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Charles had planned it for weeks.
He wanted it to be perfect — intimate, romantic, and a bit dramatic (because, well, Charles was Charles).
No stadiums, no paddock chaos, no cameras. Just him, Carlos, and the city of lights reflecting in Carlos’s eyes.
So he booked a private table at a small restaurant overlooking the port of Monaco.
A place where the waiter knew him by name, where they wouldn’t be disturbed. The night was going beautifully: Carlos had laughed at all of Charles’s nervous jokes, the wine was flowing, and they’d shared plates like they always did — forks crossing, hands brushing, hearts racing.
And then came dessert.
Charles had planned this down to the second. He’d charmed the chef (okay, begged) into hiding the delicate little ring in Carlos’s favorite dessert: a molten chocolate cake with a soft center and a dusting of powdered sugar.
The plan? Carlos would cut into it and Charles would drop to one knee with that winning Leclerc grin and ask the question that had been burning his tongue for months.
…….
The waiter approached with the plate. Charles’s heart pounded so hard he swore the entire restaurant could hear it.
“Enjoy, gentlemen,” the waiter said with a wink at Charles. The sign. The moment was here.
Charles watched Carlos lift his spoon… but then Carlos smirked and — like always — offered Charles the first bite.
“Try it, chérie, I know you’ve been eyeing this cake since we sat down,” Carlos teased, pushing the plate toward him.
Charles froze.
“No, no, it’s for you—”
“Come on, don’t be shy.”
And because saying no to Carlos Sainz when he smiled like that was impossible, Charles did what he was told. He scooped up a huge bite, nerves making him eat faster than he thought — and before he could even think about it, he felt something small and hard between his teeth.
His eyes widened in horror.
Oh. My. God.
…..
He had bitten into the ring.
Carlos was watching him with fond amusement, totally unaware of the impending disaster.
“Charles? What’s wrong?”
Charles covered his mouth like a child caught sneaking cookies before dinner.
“Mmph—”
“What?” Carlos was giggling now, leaning closer, eyes bright. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
Charles bolted upright, nearly knocking over his wine glass.
“I—uh—I need to go to the bathroom!” he blurted, cheeks scarlet, voice about an octave too high.
“Wait, what? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine! Just—bathroom!”
And before Carlos could ask anything else, Charles grabbed his napkin to cover his mouth and practically sprinted toward the restroom, leaving behind a very confused and now slightly concerned Carlos.
…..
Inside the bathroom, Charles stared at himself in the mirror, the little ring sitting on the counter where he’d fished it out of his mouth. His reflection looked panicked.
“This was supposed to be romantic, Charles,” he muttered at himself. “Romantic! Not… not this!”
He stayed in there for a good ten minutes, trying to figure out how on earth he could recover — and ultimately deciding he’d just… propose another day. When he wasn’t, you know, running away with a ring in his mouth.
….
The Airplane Banner That Went Horribly Wrong
Charles had decided subtlety wasn’t working.
The dessert proposal? A disaster. He still couldn’t think about chocolate lava cake without wanting to bury himself in a hole. So now, he was going big. Monaco big. Leclerc big.
“I will sweep him off his feet with a grand gesture,” Charles declared to himself one night, lying awake in bed while Carlos slept peacefully beside him, utterly unaware of the storm brewing inside Charles’s head.
And what could be more grand than a sky-high declaration of love?
So Charles found a company that did airplane banners. The plan was simple: during one of their rare shared days off, when they were on Charles’s yacht in the sparkling Monaco sun, the plane would fly over with a huge banner reading:
MARRY ME <3 — CHARLES
Perfect.
…
The day arrived.
The sea glimmered, Carlos was relaxed, shirtless and sun-dazed, stretched out on the deck with a cold drink. Charles sat beside him, trying not to vibrate with anticipation. He kept checking his watch.
Carlos noticed.
“Are you okay? You keep looking around like you’re waiting for someone.”
“What? Me? No! I am chill. So chill. I’m the chillest.”
Carlos raised a brow. “You’re acting like Max before quali.”
And then — salvation. The soft, distant hum of a plane.
Charles leapt to his feet, pointing wildly at the sky.
“Look! Look! A plane!”
Carlos shielded his eyes. “Charles, you’re very excited about this plane—”
And then the banner came into view.
Charles squinted, heart hammering.
Except…
Instead of his romantic, perfect message, the banner read:
MARY ME— CHARLES
Now Charles is explaining to Carlos that he doesn’t love this girl named Mary.
…..
Charles had a vision.
The sun would be setting over the Monaco harbor. The sky would blush pink and gold. The water would glimmer like the diamonds in Carlos’s eyes (Charles’s words, not mine). They’d be standing on the deck of Charles’s yacht, wind in their hair, a quiet moment shared between two men who’d conquered the world — and each other’s hearts.
Charles would drop to one knee, pull out the ring, and Carlos would gasp, maybe tear up a little (Charles imagined this part in detail), and say yes.
That was the plan.
…
What actually happened…
Charles spent the whole afternoon acting suspicious. He kept checking his pocket to make sure the ring was still there, pacing the deck, fiddling with his hair.
Carlos noticed.
“Are you okay?” Carlos asked, setting down his drink. “You’re jittery.”
“I’m fine! I’m totally fine. You’re beautiful. The sea is beautiful. Life is beautiful.”
Carlos gave him a look.
“Charles. You’re sweating.”
Charles took a deep breath. This is it. You can do this.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the small velvet box — and as he opened it, the yacht rocked gently with a wave.
The ring — that perfect, custom-made ring he’d spent weeks choosing — slipped from his trembling fingers.
Both of them watched in slow motion as it bounced once, twice on the polished wood deck…
…rolled dramatically toward the edge…
…and dropped overboard.
Plop.
A tiny splash.
Silence.
Right from the water beneath.
….
It wasn’t a grand gesture this time. No yachts, no airplanes, no podiums, no radios. Just them.
They were at home — their shared flat in Madrid, warm light spilling from the kitchen as Carlos stirred a pot of pasta on the stove. The window was cracked open, letting in the soft hum of the city at night.
Charles leaned against the counter, chin in his hand, watching Carlos move around the kitchen like he belonged there — like he belonged everywhere in Charles’s life.
After all the plans Charles had made — the dramatic ones, the failed ones — it turned out the moment he truly wanted was this.
“Carlos,” Charles said quietly, voice steady for once.
Carlos glanced over, spoon in hand, smiling. “Hm?”
“I want to marry you. So, Will you marry me?”
Carlos froze, spoon midair. Slowly, he turned, eyes wide with surprise — not because of the question, but because of how it came. No big setup. No fuss. Just Charles, looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered.
“You mean… now?” Carlos asked, soft with wonder.
Charles nodded, stepping closer. “Yeah. Now. Anytime you are okay to.”
Carlos stared at him for a long beat. And then he laughed, this warm, breathless sound, and pulled Charles into his arms.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” Carlos murmured, resting his forehead against Charles’s.
“So is that a yes?”
“It’s always been a yes.”
And when they kissed, it was the kind of kiss that didn’t need a ring or an audience — just two hearts that had finally found the right rhythm.
Later, they ate their pasta on the couch, wedding plans forgotten for the night, too busy whispering about forever.