancing on his face as he leans casually against a tree. He’s always been good at making danger feel like a challenge, not a threat.

“You’re late,” he teases, his voice low.

“Had to lose a few people,” you reply, your breath coming in short bursts. It’s exhilarating, this secret life you’ve carved out for yourself.

He smiles, but there’s a softness in it—one that you’ve come to recognize as his true self, the one he only shows when it’s just the two of you.

“You’re always running away,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “What if you stopped? What if you just stayed?”

The words hang between you, fragile and tentative. You look at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, and something inside you shifts. The walls that have always surrounded you seem to falter, crumbling little by little.

“I don’t know how to stay,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to figure it all out now,” Franco says, his hand brushing against yours in a brief, electric touch. “But you can start by being here. With me. Right now.”

You let out a slow breath, as if the very idea of staying—of being truly present in this moment with him—terrifies you. But as his hand lingers in the space between you, you feel the weight of your family’s expectations start to slip away, replaced by something lighter, freer.

And so, you do stay.

The days that follow are a blur of stolen moments—hidden meetings beneath the Astronomy Tower, quiet conversations in the Library’s darkest corners, and long walks through the castle grounds. 

Each time, you feel the world around you get a little bit smaller, the only thing that matters being Franco and the connection that is growing between you.

One evening, after the last of the evening students have gone to bed, you find yourself walking alongside Franco through the Forbidden Forest. The moon casts long, eerie shadows over the path, but it’s beautiful in its silence, away from the eyes that have always watched you.

Franco glances at you, a question in his eyes. “Do you ever think about what we could have... if the world didn’t get in the way?”

You hesitate, your heart pounding. It’s the question that’s been sitting in the back of your mind for weeks now. What if? What if there was a life beyond the walls of Hogwarts, beyond the blood status, beyond the endless expectations of your family?

“I think about it every day,” you admit, the words flowing out before you can stop them.

Franco stops, turning to face you. His eyes are filled with something deeper now—something that goes beyond mere affection. “What would you do?”

The question catches you off guard. What would you do? The possibilities feel endless, like an open sky, but they’re also terrifying.

“I would...” You pause, feeling the weight of it all.

You’ve spent your entire life living for others, living for a future you didn’t choose. But with Franco, it’s different. He makes the world feel like it could be your own.

“I would want to be free,” you say quietly, your gaze meeting his. “Free to choose. To be with you, without anyone telling me I can’t.”

Franco steps closer, his voice low, his hand brushing your cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, too.”

His lips find yours then, and for a moment, it feels like the world falls away entirely. There are no expectations, no rules, no family legacy to uphold. There’s just the two of you—two people bound by something deeper than blood status or societal expectations.

You pull back, breathless, your heart racing. “What if we could?”

Franco’s smile is soft, filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. “We could. We just have to believe we can.”

The idea of a life outside the confines of your family’s control lingers in the air, both thrilling and terrifying. You don’t know what the future holds, but with Franco by your side, for the first time, you’re not afraid to find out.

The silence in your dormitory is heavy, punctuated only by the quiet rustling of parchment as you prepare for your next set of classes. The world outside seems calm—everything still seems... normal. But there’s a coldness settling in your chest, a chill that hasn’t been there before.

The weight of your secret feels unbearable now. The hours you’ve spent sneaking around, the stolen moments with Franco—they’ve all led to this point.

And you know it’s only a matter of time before someone catches on.

You’ve been doing your best to keep your distance from Charles, to avoid the forced meetings and the long, drawn-out conversations that always seem to circle back to expectations you can’t bear. But despite your best efforts, your family seems to be closing in on you.

They’re beginning to notice your absences, the way you’re always slipping away from social gatherings, your eyes distracted when you should be focused on Charles.

It’s Charles who finally puts the pieces together.

You hadn’t expected him to notice so quickly, but he’s been watching you—perhaps more carefully than you ever realized. His charm has always been a mask, one that’s cracked in moments when he’s felt threatened. And now, the mask slips, revealing something sharp underneath.

One evening, after dinner in the Great Hall, he finds you alone, standing near the entrance. He approaches with his usual confident air, but this time, there’s a tension in his posture that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been acting strange,” he says, his voice quiet but piercing. “I thought we had an understanding.”

You look at him, heart pounding. “What do you mean?”

His gaze narrows. “Don’t play dumb. I know what’s been going on.”

You feel your breath catch in your throat. He knows. How long has he suspected?

“You’re seeing him, aren’t you?” Charles’s words hang in the air, and for a second, it feels like the entire Hall goes silent around you.

Franco.

Your heart races, and the ground beneath your feet seems to shift. How did he find out?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but the cracks are already forming.

Charles steps closer, his gaze intense. “I’m not stupid. I saw the two of you in the courtyard last week. You thought no one was watching, but I was. You’re spending time with a Muggle-born—Franco Colapinto, of all people.” He spits the name out as though it’s poison, his distaste clear in every syllable.

Your heart sinks. He’s caught you. The secret you’ve worked so hard to protect is now laid bare.

“I told you it wasn’t just about us,” Charles says, his voice laced with bitterness. “You’re betraying everything. You’re betraying your family.”

Before you can respond, a cold, firm voice cuts through the air.

“You’re right, Charles. She’s betraying the family.”

Your head snaps to the side, and there, standing at the edge of the hall, is your mother, her expression stern and unforgiving. Behind her, your father stands like a looming shadow, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

The walls of your family’s quarters in Hogwarts feel suffocating as your parents stand before you, their cold eyes locked onto yours.

The flickering torchlight casts harsh shadows across the stone walls, accentuating the severity of their expressions. You can hardly breathe in the heavy silence that follows their ultimatum.

"You have no idea what you've done, Y/N," your father’s voice is low, sharp like a knife. "Do you truly think you can live with the consequences of your actions?"

You stand before them, heart racing, as though you’re caught in some impossible dream—a nightmare where every word they speak strikes harder than the last. The weight of your family’s expectations presses down on you like an unshakable force.

"Do you think the pure-blood wizarding world will stand for this?" your mother adds, her voice betraying a quiet fury. "You’ve sullied your name. You’ve betrayed everything we’ve worked for."

They’re trying to break you, you realize. Trying to make you see the gravity of your mistake.

But it’s too late.

The truth has already made its way into your heart—the truth of your love for Franco. The truth of the bond you share has become more important than the expectations of your family, more important than anything.

But the sting of their words lingers in your chest, tightening with every passing second. You try to steady yourself, to push back against the storm building inside. You can’t let them see how much they’ve shaken you.

You can’t let them win.

"You’ll do what’s right," your father continues, his gaze icy and unforgiving.

"You’ll break ties with that Muggle-born and you’ll marry Charles, as we have planned. You’ll uphold your duty and restore honor to this family."

The air feels too thick. You can hardly think straight. The weight of your family’s demands threatens to crush you, but a single voice cuts through the chaos in your mind.

Franco. The warmth of his hand in yours, the feel of his presence beside you, comforting you, grounding you.

"You have no choice in the matter," your mother presses, her voice growing colder with each passing word.

"If you refuse, we will ensure that he—Franco Colapinto—never sets foot in this castle again. We’ll make sure his reputation is ruined. You don’t understand the power we hold."

The finality of her words hits you like a punch to the stomach. The thought of Franco, the boy you love, being torn apart by the very same people who have always controlled your life—it feels like a weight too great to bear. You can feel your chest tighten, your breath coming faster.

"We can make him a pariah, Y/N," your father adds, his voice dark and cold. "It would be easy. His time at Hogwarts, his future as a wizard—it could all be destroyed with a single whisper."

You feel your knees weaken beneath you. The pressure in your chest is unbearable. 

This isn’t just about your future anymore—it’s about his. Franco, who never asked for this. Franco, who fought for a life in a world that never accepted him, only to have it ripped away by the people who are supposed to be your family.

"You can’t—" Your voice cracks, and you quickly swallow the knot in your throat. "You can’t do that. You can’t hurt him."

The coldness in your father’s gaze sharpens.

"We will. And don’t think for a moment that your connection with him is a secret. The whole school will know what’s going on if you continue down this path. We will destroy him, Y/N. We will make sure his name is mud."

The walls close in on you. You glance between your parents, their hardened faces staring back at you with ruthless certainty. You know they will do it—know they will pull every string they have to ruin Franco’s life.

They’ve always had the power to control things, to bend people to their will. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s him.

"I—I can’t do it," you whisper, your voice shaking, your heart breaking. "I can’t choose between you and him. I can’t."

Your mother’s expression softens, just slightly, before hardening again. "You will make a choice, Y/N. A choice between your bloodline and some fleeting relationship with a boy who can never give you the life you deserve." She steps closer, her eyes never leaving yours. "You’re not a child anymore. You know what’s at stake."

A part of you wants to scream, to reject their demands. But the weight of their words, of their promises to ruin Franco, keeps you rooted in place.

You want to fight, but the image of Franco devastated and broken by their wrath, stops you in your tracks. You’ve spent your whole life running from this moment, but now it’s here—and there’s no easy way out.

“You’ll end this,” your father insists. “Or you will never see this family again.”

You stagger back, your heart racing, a thousand thoughts swirling in your mind. Your world is crashing down around you, the pieces of everything you thought you knew about loyalty, family, and love shattering one by one.

The ultimatum hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"Choose," your mother says softly, her voice final, her gaze unwavering. "Choose now, before it’s too late."

The wind is biting tonight, sharp and unforgiving as it sweeps through the trees. You walk through the darkened grounds of Hogwarts, your heart in your throat.

Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the decision you’ve made pulling you down, making it harder to breathe.

You reach the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the familiar shadows of the trees looming ahead. This is where you promised Franco you’d meet him. This was supposed to be a moment of peace, a place where the world couldn’t touch you. But tonight, everything is different.

Tonight, you’re about to shatter both of your worlds.

You spot him standing by the edge of the trees, his dark hair disheveled, his usual bright eyes now searching the horizon for you. When he sees you, his face lights up in a way that makes your chest tighten.

For a brief moment, you almost forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget the ultimatum.

“Y/N,” Franco calls softly, his voice warm despite the chill in the air. He steps toward you, and you almost lose your resolve. 

You want to reach out to him, to tell him that you’ve changed your mind, that everything will be okay. But you know it won’t be.

You stop a few feet away from him, taking a deep breath as you fight to steady your racing heart. This is the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

Franco frowns, noticing the distance in your gaze. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice laced with concern. He takes a step forward, but you hold up a hand to stop him.

“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore, Franco.”

His eyes widen in disbelief, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

You swallow hard, biting back the wave of emotion threatening to overtake you. “This—it’s not going to work. I can’t be with you anymore.”

Franco stares at you, as though he doesn’t understand the words coming out of your mouth. His face falls, and the light in his eyes flickers for just a moment. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to hold it together. “I don’t want to hurt you, Franco,” you say, the words feeling like acid in your mouth. “I never wanted to hurt you. But I have to let you go. It’s over.”

There’s a long silence between you, and the air feels suffocating, thick with everything unsaid. His face crumbles, the pain evident in every line of his expression. His hand reaches out toward you, but you take a step back, your heart breaking all over again.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I thought we... we were in this together. You told me you loved me.”

“I do,” you say quickly, your voice breaking. You want to say more.

You want to tell him everything—about the threats, about your family’s cruelty, about how you’re terrified for his safety. But you can’t. You can’t drag him further into this world, into this mess you’ve created. It’s too dangerous.

“I love you, Franco,” you whisper, the words barely audible, “but this isn’t safe. For you. For both of us.”

Franco takes a shaky step toward you. “So, what? Just like that, you’re giving up on us? You’re going to pretend like none of it meant anything?”

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill. “It’s not like that. It’s just...” The words catch in your throat, and you fight to keep your composure. 

“I can’t lose you. And I can’t lose everything else, too. I don’t have a choice. You don’t understand how dangerous this is.”

His eyes widen as he steps back, the realization dawning on him. 

“You’re doing this for me? For my safety?” He takes a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re willing to let go of us because you think they’ll hurt me?”

You nod, feeling your chest tighten even more, the pain of this decision almost unbearable. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, Franco. They’ll ruin you. I can’t let that happen.”

Franco’s expression hardens, a mixture of anger and hurt flashing in his eyes.

“So, what? You’re just going to walk away from everything we’ve built? Everything we’ve shared?” His voice is rising now, but it’s not in anger—it’s in pain, the raw emotion cutting through him.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, but it’s for the best. You have to forget about me.”

He stands there, frozen, staring at you with disbelief and sorrow in his eyes. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, his gaze searching yours as though looking for some sign that this isn’t real—that you aren’t really telling him this. But deep down, you know it’s too late.

Finally, he takes a step back, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters, his voice barely audible.

“I thought you were different. I thought... we were different.”

Tears blur your vision as you turn away from him, not trusting yourself to say anything else. The words you wanted to say—the truth about why you’re doing this, about how much you still love him—are stuck in your throat, choking you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, more softly this time, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry, Franco.”

You turn and walk away, your steps unsteady. You hear him call your name once, and it feels like a knife twisting in your chest. But you don’t turn back. You can’t.

The world feels empty now, a hollow place where everything you thought was real is gone. And the love you had for Franco—your love for him—feels like a wound that will never heal.

The castle felt colder than usual ever since that night, as though the very walls of Hogwarts had turned against you.

Every corner seems to echo with the absence of Franco’s presence. His laughter, his warm smile—things that used to fill the space between you now feel like distant memories. You still feel his absence deep in your chest, the hollow ache where his love used to reside.

You’ve become a stranger to him now, and the worst part is that you’ve chosen to be that stranger.

You avoid him in the halls, in the library, even during meals in the Great Hall. You keep your gaze fixed on your plate, pretending you can’t hear the soft murmur of his voice when he calls your name, the way it wavers with hope and confusion. 

You won’t look at him. You can’t.

You’ve made your choice. You can’t let him know the truth, can’t let him see how much this is killing you. So you keep walking past him, your heart shattering with every step.

But Franco—he doesn’t understand.

Every day, he tries to reach out to you. It starts with tentative glances across the room, his eyes filled with questions he’s afraid to ask. When you’re alone in the library, he’ll approach, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N, what’s going on? Why are you acting like this? Did I do something wrong?”

The desperation in his voice cuts you deeper than any words could. But you remain cold, detached, hiding behind a wall of indifference that you’ve built around yourself.

“No,” you say quietly, not meeting his gaze. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just... I need space.”

And that’s all you give him. Space. Silence. Distance. Because that’s all you can offer him now.

Franco’s confusion grows with every passing day. He watches you closely now, like he’s waiting for something, for any sign that you’ll come back to him. But you don’t. The days stretch on, and the weight of his loss begins to crush him from the inside out.

His grades start to slip. The assignments that once came easily now seem impossible. He’s distracted in class, his mind wandering to the painful silence between you two, the way you refuse to acknowledge him.

His friends notice the change. Lando, his roommate and the one person who’s always had his back, raises an eyebrow when Franco stumbles through their shared dorm room late one evening, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“Mate, what’s going on?” Lando asks, concern creeping into his voice. “You’ve been off for days now. You’re barely eating, you’re not showing up to practice. Is it about... her?”

Franco looks at him, his eyes empty, the spark that once burned brightly in them now gone.

“I don’t know what happened,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “She won’t talk to me. She... she just shut me out, Lando. I don’t understand why.”

Lando sighs, his expression softening. “Look, I know you care about her, but if she’s pushing you away, maybe... maybe it’s for a reason. Maybe you need to give her space, yeah?”

But Franco can’t give up. Not like this. He can’t accept that she’s just... gone. He spends hours in the library, researching everything he can about the things that might have driven her to act this way. But nothing makes sense.

The silence between you two feels louder than anything he’s ever experienced. And the more time passes, the more he feels like he’s losing control of everything. His world, once so steady and clear, has become a series of questions with no answers.

He starts to drift away from his usual circles. He no longer joins in the conversations during meals or laughs with his friends like he used to. His social life is unraveling, slipping through his fingers as though everything he once held dear was slipping away without him even realizing it.

The other students start to notice too. The once confident Muggle-born who had so effortlessly carved his place at Hogwarts now seems distant, withdrawn, and hollow.

One evening, you see him sitting alone on the steps of the castle, his shoulders slumped and his face turned away from the bustling students. His robes are disheveled, and his normally neat hair is messy, as though he’s forgotten to care about his appearance.

It hurts to see him like this, but you force yourself to look away, to continue walking with your head held high, as though you don’t feel the weight of his gaze on your back.

That’s the moment you know he’s spiraling.

But you can’t reach out. Not now. You can’t risk it. You can’t risk him.

As the days pass, Franco’s presence in your life feels more like a memory than a reality. His messages go unanswered. His attempts to meet you in secret—like the ones you once shared with him—are now nothing more than painful reminders of what you’ve lost.

And yet, even as his world unravels, he doesn’t stop trying. He doesn’t stop believing that somehow, one day, things will return to how they were.

But you know better. You’ve made your choice.

Franco’s heart is breaking, but you can’t save him. You can’t save either of you.

The days blur together in a haze of politeness, forced smiles, and the constant hum of expectations. You’ve slipped back into the life your family always envisioned for you, a world where appearances matter more than anything.

Charles is always there now—by your side during meals, accompanying you to events, and constantly appearing in places you never asked for him to be.

His presence is a comfort in some ways, a reliable and steady force that you can count on when you need to act the part. He’s charming, and he knows exactly how to behave in front of your parents—how to make them smile and nod approvingly at every word that leaves his lips. He’s the perfect candidate for the future they’ve planned for you.

But every time you glance at him, you feel something missing. A hollow spot deep inside that no matter how much you try to fill with your duties, your smiles, or even his touch—nothing works.

The void only grows larger, and you can’t ignore it.

Charles is polite, of course. He never forces himself into your space, but his attentiveness is constant. 

He notices the little things—like how you’ve become quiet during dinner, how you retreat into your own thoughts during conversations. He never pushes, never demands more than what you’re willing to give, but he’s beginning to see the distance between you.

One evening, as you walk side-by-side down the grand staircase of Hogwarts after dinner, your fingers brushing lightly against Charles’s, you feel the emptiness that comes from the space between you two. You look at him, and while he smiles warmly at you, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he observes, his voice steady but with an edge of concern.

You force a smile, one you’ve perfected over the years, one that convinces even yourself, at least for a moment.

“Just tired,” you say, but the words feel foreign coming out of your mouth. The truth is, you’re not tired. You’re aching, though you can’t explain why.

You both stop at the top of the Astronomy Tower, where Charles often accompanies you to discuss future plans—plans that your family has already laid out in meticulous detail. He’s standing close to you now, his hand lightly grazing your arm, the faintest sign of affection.

You don’t pull away. But you don’t reach out either.

“You know, we’ve got the gala in a few weeks. I’m sure your parents are expecting us to make an appearance,” Charles says, trying to pull you into the moment. His hand slips into yours, and you don’t resist.

You’re so used to this, to him. But it doesn’t feel right.

In the back of your mind, you picture Franco, standing alone by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his eyes full of confusion and sadness.

You haven’t seen him in weeks, but every time you close your eyes, you see him—his hair falling messily into his face, the warmth in his voice when he used to call your name. And every time that memory resurfaces, it hurts more than it did the last time.

You blink, forcing yourself back to the present. “I’ll be there,” you say, your voice lacking the enthusiasm it once had.

Charles doesn’t seem to notice. He squeezes your hand. “Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

But in the back of your mind, all you can hear is the silence between you and Franco—the unspoken words, the moments of warmth that now feel like they belong to someone else.

The following day, you find yourself walking down the same corridor where you and Franco used to sneak away for late-night conversations. The walls seem to close in around you as you walk, each step bringing you closer to memories you’re trying to forget. But you can’t help it.

You reach the library, and you see a flicker of movement by one of the tables. For a split second, you think it’s him. Your heart skips in your chest, but when you look more closely, you see it’s just another student. But the brief hope is enough to pull you in.

You stand in the doorway, staring at the empty seat you once shared with Franco. Your fingers twitch, aching to reach for the familiar book you’d always shared between the two of you. A letter, an old note—anything that might bring him back to you.

But instead, you close your eyes and walk away, the sharp pang of regret tightening in your chest. You keep your head down, you keep walking.

The rest of the day is a blur. You smile when you’re supposed to, laugh when it’s expected of you, but nothing feels real.

When you look at Charles, you don’t see the person you’ve convinced yourself you should love. You see a placeholder, a piece in a puzzle that doesn’t fit, and the guilt washes over you like a wave you can’t escape.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t look back, that you’d leave the past behind. But no matter how many times you remind yourself that you made the right choice, Franco’s presence lingers, a shadow you can’t escape.

You lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time since you ended things with him, you let yourself think about him. You wonder if he’s okay. You wonder if he’s moved on.

But most of all, you wonder if you ever will.

Franco’s world has become quieter since you walked away. The weight of your absence presses against him every moment of every day, yet somehow, he forces himself to move forward.

His mornings are filled with the rhythm of textbooks, his nights consumed by late-night study sessions in the library. The constant hum of activity has become his refuge, an attempt to drown out the emptiness that lingers in the corners of his mind.

He’s not sure when it happened—when his academic focus shifted from just surviving his classes to something deeper, something more personal. But now, his studies aren’t just about passing.

They’ve become a way to make sense of the chaos that has overtaken his life. They’re his lifeline.

It’s a late evening when Franco sits at the library table, his eyes scanning the pages of a book on Transfiguration, but his mind drifts. It always drifts. Every time he looks down at his notes, he sees your face. Every time he hears a whisper in the halls, he expects to turn around and find you there. But you’re not.

He rubs his eyes, exhaling sharply. It’s getting harder, the constant ache of not knowing what went wrong. But despite everything, he’s determined not to let it consume him.

He begins a project—an ambitious one. It’s part of his Independent Study in Charms, a project designed to create a charm that allows the user to manipulate their surroundings.

At first, it’s just a distraction—a way to pour his heartache into something productive. But as the days pass, Franco becomes obsessed with it.

It’s not just any charm now. It’s something that represents his fight against the heaviness in his chest. Something to prove that he can move forward, no matter what.

The project starts to take shape, the pieces of magic intertwining in ways that surprise him. He works tirelessly in the small hours of the night, testing each spell and modification until it feels like a part of him is infused into it.

With every flick of his wand, with every calculated movement, Franco feels like he’s peeling back the layers of his grief.

But even amid his work, he can’t escape the haunting reminder of what he’s lost. It’s in the moments when he’s walking to class when he passes the Astronomy Tower—the place where you once laughed together under the stars. It’s in the quiet spaces when the world stops moving, and the only thing left is the echo of your absence.

And yet, despite the ache, Franco presses on. His charm begins to take form—a small, glowing orb of light, suspended in midair, its glow flickering like a heartbeat. It’s nothing extraordinary in the magical world, but to him, it feels like everything. It’s a piece of himself, a mark of his resilience. The ability to create something new, to move through the pain and still build something beautiful.

As the charm comes to life before him, Franco can’t help but feel a mixture of pride and sorrow. His heart still aches for you, the connection between you two that now feels like a ghost he can never reach.

But at least, for a moment, he has this. His project. His proof that he can keep going, even without you.

He sits back in his chair, watching the charm flicker softly in the dim light of the library. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. And in that something, Franco finds a small shred of peace.

For the first time in weeks, he allows himself to think about the future—not the one he thought he’d have with you, but the one he’ll have on his own terms.

It’s a future that doesn’t revolve around your love, but one where he is strong enough to stand on his own.

It’s an ordinary morning at Hogwarts—students fill the halls, the sound of chatter and footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

You walk down the corridor, Charles by your side, his presence a comfortable, almost too-familiar weight. The warmth of the sun filters through the windows, casting long shadows across the polished floors.

You’ve gotten used to this life. The life where you smile at the right moments, laugh at the right times and live a life that looks perfect on paper. But every time your thoughts slip to Franco, the warmth fades. The ache never truly leaves.

Today is no different, until you round the corner and see him.

Franco is standing by the wall, his head tilted slightly as he talks to a younger student. The words are too muffled to hear, but you don’t need to. The sight of him—so near yet so far—sends a jolt through your chest.

The hair that once fell in his face now pushed back, and the determined look in his eyes never seemed to fade, even when everything fell apart between you two.

You freeze for just a moment, your heart stuttering.

Franco’s gaze shifts, and in that instant, his eyes lock with yours. The world seems to slow around you.

For a second, everything is silent—every sound, every movement, erased by the weight of the unspoken history between you. The loss. The heartbreak. The love that you both buried.

His expression is unreadable—almost distant—but there’s something in his eyes. A flicker of recognition, a flicker of pain, that mirrors your own. He doesn’t smile, and neither do you. There’s nothing left to smile about. There’s no comfort in seeing him again, not after everything that’s passed between you.

And yet, you don’t look away. Neither does he.

Charles steps closer to you, his presence a reminder of the life you’ve chosen, the life you’ve settled into. You force yourself to tear your eyes from Franco’s, the knot in your stomach tightening. You take a breath, as if bracing for something you can’t name, and look ahead, your steps quickening.

Franco doesn’t move, doesn’t make any attempt to stop you, even though you can feel the weight of the moment between you.

As you pass him, you hear his voice—just a whisper in the air. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. A finality to it, a goodbye that wasn’t really said before, a goodbye that wasn’t really chosen.

You don’t turn back.

Charles speaks beside you, but you don’t hear him. The world feels distant again, the ache of what could have been pressing against your ribs.

Franco’s gaze follows you for a moment longer, then he turns, disappearing down the corridor. His figure melts into the crowd of students, and just like that, he’s gone.

You know you’ll never be the same. Neither of you will.

The months have passed, and graduation looms closer. The corridors of Hogwarts seem emptier now, less filled with the excitement of possibility and more with the weight of your decisions.

The choices you’ve made weigh heavily on your chest, like a stone that never quite sinks to the bottom.

The life you live now isn’t one you ever envisioned for yourself. You’ve kept your head down, followed the rules, and embraced the expectations your family placed on you without question. Or at least, without the kind of question that would lead to a different path.

Your relationship with Charles is… well, it’s functional. There are no sparks, no passion, no fireworks. Just a quiet, cold companionship that mirrors the distance between you and your family. They’ve made their peace with this future for you—Charles is everything they wanted for you, the perfect match of blood status, status, and reputation.

But that doesn’t make it easier. The weight of it presses in every time you look at him and see nothing more than a reminder of what you’ve lost—what you’ve chosen to lose. And the guilt gnaws at you.

You sit beside him sometimes, as you’re supposed to, and you kiss him because it’s expected, but your thoughts drift to Franco. Always. And that gnawing ache never fades, never quiets.

You find yourself walking the halls at night, sometimes alone, sometimes with Charles, but always feeling like there’s an emptiness in your heart that no one else can fill.

The world around you feels like a distant echo of what could have been, and every time you glance at the stars or walk past the Astronomy Tower, your heart tightens in your chest.

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s a piece of yourself you’ve lost—one that will never be found again. You wonder if this is what you were meant to have all along. If your future was set in stone before you even realized it.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments, you let yourself ask: Did I make the right choice?

And the answer is never clear.

Graduation arrives, and Franco stands at the threshold of the next chapter.

The weight of the past is a constant companion, but so is the fire that’s been building inside him since that fateful moment. He knows he can never go back to who he was, and he knows there’s no turning back for you either.

But he’s not going to let the ghosts of the past define him. Not anymore.

Franco steps into the future with resolve, ready to carve out a name for himself in the wizarding world. His reputation as a Muggle-born, an outsider, will not hold him back.

He’ll prove to everyone who ever doubted him—especially those who hurt him—that he is worth something. That he’s capable of greatness, even without the privileges of a pure-blood family.

In the quiet moments, when he’s alone with his thoughts, Franco still thinks about you. He wonders where you are, what your life is like now.

Sometimes, he imagines a different world—one where things didn’t end the way they did, where the two of you could have been together. But those thoughts are fleeting.

Franco’s learned to keep his heart locked up tight, to put his energy into building a life that’s his. He’s spent too long grieving what’s gone, and now he’s focused on what’s ahead.

And yet, as he walks across the grounds for the last time, Franco can’t help but steal one final glance back at the castle—the place where you once walked beside him.

A small part of him will always wonder what could have been.

But he knows better now. Some things are never meant to be.

And so, he moves forward, silently vowing to never forget you, even though he knows that you will never be his again.

Epilogue:

Years have passed, and time has done its work. The world has shifted, as it always does, but for you, something has changed in a way that feels too good to be true.

You’ve finally broken free.

No longer confined by your family’s expectations or the cold, distant relationship with Charles, you’ve stepped into a world where you’re free to make your own choices.

The life that once felt like a cage has crumbled, piece by piece, and now, for the first time, you stand on your own.

Your family, too, has learned the hard way that you were never meant to be a part of their perfectly polished world. You don’t fit the mold they tried to force you into—and you won’t let them control you any longer. The weight of their expectations no longer hangs heavy on your shoulders.

And Charles? He’s just a shadow now—someone who never truly understood you, never truly saw you.

But the past still lingers in the corners of your heart, as memories do. And then, on a quiet afternoon in Diagon Alley, fate steps in.

You’re walking down the cobbled street, the vibrant shops filled with the usual bustle, but your heart feels light—unburdened for the first time in ages.

You’re with a friend, laughing at something trivial, when you hear it. That voice. That sound. It’s not supposed to be here, not after all this time.

You freeze.

And there he is.

Franco. Standing in front of you, just as you remember him—older, wiser, but the same spark in his eyes. He’s no longer the boy you once knew, but somehow, in this moment, he is.

It’s as if time has folded, and you’re back at Hogwarts, the world falling away until it’s just the two of you, standing in the middle of Diagon Alley.

Franco hesitates for a beat, as if unsure of what to say, or maybe afraid of what he might feel. You’re both strangers now, in a way—so much has changed, and yet, so little.

The years of separation, of silence, have built walls between you, but the pull of what was once there, what was always there, can’t be denied.

“Y/N…” he whispers, the sound of your name almost breaking something inside of you. His voice is steady, but there’s a tenderness in it that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, you both stand there, the weight of the past heavy between you. Neither of you speaks for what feels like an eternity.

And then, without thinking, without words or plans, you take a step forward. Your heart races as you close the distance between you, until there’s nothing but the familiar warmth of him in front of you.

Before either of you can stop it, your hands find each other, fingers intertwining in a way that feels like coming home.

It’s like the years vanish. All the pain, all the grief, all the distance fades away in an instant, leaving only the two of you. No words are needed, because you both know.

“Do you remember…” Franco begins, his voice softer now, the question unfinished, but the meaning clear.

You smile, the old, familiar spark of mischief glinting in your eyes. “Of course I do.”

Without another word, you both turn, slipping away from the crowd and into the quiet alley, the same sense of adventure and secrecy that once defined your relationship taking hold of you again.

You walk side by side, as if time had never passed, as if you’re still those young, reckless students sneaking off into the Forbidden Forest.

In the distance, the setting sun casts a golden glow over the cobblestones, but it’s the warmth of Franco’s hand in yours that makes everything feel right. The world seems to open up around you as you step into a future that, this time, is yours to create—together.

For the first time in years, you’re not afraid. You’re not held back by anything or anyone. And neither is he.

Together, you slip into the shadows, disappearing into the night, as if time hadn’t passed at all.

© soleilpinto 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

Sometimes it's all three.

sebastian stan is a very attractive man, none of us are going to deny that, and a lot of people who watch 'monday' will do so because he is in it, we're also not questioning that - but if you watch it ONLY because of his nude scene and then choose to body shame him when it isn't even the main focus point of the film, then you need to get a life. mickey is a charming, attractive character who looks mighty fine smoking a cigarette and who licked a girls face in a scene i haven't stopped thinking about it, but he is that way because sebastian is a charming actor who is attractive but also talented and brightening and who struggles with body image, so if you go into the film only thinking about the nudity and coming out disappointed that his nudity didn't meet your standards (????) and literally zero thoughts about the characters, the script, the directing, absolutely anything else sebastian did in the movie, please question why you watch films at all