How To Reprogram The Subconscious Mind With Hypnosis.

I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory

As he should he literally gagged toto

That's my goat yall

❝ SO LONG, MONACO ❞

MASTERLIST!

pairing . . . charles leclerc x reader

◦∘｡ﾟ. warnings . . . use of y/n (once, i think), cursing, a whole load of angst, charles is an asshole, rushed ending, barely proofread.

◦∘｡ﾟ. summary . . . you love monaco, but it has run its course just like your relationship has.

◦∘｡ﾟ. note . . . i am obsessed with ttpd, i don’t care what anyone has to say, it was a masterpiece and i will not take criticism about it. this is based on so long, london i really recommend listening to this while reading, or just listening to it in general if you need a good cry. i have been writing this for months now, so i hope you guys like it and please dont mind the ending it was the best i could do 😔💙

[ word count: 3,4k ]

You walked through the streets of Monaco, mystified by how bright the city looked even in the night. The street lights were enchanting to witness, and the chatter of people made you appreciate the small country even more. So private, yet so lively, like a hidden spot you had loved so much you just had to make it your home. 

The walk to Charles’ apartment is more calming than expected, you’ve come to terms with the fact that you’ve been pulling at a thread that is almost undone. No matter how hard you tried, there was no use in pulling him tighter when he had already pulled out of the relationship.

You were, in all honesty, tired. 

You swore your back almost hurt from all the efforts you made to keep him with you. It’s like you both had settled for conformity, for the monotony of not bothering to do anything. You were together for the sole sake of how harder it would be to separate, but not because of the love you had for the other, simply because of the aftermath of breaking up after 6 years of relationship. Moving out, telling your friends and family, the whole world scrutinizing what went down when really nothing had gone down. There was nothing that could go down, to begin with. 

Your relationship had become more of a commodity, one that was draining you while your boyfriend continued his life like nothing was going on. Maybe that was your problem, you simply cared too much. 

And so you stopped trying to make him laugh. Stopped making those small efforts that had amounted to hundreds of gestures that went unnoticed by him. Maybe you were selfish for that, for wanting his undivided attention to things that weren’t that great. After all, he had his own things to wallow over, things that were simply greater than you.

You tried to blame Ferrari. Ferrari that always was the topic of conversation. “Can you believe they made pit so late?” Yes, I can. “Do you think I’m putting to much faith in the team?” Yes, you are. You don’t tell Charles all the things you should, you share his sadness and give him a shoulder to cry on, just to receive that small amount of affection. 

His sadness gives you the taste of what once was and now isn’t. You can’t find in yourself to blame him for becoming dependent on Ferrari, because haven’t you become the same way for him?

It isn’t long before your walk is over, and you have to face the moment you want to dread, but instead there is relief that surges in your heart. A feeling you resent but equally embrace. 

You step into the elevator, pressing the button for his apartment that you wonder when you decided to let everything go on for as long as it did. That is something you incriminate Charles for. Did he really think you’d be willing to stand in the rain for him forever? Eternally condemned to wallow his sadness, were you supposed to be sad for as long as he was? And for a while you did, you shared his sadness but you didn’t have much more in you to give him. There was only so much pity you could feel, so much empathy you were willing to subject yourself to. 

The elevator rings, a sign that you should get off and take whatever is yours and get away from Monaco.

You put the key in the keyhole, and enter what once was your home and now looks almost like a staged apartment, ready to be shown off and sold to the highest bidder. It feels eerie, what once was so familiar is now a distant memory you’re ready to get over.

Most of the boxes are all closed and ready to be sent away, with a few things left in shelves and drawers. You remember calling your family and asking if you could stay with them a few days, you felt ashamed at how you left everything behind just to come back to it so unexpectedly. 

“Chérie, you don’t have to leave. I can stay with Joris until you find your own place.” no more ma chérie, just chérie. It seemed you’d both unconsciously already made the graves for your relationship. 

“This is your place, Charles. I’m not going to kick you out of it.” you smoothly respond, trying to focus on taking whatever is left on the shelf by the TV. 

Your hand brushes against an old photo of the two of you. His hands around your waist, you looking up at him with a huge smile on your face, with Monaco as the landscape behind you. 

“This was our place, I don’t even—” he stops himself, like it pains him to say whatever is on his mind, resigned he sighs and changes his answer, “I might have to sell this, it’s too big for just me anyway.” 

The implication of his words would have sent you down a spiral a few months ago, now you don’t even reminisce on the what-if.

“Either way, I’ve already arranged a place to stay. I really don’t want to inconvenience you, this is your home not mine.” you say, and you watch as his jaw clenches and his eyes dim, but it is too late now to go back. You’re both too far gone. 

“Okay, then.” he sighs, and although you’ve made peace with the end of your relationship you want him to fight for you. It is his nonchalant way of going about life that makes you mad, and what sealed the fate of whatever remains of your relationship were left.

You’ve fought so hard and for so long, you want to make him feel what you felt. Retribution comes to you in his resignation, and yet it is simply not enough for your greedy, broken heart.

It pisses you off how so much of your youth he got to witness, how he got all the special moments of your life and now you cannot even recognise the girl you once were. All those dreams, all that naïveté, has long since died and is now buried in Monaco.

“It’s late and I’m really tired, so tomorrow morning I’ll have them pick up and ship off my things.” 

“Where are you staying?” he tries to be casual, tries to hide the desperation in his voice, but fails to do so because you know him too well. He fears you know him better than anyone ever has. 

“A hotel nearby,” you easily answer, 

Don’t let me go.

A beat passes, he opens his mouth and closes it shortly after, like he’s not sure what to say or how to act.

Please, don’t let me go. 

“Do you need me to take you there?”

“No, I’m okay, it’s a short walk from here.”

And so you put away the few things you were holding, brushing past him like he’s a stranger in the street. You’ve seemingly packed up your whole life in a few boxes, and you feel oddly calm about it. Hopeful about the future, all resentment you could have has turned into motivation. 

You seal the last open box, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. There are no scores to settle, no need for revenge, this chapter of your life has been sealed and you are ready to continue with whatever the story of your life has prepared for you.

“Text me when you get to the hotel, yes?” you pause at his words, and a part of you wants to curse him out for being the way he is, because despite everything he is a kind man. You just wish he could've been as kind to the old you as he is to the current you. And you wonder why you're given all this kindness, when you have both your feet out the door and every single remainder of your love has been tucked away. It is not fair, but nothing really is when it comes to love.

“Sure,” you say as you nod, a small smile gracing your face, though you're sure it looks close to a grimace. 

You walk out of the apartment, leaving your copy of the keys on the table next to the door. As it closes, you let out a sigh and go out the same you came in, calm and collected. With the broken, bloody pieces of your heart in his hands and you with the same blue heart of his you know so well.

You don’t text Charles when you make it to the hotel. 

You twist and turn in your bedsheets, not being able to sleep once again. You can't remember the last time you had a good night's sleep. And so you do what you've been doing for months, you go over every step and stone of your relationship.

Although sleep doesn’t consume you, the memories do. Those unforgiving, wretched memories about the downfall of your relationship. As you lie awake, the weight of your thoughts presses down on you, each recollection sharper and more painful than the last. 

You reminisce on the brighter days, filled with laughter and pure love, where every touch was like electricity on your skin and every word a promise of a future together. You recall all those moments you fought to make him laugh, to bring back the warmth that had once been effortless. But those bright memories are quickly overshadowed by the darker ones— the fights that grew more frequent, the silences that stretched longer, the love that slowly turned to resentment. 

Every detail is vivid in your mind— he look in his eyes as he drifted away, the chill that settled in your bones each night he didn't fall asleep beside you. You replay the conversations, the accusations, the desperate attempts to salvage whatever was left. But despite your efforts, the spirit of the relationship was long gone, leaving behind a shell of what once was.

As the memories flood back, you feel the anger and sadness welling up inside you. You gave so much of yourself, your youth, your energy, only to be left with the empty shell of a broken dream. You think about how he swore that he loved you, yet the proof was never there. 

You recall that last fight, by then the stitches of your relationship had come undone, the fabric of your shared experience torn beyond repair. There was nothing left to cling onto, nothing more than your delusion and the memories you held close to your heart. 

“Mon amour, why did you stay awake? You know how long I take at the factory.” he whispers, almost cooing at you but also filled with exhaustion. Like you being awake is another burden you're placing on him, now that he has to deal with your awakened mind. 

“Couldn’t fall asleep, I guess.” you answer, playing with the ends of your hair, not daring to look at him. 

You watch as he places his stuff on the ground, taking off his shirt and entering the bathroom to wash his face and prepare for sleep. It is quite a shame you have no intentions of sleeping, or to let the misery you're living through go on.

“I’ll join you in just a moment,” he calls out from the bathroom, his voice muffled from the ajar door between you.

“Okay,” is all you come up with, all you can muster to respond.

The silence in the apartment grew heavy. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to echo through the room, each second stretching out into eternity. 

As you listened to the sound of water running, you traced patterns on the bedsheets with trembling hands. You couldn’t shake the feeling of suffocation, of being trapped in a life that wasn’t quite yours. The dreams you once nurtured seemed distant, obscured by the everyday struggles and compromises.

When Charles emerged from the bathroom, the lines of fatigue etched deeper into his face. His eyes met yours briefly before he turned away, pulling a worn t-shirt and slipping under the covers beside her. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, yet you could see the coldness that he seemed to reserve especially for you. He made no effort to kiss you, to hold you, those miniscule actions were like finding gold nowadays.

It was now or never, you had decided. You had gained courage all day to finally speak your mind, the least he could do is listen and try to fight for you. For the remains of your love that hadn’t yet dusted away.

“You know,” you begin tentatively, your voice almost shaky with emotion, “it feels like we’re drifting apart. I miss us, Charles.”

He turned to you sharply, eyes flashing with something like shock and annoyance. “I’m tired, Y/N. Can’t we talk about this tomorrow?”

“But we never talk about it!” you exclaimed, frustration boiling over. “Every day, it’s the same thing. You come home late, exhausted, and we pretend everything’s okay. But it's not okay! It hasn’t been for a long time, and I need more than this.”

He sighs heavily, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Sure you are,” you retort back, voice tinged with bitterness. You knew he would dismiss your feelings, but it still stung.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m always second, Charles.” you retort, “I stay awake each night wondering if you still care, if there is even some part of you that misses me like I miss you.”

“You always find something to complain about, don’t you?” he turns to you with his eyes narrowed, “You know how much I’m dealing with Ferrari, I thought you’d have some empathy for me, at least.”

“I’m not complaining, Charles. I’m trying to talk to you!” your frustration has now reached its peak, “I miss us. I miss the days when we actually talked, when you actually listened.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says, ignoring your words once more. “Do you think this lifestyle pays for itself? Because, news flash, it doesn’t. You signed up for this, don’t put this on me now.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” you ask, resigned to your situation and the emotions that have overtaken you, “You're never here, Charles. I feel like I’m living with a stranger instead of the man I fell in love with.”

“Well, maybe if you didn't make everything so difficult,” he snapped, his patience wearing thin. He doesn't dare to look at you, he can't bear to see the expression on your face.

You feel tears stinging in your eyes, a mix of anger and hurt washing over you. “I’m not making things difficult. I’m asking for us to work on our relationship, to make time for each other.”

“I don’t have time,” Charles shot back, his voice cold and distant. “This is the life we have now. Deal with it.”

“Is this really what you want?” you demand, your voice rising. “A relationship where we just coexist, where we’re barely holding on?”

He turns away from you again, his silence cuts deeper than any words ever could. You feel the despair, the realizations sinking in that your relationship might be beyond repair.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper, voice cracking with emotion.

“Then what do you expect me to do?” he retorted, his frustration matching yours.

“I expect you to fight for us, Charles!” you exclaimed, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I expect you to care enough to try.”

He doesn’t respond, the silence a stark reminder of how far you had both drifted apart. You wiped your tears away, feeling the weight of your crumbling relationship pressing down on your chest.

“If you can’t even talk to me, then maybe we’re already done.” you say quietly, the finality of your words hanging in the air.

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t reach out to you. You turned away from him, curling up on your side of the bed, feeling the emptiness of your once vibrant love surrounding you. As you stared into the darkness, you wondered if you had reached the end, if this was all the closure you would get.

As you laid there, enveloped in the silence that now seemed thicker than ever, you realised that something inside you had shifted irreversibly. The pain of his indifference cut deep, but so did the clarity that you couldn’t continue living forever like this, forever under the blue of his days.

The weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air, you couldn’t bear it any longer. With a shaky breath, you gathered your resolve and spoke softly into the darkness, voice trembling with both sadness and determination.

“I think… I need some time,” you began, your words tentative yet resolute. “Time to figure out what I want and what’s best for me.”

He turned to you then, his eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and resignation. “What are you saying?”

You struggled to find the right words. “I’m saying… I’m saying that I’m done, Charles. I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay when it’s not. I deserve more than this.” 

His expression hardened, a flicker of frustrations crossing his face. “So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”

“I’m not giving up,” you shot back, “I’ve been fighting for us for so long, but you… you're not even here, I can’t keep begging for your attention, for your love.”

Charles doesn't respond immediately, his silence echoing loudly in the room. You felt a wave of sorrow wash over you as you realized that your love had turned into a battlefield of neglect and misunderstanding.

“I thought we could fix this,” he finally murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe we could have,” your heart breaks with every word you utter. “But it’s too late now, I’m exhausted, Charles. I’m exhausted from trying to pretend like you care and for trying to fix something beyond repair.”

He sits up at your words, finally looking at you, the weight of your failed relationship heavy in his eyes. “I’m sorry, mon ange. I never meant for it to end like this.”

“Neither did I,” you replied softly, “But I can’t keep living like this. I deserve happiness. We both do.” he reached out to touch your hand, but you gently pulled away, the gesture feeling hollow now.

You sat there in silence, you knew that walking away would be the hardest thing you had ever done, but you also knew it was the only way forward.

Without another word, you stood up from the bed. Looking at him, the man you loved with all your heart but who had drifted away from you.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” you tell Charles, and he doesn’t fight you, just wordlessly nods and longingly looks at you as you step away and into your living room.

You stood at the window of the hotel room, staring out at the city that had been your home for so long. The cobblestone streets, the azure waters, and the gentle hum of luxury. This place, once your sanctuary, now felt like a prison of memories that had soured with time. A reminder of a love that couldn't withstand the weight of reality.

Outside, the familiar sights and sounds of Monaco stirred memories that tugged at your heart— lazy afternoons by the beach, candlelit dinners overlooking the harbour, stolen kisses beneath the starlit sky.

But today, as the plane ticket lay on the table beside your suitcase, you knew it was time to leave Monaco behind. Despite the love you once felt for this place, you couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest, the realisation that your time here had run its course.

As you walked out of the hotel and down the winding cobblestone streets towards the waiting car you had called, you allowed a tear to trickle down your cheek because despite everything you really fucking loved Monaco. For so, so long.

But you’ll find somewhere new.

when i was a kid i would get a sick thrill from learning someones middle name now i dont feel anything at all ever and im no good for nobody

Enchanted - Part 1/7

Pairing: Enzo Vogrincic x Actress!Reader

Synopsis: Bored at an event as a brand ambassador, you lock eyes with a man across the room and your evening takes a turn. Based on this request

Wordcount: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, tension, minor angst (if you squint), flirting, reader has a backstory, mentions of alcohol, brief use of Y/N

A/N: additional warning: cringy dialogue? This is mostly a prologue for the series. A little bit based on the song Enchanted by Taylor Swift. And as always, just pretend they're speaking Spanish.

Series Masterlist & Masterlist

As the pulsating beat of the music filled the air, you navigated through the crowded room with practiced ease, a glass of champagne in hand. The sparkling lights and chatter of the guests created a vibrant atmosphere, but deep down, you couldn't shake off a sense of unease. This wasn't where you wanted to be tonight. 

It was another glamorous event, one of many that filled your calendar as an ambassador for a prestigious beauty brand. Normally, you'd have your sister by your side, her infectious laughter and unwavering support serving as a comforting presence in these bustling gatherings. But tonight, she was bedridden with illness, leaving you to navigate the soirée solo.

You couldn't help but notice the familiar patterns that seemed to repeat themselves at every event. New products were unveiled, celebrities graced magazine covers, and champagne flowed freely—all under the guise of celebration.

You engaged in polite small talk with the attendees, effortlessly slipping into the role of the charming socialite. Yet, behind the facade of smiles and laughter, you couldn't shake the feeling of detachment. These people knew you only as the glamorous persona you projected in public—a facade meticulously crafted by years in the spotlight.

Your mind drifted back to the beginnings of your journey in the entertainment industry. It had been a whirlwind journey from your first gig at eleven years old as a child actor to the seasoned professional you had become, fifteen years later. Acting was more than just a career; it was your passion, your raison d'être.

Despite the glitz and glamour that often accompanied your profession, you had managed to steer clear of scandal, maintaining a pristine reputation in an industry known for its pitfalls. Your films had garnered critical acclaim, and your portrayal of diverse characters had earned you a devoted fan base.

Being an ambassador for this beauty brand had added another layer of prestige to your already illustrious career. For nearly five years, you had been the face of their campaigns, gracing magazine covers and social media platforms with your radiant presence. It was a symbiotic relationship—you promoted their products, and they rewarded you handsomely in return.

Yet, beneath the veneer of success, there lurked a sense of disillusionment. The industry often felt hollow, leaving you longing for something more substantial. Tonight was one of those moments, as you navigated the familiar landscape of superficiality and pretense that often defined these events.

Despite the occasional monotony of these events, you had learned to navigate them with grace and composure. You remembered the time you had made a hasty exit from a particularly dull affair, much to the dismay of your publicist. Since then, you had adhered to her strict rule of staying for at least two hours—an obligation that often tested your patience.

As you engaged in small talk with an influencer, your mind wandered, the minutes ticking by at an excruciatingly slow pace. You glanced at your phone, hoping to find that more time had passed than you realized, only to discover that a mere 45 minutes had gone by. One hour and 15 minutes left to endure. You yearned for the comfort of your sister's presence.

Taking a sip of your champagne, you scanned the room, searching for a distraction from the dullness. That's when you felt a pair of eyes boring into you, a subtle change in energy that drew your attention like a magnet. Turning slightly, you found yourself locking eyes with a man across the room, though he quickly averted his eyes. There was something oddly familiar about him, a nagging feeling that tugged at the recesses of your memory.

He was undeniably handsome, his features chiseled and his demeanor exuding an air of quiet confidence. Yet, despite his striking appearance, he appeared just as out of place in this sea of superficiality as you felt. And then it clicked—recognition dawned upon you like a sudden burst of clarity. You knew where you had seen him before.

His eyes met yours once more, and you felt a flush of warmth spread across your cheeks, realizing you had been caught staring. Feeling bold and excited about the prospect of conversing with someone new, you excused yourself from your current conversation and made your way through the crowd towards him.

With each step closer to him, your heart quickened, a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through you. You couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation as you closed the distance between you, determined to strike up a conversation with this intriguing man.

As you reached him, he looked at you, a subtle shift in his demeanor betraying his surprise at your approach, though he greeted you with a polite smile.

With a friendly grin, you introduced yourself, the words tumbling effortlessly from your lips. "Hi, I'm Y/N."

"Oh, I know. I'm— I'm Enzo," he responded, his words accented with a hint of nervousness, spoken in English with a charming accent.

Your smile widened at his response. "Oh, I know," you replied, switching to Spanish, a language that seemed to bridge the gap between you. "I saw your movie. It was incredible."

A look of relief washed over Enzo's features at the sound of his native language, his eyes lighting up with a spark of surprise and gratitude as he registered your words.

"Wow, thank you. That means a lot coming from you. I'm a big fan of all your work," he expressed, his hand resting on his chest in a gesture of gratitude.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling a surge of warmth at his compliment.

"I didn't know you speak Spanish. I've spoken bad English the whole evening," he quipped.

You chuckled softly, enjoying the easy banter between you. "Yeah, my father is from Mexico, so I grew up with both languages. Although I don't speak it now as often as I would like."

Enzo's presence had a way of putting you at ease, and you found yourself opening up to him more than you had anticipated. Whether it was the shared language or an inexplicable connection, you couldn't deny the magnetic pull drawing you closer to him with each passing moment.

Enzo nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning the room once more as if seeking an escape route from the stifling atmosphere of the party. "So, what's the appropriate time to ditch these kinds of events?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty lacing his words. Lost in the sea of unfamiliar faces and foreign conversations, he seemed to look to you for guidance.

You couldn't help but empathize with his predicament. Navigating through such social gatherings could indeed be daunting, especially for someone new to the scene and grappling with a language barrier. Yet, there was a certain charm in his candid vulnerability, a quality that drew you to him even more.

But rather than dwell on the situation, you decided to lighten the mood with a playful suggestion. "Let's play a game," you proposed, a mischievous glimmer dancing in your eyes.

"A game?" Enzo echoed, his curiosity piqued.

You nodded eagerly. "It's called people-watching. My sister came up with it."

Enzo's brow furrowed in confusion. "Aren't people usually watching you?"

You couldn't contain a chuckle at his puzzled expression. "Exactly! But this way, we can be on the opposite side for once." 

Enzo still looked slightly bemused, but there was a spark of intrigue in his eyes as he awaited your instructions. “Alright. How do I play it?”

"It's simple," you replied, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes as you scanned the room, searching for a suitable target. "I pick out someone in the room, and then you have to make up a story about them. And vice versa. Something wild and completely absurd. The funnier answer wins."

"And what do I get if I win?"

You turned to face him fully, only to find him already gazing at you with an intensity that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. The sudden acceleration of your heart rate caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily breathless. What was it about this man that had you feeling so off-kilter, so inexplicably drawn to him?

"How about my phone number?" you suggested with a playful tilt of your head, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The words slipped out before you could fully process them, but there was no turning back now.

As the realization of your own flirtatiousness dawned on you, a thrill coursed through you, mingling with the nervous excitement that bubbled in the pit of your stomach. 

Enzo's response was a raised eyebrow, his smirk deepening as he held out his hand in agreement. “Deal.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of the moment settling over you as you met his gaze, feeling a surge of anticipation coursing through your veins. With trembling fingers, you reached out to grasp his hand, the touch sending a shiver of electricity racing up your arm. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt charged with a palpable energy that left you breathless.

Enzo's grip was firm yet oddly comforting, his touch igniting a warmth that spread from your fingertips to your core. As you withdrew your hand, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Enzo's expression, a flicker of something unreadable dancing in his eyes. It was as if he, too, felt the charged atmosphere hanging between you.

You blinked, willing your thoughts to clear as you focused on the task at hand. "How about you pick someone and I go first?" you suggested, eager to divert your attention from the lingering sensation of his touch.

Enzo nodded in agreement, his gaze scanning the room before settling on a figure in a blue suit. "Her," he declared, tipping his chin in the direction of an elegant older lady who stood at the edge of the crowd.

You studied her for a moment, taking in her poised demeanor and the air of sophistication that seemed to radiate from her. With a thoughtful expression, you searched your mental catalog for a suitable name, your brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

"Her name is Mrs. Eleanor Pemberton," you declared with a hint of theatricality, a playful twinkle dancing in your eyes as you invented a persona for the unsuspecting stranger. "She's a retired spy, covert operations specialist turned etiquette coach. Trained in the art of espionage, but now she spends her days teaching the elite how to navigate high society."

Enzo raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking up in amusement at your imaginative tale. "That's … Wow, a retired spy?" he chuckled, clearly entertained by your creativity.

You nodded emphatically, unable to suppress a grin. "Absolutely. Just look at the way she surveys the room, assessing every detail with a trained eye. It's all part of her covert training," you insisted, weaving an elaborate backstory for Mrs. Pemberton on the fly.

Enzo's laughter subsided into a warm smile, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, a subtle warmth in his hazel eyes that made your heart flutter involuntarily. There was something undeniably captivating about the way he looked at you, as if he possessed the ability to unravel the layers of your persona with just a single gaze.

Shaking off the unexpected wave of shyness, you redirected your focus to the task at hand, scanning the room for your chosen subject.

“Your turn, Enzo,” you prompted, nodding towards a man with a full beard who stood behind a group of women. “Him. What’s his story?”

Enzo followed your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on the man you had indicated. His lips curved into a mischievous smile, a glint of amusement dancing in his hazel eyes as he considered his response.

"Him? Oh, that's... let's see," Enzo mused, his tone thoughtful as he leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. "That's Luis Morales. He was a circus performer once but now he's a chef."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his unexpected choice, raising an eyebrow in mock skepticism. "From circus to food?"

Enzo nodded, his expression deadpan. "Luis has a gift. He's known for incorporating circus tricks into his cooking routines. Rumor has it he once cooked a five-course meal while balancing on a tightrope."

You laughed, amused by Enzo's storytelling. "Sounds like quite the character. I'll have to keep an eye out for him at the next dinner party," you teased, relishing in the lighthearted banter between you.

Engaging in conversation with Enzo felt effortless and light-hearted, as if you had been friends for years rather than meeting him for the first time. There was a natural chemistry between you, a comfortable rhythm that flowed seamlessly from one topic to the next.

"Give me your phone," you requested, holding out your hand expectantly.

Enzo arched an eyebrow, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "I won?" he inquired, retrieving his phone from his pocket.

"Extra points for your first time playing," you countered with a playful smirk, masking the fact that you had just invented that rule on the spot, solely for his benefit.

He handed you his phone, and you quickly entered your number into his contacts. As you returned it to him, your fingers brushed lightly, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Enzo accepted his phone with a smile and he tapped away on the screen.

Meanwhile, your own phone vibrated discreetly in your purse, drawing your attention. Curious, you retrieved your phone and discovered a message from an unknown number. 

You're beautiful, it read, causing a rush of warmth to flood your cheeks at the unexpected compliment. Glancing up, you found Enzo's gaze fixed on you, his smile tender and genuine. 

"Thank you," you murmured softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

The warmth that flooded your chest upon receiving Enzo's swift reply was unexpected yet undeniably welcome. With his number now stored in your phone, you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the conversations that lay ahead.

There was something about Enzo's quiet confidence that drew you to him like a magnet. In his presence, you felt a sense of ease and comfort that you hadn't experienced in a long time. It was as if the two of you existed in your own little bubble. The hours slipped away unnoticed as you lost yourselves in each other's company.

As you made your way home, you couldn't help but marvel at the feeling of nervous excitement that bubbled within you when you thought of him. It was rare for you to feel such a strong connection with someone, especially someone you had only just met. 

The memory of the hug he had given you before parting lingered in your mind, filling you with a warmth that matched the flush of your cheeks. Enzo was undeniably charming, with a quick wit and an infectious sense of humor that had you hanging on his every word.

And then there was his undeniable attractiveness, a fact that hadn't escaped your notice from the moment you laid eyes on him. The thought of his hazel eyes and the way his smile seemed to light up his entire face brought a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks, and you couldn't help but smile to yourself at the memory.

By the time you arrived home, you couldn't shake the feeling of gratitude for having met Enzo. He had injected a spark of excitement into an otherwise ordinary evening.

–

Lying in bed, bathed in the soft glow of your bedside lamp, you found yourself unable to shake thoughts of Enzo from your mind. The events of the evening replayed in your head like a looped film reel, each moment etched into your memory with a clarity that surprised you. 

You should have been trying to get some sleep, especially with an audition looming on the horizon. But here you were, lost in a sea of thoughts, your mind refusing to quiet down.

With a sigh, you reached for your phone, fingers dancing over the screen as you navigated to your chat with Enzo. Only one message stared back at you, a silent reminder of the connection you had forged earlier in the evening.

Should you text him now, or wait until after your audition? The question lingered in your mind, uncertainty tugging at the edges of your thoughts. Perhaps it was too late, and he was already fast asleep, lost in dreams that had nothing to do with you. Or maybe he was lying awake, just like you, his mind consumed by thoughts of the woman he had met at the party.

Shaking your head, you scolded yourself for getting ahead of yourself. There was no way of knowing what Enzo was doing at this very moment. After all, you barely knew the man. 

Yet, even as you entertained the possibility of reaching out to him, a nagging doubt crept into your mind. What if he was already seeing someone? What if the connection you felt was nothing more than a fleeting moment in time, destined to be forgotten amidst the chaos of everyday life?

Curious, you opened Instagram and searched for his name. Enzo's profile popped up, and you immediately saw the "Follow back" button. He was already following you. The realization sent a flutter through your chest, a rush of excitement mingled with uncertainty. 

Chiding yourself for getting so worked up over a simple social media interaction, you reminded yourself to keep your composure. But try as you might, you knew that Enzo had already left an indelible mark on your thoughts.

Scrolling through his feed, you searched for any signs of a girlfriend, a pang of relief washing over you when you found none. Perhaps it was selfish of you to feel relieved, but you couldn't deny the surge of hope that blossomed within you. 

Reflecting on the evening, you couldn't help but wonder if you should have lingered a little longer at the event, savored the conversation with Enzo a while longer. But dwelling on what could have been served no purpose now. All you could do was hope that this was just the beginning, that fate would conspire to bring you together again soon.

Turning your phone off, you set it aside and settled back against the pillows, the memory of Enzo's smile lingering in your mind. Until the next time you crossed paths, you were certain that he would remain a constant presence in your thoughts, a gentle reminder of the unexpected connection you shared.

Part 2

A/N: Let me know what you think!

there's laundry to do and a genocide to stop by vinay krishnan

Y'all!!! Emergency!!!

Your Esims are also helping Palestinians in Jenin!!

Instructions & Discount codes

Truly Esim

Thank you @anneemay for the notice

don't you want me

wc: 4.4k

cw: slight angst, discussions surrounding death and the poor aging of some scenes in the breakfast club, plus size!live!reader, still gender neutral!reader

summary: wally tells you about how he died, you watch the breakfast club, and shit is getting a little weird.

don't go breaking my heart: pt 1. - pt 2. - pt. 3 - pt. 4

masterlist

Wally meets you in the library every day during your study hall for the next few weeks. 

When it’s quiet, and there aren’t any people around, you spend the whole hour talking. You learn a lot about him, what life was like for him in the 80s, and what his afterlife is like here, as well. He asks questions about your abilities, and though you don’t have many answers to give him, you try your best. 

“Have you talked to a lot of ghosts?” 

You’re sitting at a table in the corner, notebooks and study guides splayed out to give the impression that you’re actually here to do work. Wally sits across from you, chin cupped in the palm of his hand, elbow leaning on the table top. He has a staring problem, it makes your skin crawl. 

“Not really? Not on purpose, anyways,” you shrug, “I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a lot of opportunities to do this.” 

“So I’m your first?” 

The intention to tease is clear - his tone is light and airy - honey brown eyes boring into yours, smile creeping up on his face. You could look at him for hours. You have looked at him for hours, mapping the freckles on his face like constellations. 

“Yeah, Wally. You’re my first,” you giggle, conceding to the bit, “you should feel honored, really.”

“Oh, more than honored,” his eyes twinkle under the fluorescent lights, “and you’re my first, too. What we’ve got going on here is special.” 

There’s a beat of silence, genuineness seeping into the joke. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, “super special.” 

You share a look, and you wish you could reach out and touch him. You wish you could hold his hand, hug him, draw lines from freckle to freckle with your finger. The time you’ve spent with him has been so good - sweet, easy hours spent giggling and blushing. 

And then you leave campus, go home, fight the urge to cry into your pillow. It isn’t fucking fair. It’s not fair that he died in the way that he did, it’s not fair that he isn’t fifty something with a wife, watching their kids go to college. 

You haven’t talked about it much - the divide between you, or the nature of his death - despite the amount of time you’ve spent together. It’s like you’re stuck in this semi-honeymoon phase, wanting to keep being entertained by the novelty of it, instead of letting the truth of the situation infect that happiness. 

It’s so hard, though, when you look at him and think of the life that was stolen from him. 

He sees your smile falter, reaches his hand forward to sit next to yours. You feel the displacement of air, the coldness pressing up against the tips of your fingers. It’s enough, for now. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the other ghosts making their way towards Wally. It’s the kid with the jean jacket and the bleached tips - Charley, Wally had told you - and he looks slightly concerned. 

You put your head down, moving your hand away from his and feigning focus on the worksheets in front of you. Wally had suggested not letting in any of the other ghosts until you figured out how to tell them, though you had a sneaking suspicion he just wanted to keep this to himself for a little while longer. 

Charley plops down in the seat next to Wally, eyes going back and forth between the two of you. 

“You missed group again,” he whispers, like he doesn’t want to disturb you from your studying, “are you still following this poor person around? They can’t even see you, it’s getting creepy.” 

Your eyes, though directed at the pages on the table, widen slightly - has Wally been watching you the same way you’ve been watching him?

You’ve never noticed him looking at you, and you wouldn’t have, because up until recently you’d been trying your hardest not to get too close. It was futile, you can admit that now. 

It almost makes you giggle, knowing that he’d been doing the same thing. 

Wally splutters, “I don’t follow them around,” you can feel both of them looking at you, and it’s getting harder not to laugh, “I don’t know why you’d think that, that’s just…” 

Charley pats Wally on the shoulder, rubbing it slightly and sighing. 

“It’s sweet of you, I think. We’ve all had crushes on living people at some point or another, but this one seems bad. You’re like, obsessed.” 

That’s the thing that does you in. Laugh tearing from your throat, hand clasped over your mouth, trying and failing miserably to hide your amusement.

“Sorry, sorry, oh,” your shoulders are still shaking with your laughter, head bowed in apology before you look up to see a pink cheeked Wally and a shocked Charley, “I really tried, I’m so sorry.”

“Nice,” Wally chastises, though he’s smiling, “the idea of me having a crush on you is funny?” 

Charley still hasn’t said anything, head whipping back and forth between you and Wally like he’s watching a game of tennis. 

“I didn’t say that! I also think it’s sweet,” you turn to Charley, stick your hand out before thinking better of it and pulling it back to your side of the table, “Hi, I’m y/n, yes, I can see you, no I’m not dead.” 

“H- hey,” his eyes are still wide, brain working on overdrive to figure out what’s happening, “I’m Charley.” 

Wally fills him in on the time you’ve been spending together, retelling in theatrical detail the way in which you’d accidentally made it known you could see him.

Then it was your turn, explaining to Charley how you’d known since you were a kid that you could see dead people, but that you didn’t know why, or what it meant. If it had a purpose, or was just an unexplainable quirk. 

To Charley’s credit, he takes it really well. 

He doesn’t get upset with Wally for not sharing, he doesn’t get upset at you for not making yourself known to them sooner, though he mentions that when the time comes for you to tell Rhonda, she won’t be nice about it. He’s a sweetheart, just like you thought he’d be. 

“Have you guys just been hanging out this whole time? That’s why you’ve been missing group so much?”

Wally goes to answer, but you cut him off. 

“What’s group? Do the ghosts here have, like, an afterlife support group?” You find the idea of it really sweet, and amusing, chuckling to yourself until you see that the two boys in front of you aren’t laughing, they’re nodding. “Oh shit, wait, really?” 

“Yeah,” Charley confirms, “It’s run by this guy Mr. Martin. He was a science teacher that died in the late 50s, I think,” he looks to Wally for confirmation, turning back to you when Wally agrees, “He’s pretty cool. We have a bunch of traditions, like movie nights and stuff like that.”

“That’s really cool, actually. I didn’t know that you guys did that. I’m sorry I’ve been messing it up, keeping Wally to myself.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Wally says, and he smiles, a sweet, boyish thing, “I’d rather be here with you.” 

Charley watches the both of you, and he doesn’t think either of you clock the lovesick puppy looks on your faces. He doesn’t know what it means, how it’ll end, but it’s nice to see his friend so happy for once, breaking the monotonous nature of their days at Split River High. 

He leaves eventually, making you promise you’ll hang out with him sometime. 

“So,” you ask Wally, “how long have you been watching me?” 

“You can’t judge me,” he parrots, “and I could ask you the same question.”

“I didn’t say I was judging, I’m just curious, y’know, since you have a crush on me and all.” 

“I do not have a crush on you.”

Wally isn’t the most convincing liar. You can tell, by the way he’s looking everywhere but directly at you, that Charley was telling the truth. 

“That’s too bad,” you shrug, glancing at the clock behind him and beginning to gather your things from the table, “I wouldn’t mind it if you did.” 

Your nonchalance affects Wally exactly the way you want it to, watching as his cheeks grow pink again and as he trips over words that don’t leave his mouth. He starts to say something, but the overhead chiming cuts him off before he can get any words out. 

“Look at that, saved by the bell. Later, Wally.” 

On your way out of the library, you look back to see him still at the table in the corner, slouched backwards and head tilted towards the ceiling. 

- 

When Wally talks to you about how he died, you’re sitting under your tree overlooking the football field. 

He hadn’t had the intention to talk to you about it today, but the football team is training, preparing for next year’s season, and you’d asked about it.

It was nice, talking about football in a casual way at first, explaining things to you in a way you’d understand them, because in your words, you were more of a “music and film nerd,” though you understood the appeal of sweaty men tackling each other. 

You’d skirted around asking questions about homecoming, attempting to spare Wally the reminder, but the conversation was always going to end up there eventually. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, leaning against the tree, head tilted in your direction, “I don’t mind talking about it.” 

“Are you sure? We don’t have to.” 

It’s not pity he sees on your face, but genuine concern. It emboldens him enough to tell you what happened. He goes on autopilot a bit, like he’s told the story so many times that it feels like he’s removed from it - telling a story about someone else, rehashing the grizzly details the way a true crime documentary would. 

He tells you about his knee injury, his coach benching him, his mom pushing him to strive for her specific idea of greatness. 

He tells you he was running so fast, he didn’t even feel the initial impact, just heard the crunching of his neck when he hit the ground. And then it was lights out. Just like that.

He tells you how he stood up from his own body, watched in confusion and abject horror as his coach and team members ran up to him, trying to wake him, thinking he’d simply been knocked out.

He tells you about the gasps from the crowd, whispers shared amongst the stands as the announcer tried his best to explain what was happening. 

It felt like time was standing still, and he’d gotten up so fast that he was confused why everyone was reacting the way they were. He was fine, couldn’t they tell? When his mom rushed onto the field, and the EMT’s loaded him onto the backboard, that’s when he knew. 

He watched as everyone left the field, standing solitary with his helmet in his hands. 

Mr. Martin and Rhonda found him a few hours later, wandering the halls of the school, tears running down his face. 

You don’t mean to cry, you don’t want to take the attention or make him have to comfort you, but the tears fall anyway. Heavy and slow, they build in your eyes before falling over onto your cheeks. You turn your head to the side, wiping them away, trying to hide it. You fail, but Wally just smiles at you - a sad thing, appreciative of your kindness. 

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago. I haven’t cried about it in almost… twenty years, I think.” 

“I don’t really know what to say,” you face him, collecting the last of your tears with your jacket sleeve, “I’m just really sorry that happened to you. I wish I could change it.” 

Wally does what he’s been making a habit of, hovering his hand over yours so you can feel the change in temperature. This time though, and only for a second, there’s a flicker of warmth, a millisecond of feeling a solid palm against yours. 

“Did you feel that?” 

Your head whips over to see Wally, eyes wide and brow furrowed. He nods, moves his hand away, and tries to do it again, but it falls through yours - cold air seeping into your skin and sending shivers up your spine. You think the latter is more so a credit to Wally himself, not just the cool sensation. 

“Why did that happen?” he asks, pulling away from you to fiddle with the gold chain around his neck. 

“I have no idea. I didn’t do anything, did you?” 

“Not that I know of,” a slight sigh of defeat, “it was nice though, right?” 

It makes you want to cry again, how small he sounds at that moment. Hopeful and sad at the same time. You’d give anything to throw yourself at him, hug him, run your hands through his hair. 

“Yeah, Wally. It was really nice.” 

Time passes, easy silence as the two of you lay in the grass, staring up at the sky through the tree.  

“Do you miss it? Being alive?” 

He chuckles, shakes his head. 

“Not really. I mean,” he rolls over, props his head up with his hand, “It’s been so long that I’ve kinda forgotten what it felt like. There’s lots of shit I missed out on, and for a while I was so upset about being dead that I didn’t even try to catch up. Like, when Charley heard I’ve never seen The Breakfast Club, he flipped out.” 

“You’ve never seen Breakfast Club?”

“It came out in ‘85, so…” he trails off, “We had a copy of it in the library for a while, but I mostly stayed away from all the popular 80s movies.” 

“I get that,” you sympathize, “but you have to watch it at some point. It’s a classic, I think you’d like it. I could watch it with you, if you wanted.” The question is asked carefully, like you’re still not sure if he wants to keep seeing you. It’s a silly assumption, you know that, especially because his whole demeanor lights up. 

“Yeah, okay,” Wally nods to himself, “I’ll watch it with you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, dude,” Wally stands from his spot on the lawn, dusting the grass off of himself, and reaching a hand out towards you to help you up. For a second, you forget that you can’t actually grab him, and you both giggle when your hand goes through his, “the film room is basically always empty, but I have other hiding places if you want to come back sometime not during the school day. The security around here sucks, they haven’t updated it since like, my time, so there’s always at least one open door.”

“That didn’t take as much convincing as I thought it would.”

“What can I say?” he shrugs, “I’m a sucker for a pretty face, and you’re very persuasive.”

- 

Sneaking into the school on a Saturday could go really, really badly. 

When you’d walked through your kitchen that morning, and your mom had asked where you were off to, you made the attempt to tell her a story as close to the truth as possible. 

You were going to hang out with a friend - your mom didn’t need to know that friend was dead, and confined to live within the four walls of your high school. 

She didn’t need to know that even though that friend wasn’t capable of touching you, that you’d put ten times the effort into your outfit and hair than you usually would. 

It’s late March in Wisconsin, and the last tendrils of a freezing Winter are grasping desperately for recognition against early Spring. In other words, it’s still fucking cold. Out of an abundance of caution, you’d parked your car about a block away from the school, paranoid about a faculty or staff member seeing it and catching you. 

It was a good idea, but you spend the five minute walk with your arms wrapped around your body, shivering and teeth chattering. 

By the time you make it to the school grounds, you can barely feel your fingertips. Wally is waiting for you by the bus stop, shoulder leaning against the glass, his hands in his jacket pockets and feet crossed over each other. 

“Did you walk all the way here?” He pushes off, coming as close as he can to the boundary without being thrown back to the middle of the field. “You look fucking freezing.”  

“Not all the way here, no,” You huff out a breath, watching as it dissipates in front of you, “but I didn’t want anyone to see my car in the parking lot.”

“Fair,” he says, “Maybe wear a bigger jacket next time?”

You roll your eyes, and start the trek into the school, Wally leading the both of you around the back and through the gym. 

“Sports faculty leave this door open all the time, so they can come in and check equipment, but they were just here last weekend, so the coast should be clear.” He turns around, walking backwards through the gym door and into the hall so he can look at you while he talks. “I don’t want you to make fun of me, but I have a whole thing set up in the film room,” he smiles, ever-present pink flush on his face, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to interact with any of it, but you did kick that football away from you, so I figured it was worth trying.”

He faces forward again, jumping and clicking his heels together. You laugh, shake your head, and follow him the rest of the way to the film room. He holds the door open for you, and when you see the inside, you stand stock still in the doorway. 

You have no idea how he did this, where he got all of this from. There are fairy lights lining the room, soft yellow glow illuminating it and shedding light on the massive pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. There are snacks everywhere. Drinks, chips, chocolate bars you can only assume he got from the vending machines in the cafeteria. The projector is on and pointed at the screen on the wall, paused at The Breakfast Club’s opening title sequence. 

Your hand goes over your mouth, overwhelmingly endeared by the amount of effort Wally put into your movie day. You walk around the room, looking back and forth between him and the spread in front of you. Thankfully, Wally doesn’t take your silence negatively, instead plopping himself down on the floor and grabbing the remote. 

“Well? What do you think? Is it too much?” 

He looks up at you from his place on the ground, patting the seat next to him. You’re shaking your head as you sit, still reeling from the feelings rumbling in your chest and stomach. 

“Not too much, no,” you settle onto the cushions, wrap a blanket around your arms, glad that you can touch the things around you, phantom though they may be, “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.” 

“It’s no biggie,” Wally leans back, shrugging his shoulders, “I just thought it would make today more fun.” 

“This is so fucking fun, Wally. You did good.” 

-

The Breakfast Club is a classic, but it’s also a product of its time. 

It’s profound, with complex characters who have complex home lives and interpersonal relationships, it’s thorough in its exploration of what labels and presumptions can do to a person. 

It also has its scenes that have aged incredibly poorly. 

For most of the movie, you almost regret making him watch it. In your excitement to spend the day with him - significant hours, not just fragmented moments in between classes throughout the week - you’d forgotten how triggering the movie would be for him. It feels like a neglectful oversight, but Wally seems genuinely invested. 

He laughs at some of the lighter moments, winces through a lot of the more ugly parts. Slurs being thrown, general and explicit misogyny, fatphobia. 

You don’t need to ask him if the movie is accurate, you can see it on his face. 

You can especially see how much Andrew’s character affects him. A jock, who, not so unlike Wally, cannot think for himself - who spends the majority of his time trying his best to appease his father’s wishes. Who refuses to be a loser, refuses to stand up to his parents and tell them how he really feels.

How that tumbles into his decision making - beating up a kid who didn’t do anything wrong, just to prove to his dad that he’s a man. It’s not a one to one ratio, but it’s close enough. 

He’s quiet as he watches the kids sit in a circle, eyes glued to the screen as they talk about being terrified that they’ll turn into their parents.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the kind of man he’d turn out to be, if he hadn’t died. If he would’ve been harsher, not nearly as accepting as he seems to be now, lacking the 40 years of growth he’s had. 

When the movie ends, freeze framed with John Bender mid-fist pump, you look over to see Wally wiping a few stray tears away. It makes your chest ache, your own eyes watering, throat closing up around the lump in it. 

You can’t imagine what it’s like, to watch forty years of high school students enter and leave, while you’re stuck there, just watching. The jocks, the bullies, the tightly-wound rich girls, the freaks. 

To see the evolution of youth, to watch the times change right in front of you, to realize how small high school is in the grand scheme of things, but to recognize that for Wally, it literally is his whole world. He has to watch, over and over, and see that times really haven’t changed at all. The tropes are still there, the cliches and cliques are just as bad. 

“That was a lot more serious than I remembered,” you laugh lightly, “Are you okay? I wouldn’t have suggested we watch it if I remembered how hard it is.” 

Wally lies back on the pallet he built on the floor, landing softened by blanket-covered gym mats and couch cushions he’d stolen from the teacher’s lounge. He’s staring at the ceiling, quiet to the point of concern on your end when he says, 

“If I’d seen that movie when it came out, I think it would’ve changed my life.” 

“In a good way?”

“In a really good way,” he turns his head towards you, looking up at you from his place on the pillows, “Maybe it would’ve made me brave enough to tell my mom I didn’t even like football. Maybe I would’ve…” He trails off, voice watery and cracking, “Maybe I would’ve stayed on the bench. Maybe I would’ve lived through that game, and the next one, or I’d have quit and done something I actually enjoyed. You know she still goes to every homecoming game they have at this school?” 

“Really?”  

“Yeah. And for all of them, I go out and join her. I sit next to her, cheer when she cheers, boo when she boos, I talk to her even though I know she can’t hear me. I know it’s stupid -” 

“It isn’t stupid,” you interject, “You love her, she’s your mom.”

“It is stupid, though. I told Charley once that I was annoyed I didn’t die in the end zone, instead of the five yard line,” he scoffs, shaking his head at himself, “I was upset I couldn’t get her one last win, y’know? What does it say about me, that I keep going back to the field I died on, to watch the game that killed me, because I think it’ll make my mom happy?” 

“That you’re loyal. That you care,” you duck your head, trying to catch his line of sight, “But also, maybe that you care too much. That you put too much stock into what your mom thought of you while you were alive, and now it’s carried over into your afterlife. You wanna know what I think?” 

Wally nods, urging you to continue. 

“I think you’re one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. I think you’re kind, and funny, and you care about your friends more than most living people care about theirs. I think it’s really fucking unfair that you’re not alive right now, and, all due respect to your mom, but,” you pause, working up the nerve to say, “she sounds like she fucking sucked. And you don’t have to do what she wants anymore. Caring about what she thinks is natural, she’ll always be your mom, but it weighs you down, I can see it.” 

“What do you mean, you can see it?”

“It’s hard to explain, but it’s like,” you wave a hand over his body, “the air around you is heavier, sometimes. Like it hurts for you to be here.” 

Wally hums, digesting your revelation, “Damn. That kinda blows. Does it fuck up my figure?” 

“No, silly,” you snort, “Your figure is just fine. Trust me.” 

You take the change in topic for what it is, trusting that he’ll work through your words on his own time. 

“Oh, my figure is just fine? You wanna elaborate on that, or…” 

He props himself up on his elbows, draws his chin down to his neck, and bats his eyes. 

“Wally, oh my god,” you go to shove at his shoulder, out of habit, mostly, used to shoving at your friends when they say something ridiculous. 

It makes contact. 

Like the force of it almost knocks him over, you can feel your hand on his shoulder, contact. 

You gasp, go to pull away because the shock of it is overwhelming, and lightning fast, Wally brings his hand up to cover yours.

He’s not necessarily warm, not fully solid either, but you’re touching. He pulls your hand down, holds it between the two of you and laces his fingers through yours. 

The hum of the projector is the only noise in the room, as you sit in silence and stare, dumbfounded, at your hand in his. 

a/n: hiiiii guys! here's pt 2, i hope you enjoy! i have a very clear idea of what i want 3 and 4 to look like, so stick with me. i watched the breakfast club, realized that wally is literally copied and pasted from andrew, and needed to write about it or i'd die

if you liked this, my masterlist is linked at the top! my asks are always open, and don't forget to like and reblog if you feel so inclined.

also, who else is terrified for the season finale tomorrow????

taglist: @preparedfruit , @lov3bug , @whoopsyeahokay

lucky strike / CL16

Summary: Charles x American!female!reader - F1 comes to Sin City and you unexpectedly run into a certain someone.

Warnings: gambling, alcohol, cussing, use of pet names (A LOT), flirting, one moment of implied jealousy

Requested?: Sort of! Thank you to everyone who voted for Charles in the poll!

Author's Note: Charles won out in the poll, so here you go, everybody! (Of course I HAD to use The Charles Vegas Podium Picture). Also, I listened to Lucky Strike by Maroon 5 while writing.

one in a million ; my lucky strike

Well, you thought the whole F1 thing was absolutely ridiculous. You couldn't care an ounce less about Formula 1, so you certainly weren't happy about all the complications of it coming to your city.

You would call yourself an all American girl, and you're proud of it. If any racing, NASCAR. Football is the sport with the brown ball you throw- NFL, not the white and black ball you kick. That's soccer. You have the greatest food, the greatest mix of cultures, the greatest weather. If you didn't know better, you'd say you have the greatest country, too.

You watched a Formula 1 race when you realized the whole Las Vegas Grand Prix thing was actual, and when you saw that (firstly) it was honestly pretty boring, and (secondly) the only American driver is basically the most sucky one, you decided it would be pretty hard to get into it.

You're a Vegas girl, and you're proud of it. You're actually from Los Angeles, California, but you moved to Vegas to chase your dreams and live the life you dreamed of a year ago with your boyfriend, and it was so worth it.

Now you identify yourself with Vegas even more than you do with the Los Angeles Rams, despite the fact that your boyfriend broke up with you seven months ago and left to go be a prodigal son in New York City.

You decided Vegas was perfect enough for your clever hand, and you'd continue to be a prodigal daughter right where you're at.

But now the Grand Prix is the newest thing, and you don't like it at all. All these people flooding in, like as if there's not already enough people. Just to watch some cars drive around in circles, closing up main roads? No, you're not into it.

Your girl friends all seem to think this is just the best thing, and you discuss it across the table with two of them. One says, "Honestly, the McLaren duo are the hottest."

"No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?" your other friend disagrees.

You snort in disbelief and say sarcastically, "How about neither? So you guys only care about this because the racers are hot? Give me a break."

"Well," one of your friends starts, crossing her arms across her chest, "They are hot. At first, I wasn't so sure, but, I mean, come on! Maybe we could get glimpses of them when they're in Vegas!"

"Or meet them!" your other friend pipes in.

You scoff. "Good luck with that. Aren't these guys self-focused millionaires with too much money for their own good? Probably all greedy idiots who hook up with every half-sexy girl who comes along. So if you're into that, sure, waste your time trying to meet some hot plutocrats, with the one percent chance you might get f*cked like crazy for a night before they forget about you and move back to their mansions across the world! F*ck, is race car driving even a real sport? It's f*cking driving cars. I could do that!"

Your friends don't really argue with you, because you're right. And clearly, they do only care about the hot racers, because you figure any real fan of the sport would argue with you.

Two days before the Strip is supposed to be closed up for the Grand Prix, you find yourself submerged in the vibrant energy of Wynn Las Vegas, the dazzling lights and sounds of the casino floor swirling around you. The scent of alcohol lingers in the air, a reminder of the drinks you've indulged in throughout the night.

You slip between two people to reach the roulette wheel, holding your newly bought chips, with money you've earned earlier in the night.

Bets are placed around the table over and over, as you earn more and more chips. You feel someone nudge your shoulder, and a cocky male voice comments next to you, "You're having a good night, huh?"

"Every night is a good night," you remark back, not even glancing up at the man talking with you. He seems to have some sort of accent that you can't place. Perhaps French?

Which means he's probably from Louisiana. Possibly Quebec.

Probably some rich idiot F1 fan who can afford to travel half way across the country for the Grand Prix.

You don't plan to even give him the light of day.

"Until it's not," he says as you watch the roulette wheel spin once more.

You smirk and feel his eyes on you as you collect more chips.

The game goes on, and you think he's gotten the message that you don't care to converse with him, because does shut up.

But now it's the last bet of the game. You take a sip from your glass and feel a stupid, risky streak in you.

Some idiot part of you that's drunk and wants to push her luck way too far.

You place a straight-up bet, all your chips on the number sixteen.

You can feel eyes on you, and the same man next to you from earlier says, "Are you stupid?"

You chuckle. "Possibly."

"You're going to lose all your-"

"No, I won't." You straighten your back, staring at the wheel. It's true, you've earned a lot of money throughout this game.

And honest, it is true that you're stupid.

But it's also true that for some reason, you're confident.

"So you're overconfident and risky? I like that," comments the guy next to you. "But you're going to lose all your money. All that good luck for nothing..."

"You'll see," you breathe, ignoring his little flirt. "It's going to land on sixteen."

"Sixteen, huh?" This man's hazel eyes sparkle, and something in you tells you that you've seen this guy's brown locks, bright dimples, and perfect stubble before.

You've seen him somewhere. Recently. Like some guy you could haven't been drunk with, but the memory is fuzzy.

But you weren't drunk with him.

Despite being sure you've seen this guy before, you're also sure you've never met him before, either.

"Yeah," you nod, looking away, staring as the roulette wheel begins spinning. "It's my lucky number."

You're not looking at him, but you can feel him grin next to you. "Your lucky number, huh? Just so happens, it's mine, too."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Is that some lame attempt of a flirt?"

"No. It really is my lucky number." By his tone, you can tell that grin has downgraded to a smirk. "But if you'd like to see a lame attempt of a flirt, that's an option, too..." His voice lowers as you feel his arm snake around you, and his hand land on your waist.

You gently shove it off as the wheel begins to slow. You hold your breath, watching, this stupid French boy no longer even a fraction of your concerns. All focus is on your slight potential lucky strike.

And then the world stops as the wheel stops, too.

On sixteen.

And then it all comes flooding back. "Oh my God!" you squeal stupidly, covering your mouth as there's rounds of, "You've got to be kidding me," "No way," "It's impossible!" and "How lucky is this girl?"

You feel surges of shock and pride as you collect all your money. Once you've received it, after such luck, and earning a fortune, you decide you're going to have a drink. Or more than just one.

But when you turn, there's that guy again.

"What's up?" you ask, the grin on your face impossible to wipe off.

"How did you know it was going to stop on sixteen?" he questions, and he looks a little more handsome than he did before as this time he succeeds in taking your waist.

"Are you trying to pick my pocket?" you question warily, though, shoving his hand away.

"Not at all," he chuckles, "But you're a smart girl, aren't you? And I think I might be a lucky boy. Come on- I'll buy you a drink."

You snort. "No way, pretty boy! I can buy my own drink, after what just happened! How cocky are you?"

"Call me cocky, or call me rich, but either way, you're too sexy to have to pay for your own drink."

You scoff at this, but figure that you can't really let down an offer of free stuff. You'll be the first to admit you're greedy. Once of the biggest reasons why you gamble is because you want money- duh- and as much of it as you can get.

So soon, you're sitting at a table with this random guy, looking into his eyes, holding your drink in your hand. After barely a moment of hesitation, your curiosity finally gets to you, and you ask, "Who are you, anyway? I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere recently."

He gets a smug look on his face, which you don't like, before he says, "You really don't know?"

Your nose crinkles up in confusion, and for a second you feel ultra worried. Is this someone that I've met, that I should remember? Am I a terrible person for not knowing who this is...?

But then he says simply, "My first name is Charles. Charles Leclerc."

You stare at the taller individual, knowing you've heard that name, trying desperately to wrack your brain of it.

And then, suddenly, it hits you.

Loudly, in your head, in your friend's voice, in the exact tone she said it, 'No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?'

"Wait-!" you say in shock. You can see the satisfaction on the man's face, Charles, as you realize. "So, you're one of those F1 racers? Like, you race for the Ferrari team?"

He snorts and nods. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize me right away. Do you live here in Vegas?"

"Yeah," you say simply, taking a sip of your drink.

"So I take it you hate Formula 1, then? Because how else are you living in Vegas right now and don't know my name, or recognize my face?"

"You sound awfully prideful."

Suddenly, he smirks, and drags his finger across your jawline, pulling your face to look up at him in the process. "Maybe so. But clearly you're not so much better yourself, Miss Bet It All On Sixteen."

You cock an eyebrow at him and return his smirk with a challenging grin. "Sure, but I was right. I won what I wanted."

"Hmm... Well, what if I'm about to win what I want?"

"Oh, yeah? And what is it that you want?"

He leans in closer, so you can feel his hot breath tickle your ear as he utters simply, "You, baby."

You smirk. "We just met, buddy. I'm not that stupid."

"I think you're just playing hard to get."

"Or maybe it's just hard for you to get me," you counter.

"Well, I like your spunk. And your good luck. I think I might need a little bit more of that." He leans away a bit, and comments, "And I think I foresee a little bit more of luck in your future."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he smirks, leaning in closer. In barely any second, his lips meet yours, and though you know you should, there's no way you're pulling away now. He wraps his arm around you, urging you to lean into the kiss. You melt, letting him.

You don't know what it is.

But in this moment, you gently let your lips part, inviting his tongue to slip in between your lips, allowing yourself to, yes, make out with basically a stranger.

It wouldn't be the first time, but it also isn't something you do for fun whenever you feel.

When you finally force yourself to pull away, the first thing you breathe is, "How did you do that?"

He grins, and is clearly red in the face. But there's a look of shock on his face, too. As if his flirty cover was just confidence, and not because he gets tons of girls like this...?

Or maybe you're just reading too much into his expression.

Either way, he responds with, stroking your cheek, "No idea. Maybe I just have a way with you?"

You roll your eyes as you check your purse. No, he didn't pickpocket. He meant to kiss you. You stand up and say simply, "Well, I better get going n-"

"Sorry, what?" he suddenly snatches your arm back, pulling you back down to sit again with a surprised chuckle. "You just met a famous millionaire race car driver who bought you a drink after you won big money in roulette, let him make out with you, loved it, and now you're just going to casually walk off?"

You grin. "What? Do you think I was impressed by you? Think again, honey. Just because you drive cars fast and make ridiculous amounts of stupid money for it, and that you're insanely handsome- none of that means I'm any more impressed with you than I am with any other guys I meet on my night outs."

"Hm," he raises an eyebrow, and says, "What if you could get more from me, missy? Clearly, you're out for yourself and will do anything for a good deal. And you're f*cking sexy about it, too. So what if I had something else to offer you?"

You let yourself sit down at this, looking at him expectantly.

He smirks, clearly loving that he's 'won you over,' before saying simply, "Would like a free pass to the whole weekend, and a pass for the paddock?"

Your eyebrows scrunch together, and your eyes widen. "I- what?"

His smirk grows even bigger. "You heard me."

You inhale sharply, but cross your arms across your chest and come out sharply saying, "Unfortunately for you, I couldn't care less about Formula 1. In fact, I'm starting to dislike it a lot. But thanks for the offer."

His jaw drops, and his eyes practically pops out of his head, which gets a chuckle from you. For a moment, he's actually speechless, before he finally gets out, "Are you aware of the offer you just refused?"

You raise an eyebrow, not able to keep the cheeky grin off your face. "Probably not, but that's okay. Why, anyways, would you give a stranger such an opportunity in the first place? You probably have ulterior motives, and I think I can pretty much guess what they are, mister. You don't even know my name yet."

"Oh, God, you're right," he laughs, taking another sip of his drink. "Well, what's your name, princess?"

You roll your eyes, and tell him.

He grins. "It's been wonderful meeting you." He digs in the pocket of his light blue jeans, and pulls out a pen and a restaurant receipt. "I know you think you'll be able to forget me so easily, princess," he starts, scribbling something on the receipt, "but trust me- you'll be wanting this." He takes your hand and presses the receipt into it, before standing up just like that, and saying with a wave as he turns to walk off, "I'll talk to you later, angel."

You look down at the receipt to see a phone number scribbled on it in chicken scratch. But the numbers are clear. And though you walk out that night rolling your eyes at this Charles's boldness and cockiness, with an abundance of money you've earned that's a lot more worth the stupid grease-stained receipt, the moment you get back to your apartment, the first thing you intend to is putting that stupid number into your phone.

"This is stupid," you comment as you slide into the backseat, next to Charles.

He just rolls his eyes. "You won't be saying that by the end of this experience. Besides, you were the one who decided to text me, like I said you would. You were just playing hard to get."

You scoff. "Oh, shut up."

"You look lovely, by the way," he comments in a lower voice. "I like that skirt." You look down at yourself. You're wearing a matching crop top shirt and short skirt, your sunglasses holding your hair back away from your face, and brown sandals.

"Thanks," you snort, crossing your arms and looking out the window, turning your gaze away from the Monégasque driver. (Yes, you did, despite yourself, look him up last night, just to know who the heck this guy even is.)

(You also were sure to look up his salary.)

(Ridiculous.)

(But also intriguing.)

Soon enough, before you know it, you're walking alongside him, about to enter the 'paddock.'

Makes it sound like a bunch of horses racing.

But when you're there, surrounded by it, in the moment, you don't think rude comments like that.

You stop, taking in the high life atmosphere. The revving car noises, the lights of The Strip on the 'racetrack,' the crowds, the music, the richness, and the challenge.

Your breathing falters, and your heart beat quickens as your hand involuntarily finds Charles's wrist and grips it as you gasp, "It's... extraordinary."

You glance to Charles's face to see him softly grinning. His hand slips down to hold yours as he comments, "You seemed like the type of girl to love it."

Your smile widens. "I've been here so many times. On The Strip. But... it's not the same. How did they do it?"

He begins walking, pulling you along by your hand as you look around. "That's just Formula 1 for you. There's nothing in the world quite like it, Y/n."

He leads you by the hand toward the Ferrari garage. Once you're there, he says, "Want to meet my teammate, Carlos?"

"Don't know who Carlos is, but sure..." you say vaguely, taking in the large piece of machinery- the Formula 1 car- in front of you.

He chuckles. "You're f*cking adorable," he murmurs, before leading you away to see Carlos.

He's a well-built man with fluffy dark hair, tan skin, big brown cow eyes, and stubble. Pretty much looks like exactly how you'd imagine a Formula 1 driver to look.

He nods respectfully. "Hey, Charles," he says, and shakes your hand with a friendly wink. "This your new girlfriend?"

You look up to see Charles smirk. "Not yet."

One of Carlos's thick, dark eyebrows cocks up, and the suggestion of an amused smirk travels on his lips for a second. "Ah, I see."

"Charles!" you snap, your eyebrows scrunches together. "Not ever."

"Well, we'll see about that. So far, I've been the right one, now, princess, haven't I?"

"Pfft. I was right about sixteen, wasn't I?"

He rolls his eyes as Carlos says with a chuckle, "Well, it will sure be interesting to see how this plays out," before moving on with his life.

Charles takes the time to show you around, and halfway through the tour, you blurt suddenly, "So, this is all the Italian team and stuff. Isn't there an American team?"

"Hmmm," Charles snorts as his eyebrows travel farther up and he fights off a seemingly somewhat mocking smirk. "There is."

"Why don't you show me them? Don't they have an American driver? Like, Carlos is Italian, right? Isn't it protocol or somethin'? Anyway, isn't it called Williams, the American team, or something? Some guy named Logan something that's an American racer on there-"

At this, Charles can't seem to hold it together anymore, and doubles over laughing, essentially, at you.

"What?!" you demand indignantly.

"You really are clueless!"

"I-"

"Alright, alright, Y/n. Haas is the American team. They don't have an American driver- German and Danish. No, Carlos is not Italian; he's from Spain. Williams is British, and yes, Logan Sargeant races for Williams, and he is American. About the only thing you got right."

You roll your eyes with a shrug. "I told you I don't give a damn about this stupid sport."

"Whatever you say, Miss Starry Eyes."

So, first Charles takes you to Haas, where you learn, surprisingly, that not all the racers are young hotshots like Charles and Carlos at least seem to be. They're friendly enough there, but really don't care much to give you any of their time, so then Charles suggests to go to the Williams garage and see if there's Logan to bother. You agree to that, so soon, you're entering Williams.

As soon as you see Logan, you know he's the American. You can see it in his stance. You can see it in his golden blond slightly sweeped hair, gray blue eyes, and strong jawline. "That's Logan, isn't it?"

"How'd you know?"

You shrug, breaking off from Charles to Logan. "Hey! You're the only American 'round here?!" you ask with a friendly grin.

"Huh?" he asks, looking up, in the most United States of America way. "Oh, hi," he says in what you perceive as dumbly, with a friendly smile. Ah, that's more like it. None of these posh Monacan boys and hot Spanish men- this guy is just like home sweet home!

You can practically hear the eagles cawing over the Rocky Mountains!

"You're Logan Sargeant?"

He nods. "I am. And you are...?"

"Just some Vegas girl dragged here by Charles."

"Ah... so you know him?"

"Well, now, unfortunately, yes."

His eyebrows furrow, but he chuckles at the same time. Though this guy isn't nearly as handsome or charming as Charles, there's something about him you like a bit more-

Suddenly, a hand is on your waist, and hot breath says in your ear, "Got to be getting back to Ferrari now. Come on with me?"

You blush and nod. "Right, Charles."

You have no idea what to think of him.

"Podium?! Uh- is a podium good?!" you ask, eyes wide as Charles brings it home in second.

"Yeah, yeah, it's good!" some guy you don't know wearing red near you says.

"Oh- Alright, well- That's good, I suppose!" you respond a little manically.

As soon as Charles as the chance, he finds you. He still has champagne on his race suit and his face is glistening with sweat, and there's no way you can deny it- he's sexy. When he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you, and his stunning eyes seem to burn into you. He can't fight the grin off his face as he says lowly, "Get why my lucky number is sixteen, baby girl?"

"Ah, stop with that," you snap, your voice cracking. You don't know, but this seems- all this seems-

Way too important.

You reach up to touch the number sixteen on his hat, before taking it off his head and slipping it on your own, backwards, on impulse.

He grins. "You can keep it. Not like you'll need a keepsake. You won't forget me."

You bite your lip, giving a quick nod, still studying his handsome face. Your eyes linger on his light pink lips, which arch into a perfect cupid's bow, as you murmur absently, "You seem pretty confident about that, huh?"

"Of course I do. Looks like you might be my little good luck charm, hm? Can't be letting you run away from me, can I?"

"Hm. Well, we'll see about that."

"Still playing hard to get?"

"Not playing. I just am hard to get."

"Whatever you say, darling," he comments with a shrug, walking off.

The French accent is pretty sexy.

Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see are the big earnest eyes of Charles Leclerc, staring back into your eyes. "Morning sunsh-"

Your immediate reaction is to scream and promptly slap him across his pretty face.

He grunts as his hand flies to his cheek to cover it up, and he says, "Hey, hey, calm down!"

But your eyes scan the room. It's clearly a hotel room. There's only one bed: the one you and Charles are laying in right at this moment. You're wearing a large black T-shirt and big blue gym shorts very tightly tied to fit your waist. Charles is dressed in a grey hoodie and jeans with a white T-shirt underneath, his regular jewelry, and white sneakers. So clearly, he's already showered and gotten dressed. He smells like his rich cologne, and his hair is all washed and fluffy and clean. If you weren't in a slight panic right now, you'd have wondered if you could touch his hair and feel how soft it is.

But!

As you're about to gasp out questions, Charles sits up and gently sets his hand on top of yours. You become aware of the pounding in your head as you bite your lip nervously. Charles looks at you earnestly, and says calmly, "Hey, you don't have to worry. It's okay."

"What happened?" you exhale.

"Nothing," he soothes. "We went out. You got more drunk than any of us though you should. I didn't know where you lived, so I took you to my hotel room. Gave you clothes to change into, and we went to sleep. Nothing more."

You swallow an anxious lump in your throat. "How do I know I can trust you? Please, just be honest with me. I won't be mad. You didn't know any bet-"

"I didn't do anything. We didn't do anything. Okay?" he leans in closer, and reaches to cup your cheeks in his hands. "'Kay? Can you just trust me?"

You bite your lip, but slowly nod. "I suppose that's the only thing I can do."

Over six months later, you stand on the boat, staring out at the Mediterranean Sea, smelling the salty breeze in the air, feeling content, wearing a loose button down, light blue jean shorts with a brown belt, your slew of bracelets, white sneakers, and a headband holding back your hair.

Suddenly, Charles is up next to you. "Hey, princess." For months, you've had what you stubbornly call a 'situationship,' whilst Charles calls you his girlfriend.

Because you love Vegas more than you love Charles (or at least that's what you like to say), you refused to leave when Charles did. You like taking risks. Just not the 'travelling halfway across the world for a hot guy' kind of risks.

But you stayed in touch. Charles made sure of that.

Well, he meant it when he said he'd make sure you'll never forget him.

But then Formula 1 came back to the States, to Miami, and you knew you'd have to make the trip. The flirty comments and romantic tension thick enough to cut ensued as soon as you and Charles set eyes upon each other, like as if it hadn't been six months or so since you'd last seen each other last.

It just felt like-

Somehow fate is involved.

Well, when Charles invited you to the Monaco Grand Prix, that was an offer you felt you couldn't let down.

And, boy, was that the best descision of your life.

To see Charles win his home race like that, and to be there? Just thinking about it now gives you goosebumps. Charles had wrapped his arms around you after the race, his eyes a little damp, and you felt something more.

Like he really cared.

If you didn't know better, you'd say it was like he really loved.

Loved you.

But, no. Of course not. That can't be.

Can it?

Well, all night you partied. You were in on the fun. You also made sure to pay a visit to the Monte Carlo casino, as you obviously must.

You had amazing luck, once again.

On this thought, as you feel Charles approaching from behind you, you comment into the wind, "You know, I'm starting to think you're my lucky charm, honey."

He chuckles, coming up next to you. "Oh, yeah? That's what I said six months ago when I first met you, you know. I've been starting to think the same thing about you."

You snort. "Maybe so, Monaco race winner."

He smirks, and you can feel the pure joy radiating off him. He slips his hand into yours as he murmurs, "I was so lucky to meet you."

I smirk. "I am pretty awesome."

He rolls his eyes, but squeezes your hand. "So, do you like it here in Monaco?"

You nod vigorously. "Gosh, Charles, it's amazing."

"Better than Vegas?"

"Well- I don't know if anything is better than Vegas..."

He leans in closer and speaks lower. "Well, would Monaco be better if your good luck charm just so happens to reside here?"

"Hm..." you smirk, flushing a bit. "I'd have to think about that, prince."

"Yeah," he nod, his tone softer. "Why don't you."

There's some silence, as you watch the sun begin to set, reflecting off the sparkling water.

Charles leans even closer to you, his hands gliding around your waist, pulling you towards him. He leans down, gazing deeply into your eyes. Then that stupid flirty grin appears on his face again. "F*cking gorgeous you are, one in a million. I struck lucky with you. My lucky strike."

He closes the distance between you, his soft lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss. The heat of his body against yours sends shivers down your spine, igniting a spark between you as your tongues dance together in a sensual embrace. Connected.

Maybe it's not fate.

But it is most certainly luck.

And in this moment, with the lips of the winner of Monaco sucking on yours, you feel like the one who struck it lucky.