Give it some, give it some, give it some time, But I think we're supposed to be

Part Five.

" Je t'aime ," he says now, leaning forward for another kiss. " Ma beauté ."

The bath bomb you threw in 45 minutes ago is starting to lose its luster, the bubbles deflating enough that you can see Charles' pale thighs through the clear spots. He's tanned from the summer sun and mornings spent eating breakfast out on the terrace, but his thighs, just above the line of his shorts, are still as pale as he is in the winter, another private sight just for you. The ghost of a hickey still sits just below the crease of his thighs, and you reach forward to gently press your thumb to it.

"It is fading," Charles says, his eyes following your hand. "The one on my side, too."

"Yeah," you laugh, watching through the water as you swipe your thumb over his skin. Charles spreads his legs for you, and you let your hand slide with them, resting it against his inner thigh. "They are."

"Should we fix it?"

You look up, and Charles' eyes meet yours. "If you want that," you say, "I'd be happy to."

"I like having them," he admits, relaxed, uninhibited. "Especially when we have to be apart, they are a nice reminder."

"We have four weeks together now," you tell him, heart buzzing like a bee in your chest. "You don't need any reminders."

"This is true," Charles shrugs a little. "But I still like them."

"I do too," you lift your hand from the water to cup Charles' cheek, and he presses into it gently. "We should be careful here, though," with your other hand, you press the hickey on his ribs. "You'll be in a bathing suit when we go to Italy next week, everyone will see it."

"Maybe just the legs, then," Charles concedes, a smile on his face. "But it's not like our friends don't know what we do. They all do it too, amore ."

"Yeah, thanks," you shake your head, fingers still gently running over Charles' ribcage. "I really don't want to think about our friends having sex."

"Really?" Charles raises his eyebrows, his voice suddenly adopting the tone he takes when he's about to gossip. You instinctively lean in conspiratorially. "Because yesterday when I saw the boys for dinner at Hugo's apartment Joris told me that he and Marta have—"

He stops at the sound of a crash from somewhere in the apartment, both your heads snapping toward the closed bathroom door at the same time. Charles is up and out of the tub before you can even say anything, dripping water all over the floor as he wraps a towel around his waist. You make to get up, but he puts an arm out to stop you.

" Reste ici ," he says. "I will check. Don't come out unless I say so."

You nod, but clamber out of the bath anyway, grabbing another towel off the warmer and draping it over your shoulders. You feel cold and sober suddenly, Charles' fear sinking into your wet skin. It's been a while since he's had uncomfortable moments with overzealous weirdos hanging around outside the apartment, but the nagging thought that everyone knows where Charles Leclerc lives, that it wouldn't be too hard to get into this building if someone really set their mind to it, has never truly gone away.

It feels like a thousand years, standing there shivering in the bathroom, your heart in your throat, but it's really barely a minute before you hear Charles' voice again, from what sounds like the living room.

"It's fine, you can come out," he calls out to you, but his voice sounds thin, annoyed. "It was Buttons."

Your heart sinks a little as you rush toward Charles' voice, worrying over what mess Buttons has caused this time. The crash sounded like a fall of some sort, and you momentarily panic imagining Buttons falling from some impossible height, landing flat on the hardwood floors like a pancake. You walk a little faster, adjusting the towel so it's tied around your body like a dress.

You find Charles and Buttons in the gaming room. And you realize immediately that it wasn't Buttons who hit the ground.

Charles is on his knees by the bookshelf, crouched over two of his trophies. Buttons watches him from the simulator chair, his tail happily swishing back and forth.

"Oh my God," you gasp, rushing to Charles' side. You crouch down next to him, scared, for a second, to get too close. But when you put your hand on his bare shoulder he just sighs into you—upset, you can tell, but not angry. Not with you.

The trophies on the ground are Bahrain and Monza, which once sat next to each other on the highest shelf. You glance up quickly to confirm that Spa and Australia were spared the fall—a small mercy, but they look safe. The trophy from Bahrain, though, with its thin gold leaves and intricate webbing, is in pieces.

"Fuck," you say, for lack of anything better. "Charles, fuck. I'm so—"

"Don't apologize," he cuts you off and it stings a little. You can't think of any other time he's interrupted you for any reason other than excitement. "It's not your fault. But, also, I cannot say that it's okay."

"Yeah," you say softly. "I understand."

He's quiet for a while, holding a piece of the trophy in his hand and dragging his fingers over the webbing. You think about when it arrived at the apartment in March, just two days after Charles got home. He was leaving that night, to Saudi Arabia for the next race, and you'd helped him clear a spot for it on the shelf, next to Monza and Spa. You'd told him he might as well clear the whole shelf, that there would be another one to add after this weekend, and he'd laughed, kissed you, and hoped. You'd been right, of course, though you were off by one race.

"We should install something to make sure the door to this room closes automatically," you lean forward to collect some of the pieces of the trophy, thankful that Monza, at least, didn't break. "So Buttons can't get in here anymore."

Charles nods, hand closing gently around yours as you drop the pieces of metal into his palm. His skin is warm, and still a little wrinkly from the bath.

"Do you want to go get dressed," you ask, rubbing your thumb gently over the back of Charles' hand, tracing his veins. "I can clean up."

"No," he shakes his head, then squeezes your hand once. "I want to clean it up. But you should go get dressed, you're freezing."

You hadn't been paying close enough attention to yourself, but Charles is right—you're shivering, your hand like an icicle compared to the warmth of Charles'. Goosebumps prickle at your arms and legs, your back tightens where your wet hair drips cold water onto your skin. It feels even worse once he points it out, and all of a sudden you can't get warm quick enough.

"I'll bring you some sweats," you say, standing up without letting go of Charles' hand. He looks up and pouts his lips gently, asking. You answer, leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth. "I love you."

"I love you too," he says. "Will you, uh. Will you take Buttons out of the room, please?"

"Of course," you whisper, pressing your lips together to prevent a frown, to keep your own facial expressions from making Charles feel worse. You gather Buttons up in your arms easily, his black fur warm against your freezing skin, and close the door behind you as you leave the gaming room.

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