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The sun had barely started to stretch across Monaco when I stirred awake, the soft hum of the Mediterranean below threading through the open balcony doors. My eyes opened to the warm golden light spilling across our bedroom, and for a moment, I just stayed there, letting the quiet wrap around me. Then I felt him… Charles, curled up against my side, his chest warm and steady beneath my hand. I’d never get tired of that feeling.
He let out a sleepy hum when I shifted closer, nuzzling his cheek into my shoulder. “Morning,” I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
“Mm… morning,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His arm twined around my waist, pulling me closer. I grinned against him.
It was one of those rare mornings where neither of us had to be anywhere. No circuits, no media calls, no meetings — just us. I could already feel the lazy weight of the day stretching ahead, and I wanted to make it ours.
“Coffee?” I suggested, though the question was mostly a formality. He always wanted coffee. He was so predictable, coffee in bed with cuddles to start the morning off everyday.
“Hmm… yeah,” he said, voice still heavy with sleep, “but only if you bring it to me here first.”
I chuckled, tugging him upright just enough to plant a soft kiss on his lips. “Deal,” I said, trying not to grin too much. He gave me that sleepy smile, the one that could melt any stubborn resolve I had.
By the time I returned with two steaming mugs of dark, strong coffee, he had rolled onto his back, arms stretched above his head, staring at the ceiling with that content little grin of his. I leaned against the doorframe, taking him in — messy hair, soft jawline, the faint smudge of sleep still lingering on his skin. He looked… completely at home here, with me.
“Hey,” I said, stepping closer, handing him a mug. He accepted it, brushing his thumb against mine in that tiny gesture that somehow spoke volumes. “You’re… perfect like this, you know.”
He snorted, mock-offended. “You say that every morning.”
“Because it’s true every morning,” I countered. I pressed a quick kiss to his temple, and he hummed softly, warming my chest from the inside out.
Eventually, we disentangled ourselves from the blankets and wandered into the kitchen, the apartment still holding onto that quiet early-morning serenity. I started on breakfast, pulling out eggs, bread, and whatever else we had lying around, and Charles leaned lazily against the counter, watching me like I was some kind of rare masterpiece.
“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I could make breakfast too, you know.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Could you? Or would you just eat everything before you could finish cooking then we’d have nothing?”
“Depends,” he said, tilting his head, “are we talking pancakes or scrambled eggs?”
I rolled my eyes, laughing, as he leaned in just enough to brush his nose against mine. “I’m cooking, Leclerc,” I said, though the scolding sounded more like a joke. He grinned that infuriating grin of his, one that made me forget any semblance of seriousness.
The next hour passed in a blissful jumble of laughter, flour dusting the counter, and him stealing bites when I wasn’t looking. I had somehow agreed to make French toast — a recipe he insisted we try — and he hovered dangerously close, whispering comments and smirks, his lips brushing against my ear in the most distracting ways.
“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “if you’re going to look that good while cooking, I might have to… taste test more often.”
I shot him a look over my shoulder, but I couldn’t hide the grin threatening to split my face. “That’s harassment,” I accused, but he just laughed, leaning down to steal a quick kiss from my shoulder.
By the time breakfast was on the table, it wasn’t perfect — some syrup had escaped onto the counter, a few crumbs littered the floor — but it was ours. We sat together, sipping coffee, feeding each other bites, and I could feel the world outside our apartment dissolve. There were no paparazzi, no fans, no pressures of racing — just the soft scrape of forks against plates and the quiet hum of Charles’ laughter.
After breakfast, we ended up on the balcony, sprawled out on the chaise lounges with the sun climbing higher. Charles had his head in my lap, fingers lazily tracing patterns on my thighs, and I ran my hands through his hair absentmindedly. Monaco shimmered below us, but it might as well have been a painting. Everything else faded.
“You know,” he said, tilting his head up to meet my eyes, “I could get used to this. Just… you and me, all day.”
I smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We don’t need yachts or fast cars or the track life or any of that,” I murmured, thinking of all the lyrics from that song I’d been humming in my head lately. “We’ve got this. And it’s enough.”
He laughed softly, nuzzling against my chest. “Yeah, yeah. But maybe… we can still get a La Ferrari in the driveway one day.”
“Maybe,” I said, tracing his jawline with my thumb. “But I’d settle for the driveway empty with you here, like this.”
We lingered there for a while, lazily talking about everything and nothing — plans for the week, which movies we’d watch tonight, god Charles hadn’t given up on these movie nights since I admitted I had never watched Harry Potter. And we talked back and forth about more than a few ridiculous what-if scenarios about our life if we ever just up and left the sport with no warning.
Eventually, I couldn’t resist anymore. I leaned down and kissed him properly this time, soft and lingering, letting my hands wander to his sides. He responded instantly, fingers threading through my hair as if he was anchoring himself to me. Our laughter and murmurs mixed with the warm sea breeze, and for a while, it felt like the entire world had shrunk to just the two of us on that balcony.
“Max,” he murmured between kisses, “don’t stop.”
I grinned, pressing one more kiss to his lips before pulling back just enough to look at him. “I wasn’t planning to,” I said. He chuckled, the sound like music to my ears.
After a while, we moved inside, curling up on the couch with a blanket, still wrapped around each other like we couldn’t get enough of the simple contact. I traced circles on his back as he rested his head against my chest, his breathing slowing as he relaxed completely. He felt like home. He felt like everything I’d ever wanted.
“You’re… really warm,” he said softly, tilting his head to look at me. “Like… all the time.”
“You like it?” I teased, brushing my nose against his temple.
He grinned sleepily. “I love it.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon in a blissful haze — reading, talking quietly, dozing off in each other’s arms. Occasionally, Charles would tug me close again, pressing soft kisses to my shoulder or jawline, just to remind me he was there. I never wanted to move, never wanted to break the spell of our domestic bubble.
By evening, the balcony glowed gold as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Charles had fallen asleep in my lap again, and I ran my fingers through his hair, watching the city light up below us. I thought about everything we could have — the freedom, the bright lights, the perfect vacations — and I realized I didn’t need any of it. Because right here, right now, I had him.
And that was everything.
“Max,” he murmured in his sleep, a small smile on his lips, “I hope we always get this…”
“You’ve got it,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Always.”
And for once, I didn’t care about the world outside. We had our lazy mornings, our soft kisses, our coffee, our ridiculous pancakes, and each other. That was all I ever wanted.