Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

t h i r t y - s i x

The next day, Fia woke at dawn and slipped out of the house, wrapping her arms around herself as she picked her way across the garden in the still and silent morning. The storm had finally passed, leaving everything saturated and dripping with relief. She could feel moisture from the grass seeping into the canvas of her shoes. As she passed a rosemary bush, she grabbed a sprig, crushing it between her fingertips and lifting it to her nose. The scent reminded her of home, the miniature herb garden Sadie had kept on their kitchen windowsill.

She stood and watched a faint streak of pink growing on the still-dark horizon, thinking about how content she felt, as though she was filled with light. It was a new sensation that had been sown like a seed by Charles, every second they spent together seeping into her and unclenching the knots of sadness she had held tight, without realising, for so long.

In the distance, warm colours melted across the sky, bleeding into each other.

Charles appeared at her side as if he'd heard her thoughts and wrapped a woollen blanket around her shoulders. He pressed a steaming mug of coffee into her cold hands, which she accepted gratefully. It was frothy with milk, just how she liked it. She looked at him, his messy bed hair and sleepy eyes, and the light in her chest grew brighter.

"What are we doing?" he asked. His voice was thick with sleep.

She opened the blanket, inviting him under. "Watching the sunrise."

He nodded, pressed his body close to hers. It wasn't exactly cold outside, but the air was crisp, not yet warmed by the sun. They were both wearing t-shirts. She stared at the grey whorls of steam rising from their mugs, the first band of gold light simmering on the horizon. The rising sun was the colour of butter, melting over everything.

"I'm going to say something," she said, keeping her eyes focused ahead. "And you don't have to say it back, okay? In fact, I'd prefer if you didn't."

Tugging the blanket tighter around them, he leaned his head against her shoulder and, in one slow exhale, said, "Okay."

"I love you."

There was a beat of silence, and suddenly she was full of fear, consumed by the thought that he might add weight to her words by repeating them. She knew that she would crumble if he did.

"Fia," he said.

"Don't," she said. "Please."

She couldn't explain why she'd felt the need to tell him when it only complicated matters between them. It was their last day together, and she'd promised herself never to say those words out loud. Not to him, this perfect man with his sea-green eyes and dimpled cheeks, with whom she didn't belong. And yet the compulsion to lay her feelings bare had been irresistible. Life was too short, she thought, not to tell people you loved them if it was true. She wished she'd had the chance to say it to her father one more time.

"I just wanted you to know," she said. "That's all."

He squeezed her hand, and she felt the metal of her ring on his pinky finger, warm and hard against her skin. A flock of birds flew overhead, their dark forms cutting shapes out of the sky. She envied their undulating synchronicity—how they knew, without discussion, precisely where they needed to be in relation to one another.

Neither she nor Charles said anything more; they didn't need to. They stood in silence, sipping their coffee, and that was enough.

____ 🏎️ ____

Later that day, Fia spoke to her mum. She was sitting in the garden watching Charles training with Andrea when her phone rang, and without looking at the caller ID, she answered. It wasn't the first phone call they'd shared since the ultimatum, but hearing her mum's voice—crisp and lucid, sometimes even warm—still came as a shock.