Chapter Text
The soft glow of the early morning sun seeped through the thin white curtains, casting a golden hue over the small but cozy cabin. The faint chirping of birds outside mixed with the rhythmic breathing of the two small bodies sprawled across the bed, their warm little hands resting against their father’s chest. Charles had long since given up on keeping them in their own cribs—at some point during the night, Sophie and Louis always managed to crawl their way into his bed, curling into him like two little magnets drawn to their source of comfort. He didn’t mind.
The warmth of his children’s bodies, the steady rise and fall of their tiny chests, the way they smelled like baby soap and something inherently them—it was all that kept him sane these days. Almost two years had passed since Elize died, and though the pain never truly left, it dulled into something he could live with. Something he had to live with.
A soft whimper broke the morning silence, followed by a sleepy sigh. Charles felt a small hand patting his cheek, slow and gentle at first before growing more persistent.
“Papa… Papa…” Sophie’s little voice was groggy, still heavy with sleep, but determined.
Charles groaned softly, shifting slightly, but before he could react, a second, smaller voice piped up from the other side of his chest.
“Paaapaa,” Louis mumbled, his voice even sleepier than his sister’s. His tiny fist gripped the fabric of Charles’ shirt as he rubbed his face against it.
Charles finally cracked his eyes open, only to be met with two sets of green ones staring up at him—one bright and curious, the other still hazy with sleep. Sophie’s dark brown curls were a wild mess, sticking out in every direction, while Louis’ blond locks were somehow even worse, standing up at odd angles.
“Mornin’, mes amours,” Charles murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
Sophie grinned at him, dimples deepening in her round cheeks. “Sun!” she announced proudly, pointing at the window.
“Yes, the sun is up,” Charles chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face.
Louis, still nestled against his chest, let out a tiny sigh. “No sun,” he mumbled, eyes squeezing shut again. “Sleep.”
Sophie turned to her brother, unimpressed. “No, Lou. Wake.”
“No wake.”
“Yes wake.”
Charles let out a breathy laugh as the twins continued their sleepy bickering, their words slightly jumbled but still clear enough to understand. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they were fully awake and demanding breakfast. With a groan, he sat up, bringing both kids with him. Louis let out a small whine but clung to his father’s shirt, while Sophie happily wiggled her way onto his lap, patting his cheeks excitedly.
“Papa, food,” she said, stretching her arms above her head dramatically.
Louis peeked up from where he had buried his face against Charles’ side. “Toast.”
“Pancakes?” Charles suggested, already knowing their answer.
Sophie gasped, eyes going wide. “Cake?”
“Not cake, Pipie. Pancakes.”
She tilted her head. “Cake pancakes?”
Charles smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Close enough.”
After a few more minutes of snuggling—Louis stubbornly refusing to let go while Sophie continuously patted his cheeks—Charles finally coaxed them out of bed. He carried them both into the small kitchen, setting them down in their high chairs before making his way to the counter.
Leo, their tiny golden dachshund, trotted into the room, tail wagging furiously as he hopped onto his little hind legs, scratching at Charles’ pajama pants.
“Leo!” Sophie cheered, reaching out with grabby hands.
The puppy eagerly climbed onto her lap, licking her fingers as she giggled. Louis, still waking up, only reached out to gently pat Leo’s back before resting his cheek against the tray of his high chair.
“Alright, alright,” Charles called over their morning chaos. “Let’s get breakfast started.”
Making pancakes with two toddlers in the kitchen was always an event. Sophie wanted to stir the batter, which meant half of it ended up on the counter. Louis, in his sleepier state, was content watching but occasionally mumbled an approving “More” whenever Charles poured the mixture onto the pan. And, of course, Leo made it his mission to catch anything that fell to the floor.
By the time they sat down to eat, Sophie had a streak of flour in her curls, Louis had syrup on his chin, and Charles was sure at least three pancakes had mysteriously disappeared thanks to Leo.
“Papa,” Sophie said, her voice thick with pancake as she chewed. “Happy.”
Charles blinked, caught off guard. “You’re happy, Pipie?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Pancakes.”
Louis, still chewing, reached out and placed a sticky hand on his father’s wrist. “Me happy too.”
Charles swallowed past the tightness in his throat, his heart clenching painfully at their words. It was such a simple thing—pancakes at breakfast, morning cuddles, Leo running around their feet. And yet, it was everything.
“I’m happy too, mes bébés,” he murmured, ruffling their already-messy hair.
The rest of the morning was filled with more small but significant moments. Charles helped the twins wash up, a task that always ended with both kids soaked and giggling as they splashed each other. Dressing them was another adventure—Sophie insisted on picking her own outfit, a pink dress with mismatched socks, while Louis let his father dress him but demanded his favorite red Ferrari cap once they were done.
By mid-morning, they were outside in the small garden, Leo running in circles while Sophie and Louis chased after him, their laughter echoing in the crisp air. Charles sat on the wooden porch steps, watching them with a small, wistful smile.
Two years ago, he never would have imagined this life for himself. He had been Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver, Scuderia Ferrari’s golden boy. Now, he was simply Papa. A man who made pancakes in the morning, chased tiny giggling figures around the garden, and kissed scraped knees after clumsy falls.
And yet, as he watched Sophie scoop Leo into her arms, pressing a sloppy kiss to his head while Louis babbled excitedly about a butterfly he had spotted, Charles realized something.
He wasn’t just surviving.
He was living.
But he coundt deny how much he missed his old life.
The morning passed in the same gentle rhythm it always did. After breakfast, Charles spent nearly an hour outside with the twins, watching them run around the small yard, their laughter ringing through the crisp mountain air. Sophie was fearless, her tiny legs carrying her after Leo as fast as they could, while Louis followed at a slightly slower pace, more cautious but no less excited. They were different in so many ways, yet so much alike—his little pieces of Elize, of himself, wrapped up in boundless energy and endless curiosity.
He should have felt content.
And yet, as he sat on the wooden steps of their small home, his elbows resting on his knees, Charles couldn't deny the gnawing feeling inside him.
It started small—just a whisper, an ache in the back of his mind. He had done his best to ignore it, to push it away, but some mornings, like today, it was impossible to silence.
He missed it.
Not in the way he loved his children, not with the same all-consuming devotion that filled every part of him whenever he looked at them. But he missed it all the same.
The thrill of the track, the roar of the engine, the sharp scent of burning rubber and gasoline. The feeling of pushing himself to the absolute limit, the world narrowing down to just the car, just the race, just the moment.
His whole life had been about that chase—about going faster, about fighting harder. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.
Not by choice.
Charles hadn’t decided to walk away from Formula 1. The world had taken it from him.
Elize’s death had left a hole in his chest so vast, so endless, that for a long time, nothing else had mattered. Not Ferrari, not the championship, not the career he had spent his entire life building. The only thing that mattered was Sophie and Louis, these tiny, fragile pieces of her that needed him. So, he ran. Not in the way he was used to—not with the precision of a well-timed pit stop, not with the exhilaration of a perfectly executed overtake. No, this time, he ran in the only way a broken man knew how.
He disappeared.
No cameras. No reporters. No paddock.
Just this quiet life in the middle of nowhere, where his only job was being Papa.
And he loved it. He truly did. Every morning, waking up with little hands tugging at his face, every meal spent wiping sticky fingers and listening to their endless chatter. The way Sophie giggled when he blew raspberries on her belly, the way Louis wrapped his tiny arms around his neck and whispered, “Love you, Papa,” in his soft little voice.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss the rest of it.
Some nights, when the twins were asleep, when the house was finally quiet and the weight of the day settled onto his shoulders, he would let himself remember. He would sit on the worn-out couch, an old race broadcast playing on the screen, and let himself feel the familiar ache of longing.
The sound of his own name crackling through the team radio. The sight of his number on the timing sheets. The feeling of standing on the podium, champagne dripping from his fireproofs, the Monegasque anthem playing for him.
He would close his eyes and imagine he was back there, the steering wheel firm in his hands, the car responding to his every move, his heart pounding in sync with the engine.
But then, inevitably, he would hear it.
A small whimper. A sleepy little voice calling for him.
“Papa…”
And just like that, the fantasy would shatter, replaced by the only reality that truly mattered.
Because as much as he missed it—God, as much as he missed it—he could never regret choosing this life instead.
Still, that didn’t make it easy.
Sophie’s sudden shriek of laughter snapped him out of his thoughts. He blinked, refocusing on the present, just in time to see Louis tumble to the ground, landing on his bottom with a surprised “Oof.”
Charles was on his feet instantly, his heart lurching despite the fact that he had seen his son take far worse falls before. Louis blinked up at him, stunned for a moment, before his lower lip wobbled.
“Lucky, it’s okay,” Charles murmured, crouching down and reaching for him. “Come here.”
Louis immediately crawled into his arms, burying his face in Charles’ shoulder.
“Bobo,” he mumbled, tiny fingers gripping his father’s shirt.
“I know, mon coeur,” Charles murmured, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Papa’s got you.”
Sophie toddled over, peering up at them with wide green eyes. “Lou cry?”
Charles shook his head. “Just a little fall. He’s okay, Pipie.”
Sophie considered this for a moment before stepping closer, reaching out her chubby hands to pat Louis’ blond curls.
“No cry, Lou,” she said matter-of-factly. “Papa fix.”
Louis sniffled but nodded against Charles’ shoulder.
Charles smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of his son’s head before standing up with Louis still clinging to him. “I think that’s enough running for now. What do you say we go inside?”
Sophie clapped her hands. “Snack?”
“Snack,” Charles confirmed with a chuckle.
Back inside, he settled the twins at the table with pieces of cut-up fruit while he busied himself with cleaning up the remnants of breakfast. It was a simple routine, one they had repeated countless times, but today, the familiar ache in his chest lingered.
He missed racing.
But more than that, he missed himself.
Because no matter how much he tried to bury it, there was a part of him that would always belong to the track.
And one day, no matter how much he feared it, he knew that part of him would come calling.