Charles Leclerc

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the oversized sectional in their Monaco apartment, one hand absently rubbing the gentle curve of her belly while the other scrolled mindlessly through her phone. The late afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting soft gold stripes across the cream cushions and the half-empty glass of sparkling water on the side table. Outside, the Mediterranean glittered, but inside, the only thing that glittered was the growing frustration in her eyes.

She was sixteen weeks pregnant, and for the past three days the cravings had been… elusive. Not the classic pickles-and-ice-cream kind of clear. Just a restless, hollow ache in the middle of her chest that whispered something without ever naming it. She’d tried the usual suspects—fresh strawberries, warm baguettes with salted butter, even a carefully portioned square of dark chocolate from the fancy box Charles had brought home after the last race. Nothing stuck. Everything tasted either too sharp, too bland, or simply wrong.

Charles Leclerc, still in the soft gray hoodie he’d thrown on after a light gym session, padded in from the kitchen carrying two plates of nothing in particular. He took one look at her face—the slight pout, the way she kept shifting like she couldn’t get comfortable—and set the plates down.

“Still hunting?” he asked, voice low and warm, the familiar Monegasque lilt curling around the words.

{{user}} let her head fall back against the cushion with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t even know what I’m hunting for. It’s like my brain is holding up a blank menu and expecting me to order.”

Charles sank onto the couch beside her, close enough that his knee brushed hers. He studied her for a second, then a slow, mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the same one he usually reserved for teasing teammates or celebrating a pole position.

“Alright,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “We’re going to solve this scientifically. I’m going to suggest combinations until something lights up that little radar in your head. No judgment. Worst case, we both gag and order takeout.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to suggest disgusting things on purpose?”

“Absolutely. Sometimes the brain needs to be shocked into remembering what it actually wants.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, already looking far too entertained. “Ready?”

She gestured for him to proceed, half amused, half resigned.

“Okay. First offering: cold leftover spaghetti… mixed with chocolate pudding.”

Her face twisted instantly. “Charles.”

“Too far?” He grinned. “Noted. Next: mashed potatoes—extra butter—with a generous swirl of ketchup and a handful of crushed potato chips on top for crunch.”

She considered it for half a second longer than he expected, then shook her head. “Close, but the ketchup ruins it.”

“Progress already.” He sat up straighter. “Pickle juice… poured over vanilla ice cream.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Warm peanut butter melted into a bowl of tomato soup.”

{{user}} made a soft gagging sound and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Why would you even think that?”

Charles laughed, the sound bright in the quiet apartment. “I’m just the messenger. Your stomach is the client.” He tapped his chin theatrically. “Alright, let’s get creative. Cold pizza—preferably last night’s margherita—dipped in Greek yogurt with a sprinkle of chili flakes.”

She paused. Actually paused. Her nose wrinkled, but something in her expression flickered. “Weirdly… not the worst thing you’ve said.”

“Interesting.” He filed that away. “How about scrambled eggs mixed with strawberry jam and a side of salty pretzels?”

“No.”

“Hot chocolate—extra thick—with a handful of chopped dill pickles floating in it.”

{{user}} sat up so fast the water glass nearly tipped. “Charles Leclerc, I will leave you.”

He held up both hands in surrender, laughing harder now. “Okay, okay. No pickles in the hot chocolate. What about… avocado mashed with orange marmalade and spread on toast?”

She grimaced, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I am,” he admitted freely, shifting closer so he could rest a hand lightly on her knee. “Because every time you make that face, I know we’re getting warmer. Or colder. Hard to tell.” He thought for another moment, eyes sparkling. “Cold leftover fries… dunked in melted chocolate and then rolled in crushed pretzels.”

Her eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “That… sounds disgusting. But also… maybe?”

Charles’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“I don’t know!” She threw her hands up, the soft fabric of her oversized sweater sliding down one shoulder. “It’s like the craving is standing just outside the door, knocking politely, and refusing to come in until the exact right combination is offered.”

He nodded solemnly, as if this were the most serious strategy session of the season. “Then we keep going. Sardines mashed into vanilla yogurt with a drizzle of honey.”

“Charles.”

“I’m clearing the board of every possible wrong answer.” He leaned in, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “What about warm oatmeal… mixed with a spoonful of mustard and a handful of blueberries?”

She actually laughed this time, the sound bright and unexpected. “You’re deranged.”

“Possibly. But is it working?”

{{user}} pressed both hands to her belly, feeling the quiet, steady presence of the life growing there. The craving still hummed under her ribs, restless and unnamed, but somehow lighter now that Charles was turning the whole thing into a game. She looked at him—the soft hoodie, the residual flush from his workout, the way he watched her like solving this mystery was more important than any podium—and felt a rush of affection so strong it almost drowned out the hunger.

“Try one more,” she said.

Charles tilted his head, thinking hard. “Alright. Final serious attempt before we call for reinforcements: a grilled cheese sandwich… made with brie… and then dipped in cold apple sauce mixed with a tiny bit of soy sauce.”

{{user}} stared at him.

The apartment went quiet except for the distant hum of the city below.

Then, slowly, her eyes widened.

“…Say that again.”

He did.

She sat very still, as if listening to something only she could hear. The craving, which had been circling for days, finally stepped forward and whispered a clear, decisive yes.

Charles watched the shift on her face and smiled—soft this time, proud, a little triumphant. “Found it?”

{{user}} nodded, almost dazed. “I think… you actually found it.”

He reached over, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and rested his palm gently against the side of her stomach. “Then I’ll make it. And if it turns out to be completely wrong after the first bite, we’ll start the list all over again.”

She leaned into his side, the restless ache finally beginning to quiet. Outside, the sun slipped lower over the water, and inside their quiet apartment, the most ridiculous craving of the pregnancy was about to be fulfilled—courtesy of a Formula 1 driver who was willing to suggest every disgusting combination under the sun just to make her smile.