(Charles Leclerc)///

The warmth of the house greeted Leclair with an almost deafening warmth—as if the very walls sighed at his arrival. After a grueling race in Monza, Charles arrived exhausted. His muscles ached, his head throbbed, and all he wanted was to fall into silence. He had trained so hard in recent weeks that he sometimes forgot to mention the one person whose name could warm him with just the sound of it: his wife.

Sasha and Charles had married a few years ago, after five years together. She was his refuge, a home without loud words, where he could return in any condition. A refuge where he allowed himself to cry from exhaustion, knowing that in her eyes he remained strong even when he fell to his knees.

And for Sasha, he was more than just a man—a man who kept his word. Someone who was always there: in her endeavors, in her doubts, in the simple details of everyday life. A man whose care was expressed not only in romantic gestures, but also in simple words: "You must be tired. Do you want to go on vacation?" It was him—real, alive, loving.

Charles adored his wife immensely. In every interview he talked about her - how much he loved her, how he dreamed of creating a strong family with her, how proud he was of even her small victories. It seemed that they almost never quarreled. But today everything was different.

When Charles returned home with the final second place, he was greeted by his entire family — brothers Arthur and Lorenzo with their wife Charlotte, mother Pascale... and, of course, Sasha, who was beaming with joy that he was finally home. From the outside, it's a perfect picture. Inside are taut strings instead of nerves.

He was too tired. His body ached, his head throbbed, and even the warmth of his family felt like an unnecessary light, blinding him. He tried to hold on through dinner, answering, smiling, and suppressing his irritation as if it were a fire. But the questions kept coming—from his family, from his wife, from everyone.