"I've been the archer, I've been the prey, Screaming: Who could ever leave me, darling?, But who could stay."
『⩇⩇:⩇⩇』 • masterlist • The Archer Playlist
✩ smau / real life
✩ lewis hamilton x driver oc
⬅previous • next➡
SUMMARY: Two idiots. Lewis knows what he wants—and he’s more than willing to take it. Unfortunately for him, not everything goes according to plan. Turns out, some actions come with consequences.
Author’s Note: Guess who remembered the password. I know it’s been a while since i last posted, but i did warn you updates might not be regular—final year of uni is… a lot, and i’m just trying to make it to graduation at this point. Thank you for sticking around. Love you guys. Have a good read and let me know what you think. <3
Just a quick heads-up: this story is 100% fictional. I’ve twisted timelines, switched up careers, and added some characters to tell the story I want to tell. It’s all vibes, emotions, and a whole lot of imagination.
✧ Chapter 13 ✧
Testing was done for Lewis, and in hindsight he should have had more than enough occupying his mind to keep him grounded in the present. The car wasn’t where he wanted it to be—not yet—and the media had been circling him relentlessly ever since the announcement that he would be driving for Ferrari next year, analysing every movement, every word, every shift in expression as though it might reveal something worth turning into a narrative.
In theory, there were a hundred reasons for him to remain focused, disciplined, to keep his thoughts where they belonged.
Yet none of them seemed to hold for long. His mind kept drifting, pulled back again and again to the same place, the same person, as though everything else had lost its weight the moment she entered it.
Ever since that moment in the paddock — the moment she had almost walked towards him before that damned engineer called her away — he hadn’t been able to let it go. It lingered with a persistence that felt disproportionate, replaying itself in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the pauses between laps, in the long stretches of silence that followed the end of each day. When there was nothing left to distract him from himself, it was always there.
Because she had almost come to him, and that almost felt heavier than anything that had actually happened between them. It carried possibility, something unresolved, something unfinished that refused to settle. And something about it had felt like a breaking point, as though the line between them had been inches away from disappearing entirely before being drawn back into place without either of them choosing it.
Since then, she had done everything in her power to stay out of his peripheral vision, and she had done it well enough that no one else would have noticed. It showed itself in small things—barely perceptible shifts in direction, conversations extended just long enough to avoid crossing paths, exits taken a fraction earlier than necessary. Movements so subtle they blended seamlessly into the rhythm of the paddock. But Lewis noticed.
Of course he did. He noticed because he was looking, because he had been looking for her in every space without meaning to. And absence, when it was deliberate, had a presence of its own. It might have been difficult for her to maintain that distance, he imagined, but it was worse for him to feel it so clearly, to recognise it for what it was.
Sena had always been like that — a kind of light that refused to disappear entirely, no matter how far away it moved or how dimly it chose to burn. There was something about her that lingered, something that stayed even in absence, and he found his attention drifting back towards it with quiet inevitability, drawn without effort, without resistance, like something instinctive rather than chosen. Like a moth drawn back to the same flame, no matter how many times it burned. And that was exactly what was happening now.
He had already given up any real expectation of seeing her tonight by the time he stepped out onto the hotel terrace, looking for nothing more than a brief moment of quiet away from the layered noise of the evening, the conversations and music and movement that blurred together into something indistinct.
Instead, he found her there.
She was leaning lightly against the railing, her posture loose in a way that suggested she wasn’t performing for anyone, a cigarette resting between her fingers as the smoke rose slowly before dissolving into the cool night air.
The end-of-winter chill sat just beneath the surface, sharp enough to be felt with every breath, the kind that lingered in the lungs and settled into the skin if you stood still too long, but she seemed untouched by it, as though she existed slightly outside of everything around her.
There was a stillness to her that felt complete, self-contained, like someone entirely absorbed in her own thoughts, untouched by anything beyond the moment she occupied.
And for reasons he didn’t immediately want to examine, that calmness irritated him, not because it was false, but because it looked real, because it looked like she was perfectly capable of existing without him in a way he hadn’t quite managed without her.
He moved towards her slowly, not out of hesitation but out of something closer to awareness, a recognition that the quiet surrounding her felt fragile in a way that could be broken too easily. His steps were measured, almost silent against the stone, until he was close enough for the wind to shift and carry the smoke from her cigarette towards him, the scent brushing across his face, sharp and familiar enough to ground him in the moment.
“Sen.”
She startled, the reaction small but immediate, a subtle tightening through her shoulders, the cigarette pausing in her hand before she turned, her eyes widening just slightly before recognition settled in and smoothed her expression back into something controlled, something carefully neutral.
For a moment neither of them spoke, and in that silence their eyes met in a way that felt heavier than any conversation they could have had, something unspoken passing between them too quickly to be defined but too present to be ignored.
Then she turned away again, her attention returning to the city below as though it had suddenly become more important than anything behind her.
“What do you want, Hamilton?”
Her voice was even, deliberate, stripped of anything that might suggest familiarity.
Lewis stepped closer, closing the space between them until he could see the movement of her hair in the breeze, until the faint trace of her perfume reached him beneath the cigarette smoke.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
She didn’t respond, not immediately, and when she did her voice carried a faint edge of impatience. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t put up that wall.”
The scoff that followed was sharp, almost incredulous, and she turned towards him with a suddenness that broke whatever stillness had been there before, the cigarette slipping from her fingers before she crushed it beneath her heel in a quick, decisive motion.
“I’m putting up a wall?” she said, her voice no longer controlled in the same way, something hotter bleeding through. “You built that wall, Hamilton.”
Her gaze held his, unwavering.
She turned to leave, but he reached for her before she could take more than a step, his hand closing around her arm and pulling her back just enough that her back brushed against his chest, the contact immediate and undeniable.
She went rigid for a fraction of a second, the tension in her body sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned forward, his face lowering into the curve of her hair, breathing her in like something he had been trying and failing to forget.
“Come on, Sen,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, the edge softened into something closer to a plea.
“Please.”
His fingers moved along her arm in a slow, absent motion, tracing the length of it as if trying to settle something restless between them, while his other hand slid to her waist, resting there with a familiarity that should have felt wrong and yet didn’t. He lowered his head further, his lips brushing near her neck, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
“I missed you,” he said, softer now, closer.
She inhaled sharply.
“I know you missed me too,” he added, his voice dropping, his nose grazing lightly behind her ear before he pressed a small, deliberate kiss against her skin.
“Don’t,” she whispered, the word barely holding its shape.
“Tell me you didn’t miss me.”
For a moment she stayed exactly where she was, but he felt the shift before he saw it, the subtle way her shoulders folded inward, the resistance in her body easing in a way that felt less like a decision and more like something giving way under pressure. She seemed smaller somehow, as though something inside her had stopped holding its ground.
“You did this,” she said, quieter now.
“I know.”
His hand tightened slightly at her waist, not enough to restrain, just enough to hold.
“But I can’t help it,” he murmured, his voice low against her skin. “I miss you.”
The words settled heavily between them, carrying more weight than they should have, more than either of them was willing to admit. He felt the hesitation in her, the way her body remained caught between pulling away and leaning back into him, the conflict running through her in small, almost imperceptible shifts.
“Stop it,” she whispered again, softer now, the edge breaking.
“I can’t.”
And that was the truth of it, the part neither of them could change, because she knew he couldn’t, and he knew she wouldn’t.
They stayed there like that, suspended in something neither of them had the discipline to break, something that could have ended differently if either of them had chosen it, but neither of them did. Her breath slowed, her hands curling slightly at her sides as if bracing against something she couldn’t see, and when she spoke again her voice carried something quieter, something more vulnerable beneath the frustration.
“You don’t get to do this,” she said. “You don’t get to disappear and come back like nothing happened.”
“I know.”
But he didn’t let go.
And that was what undid it, not the words, not the absence of explanation, but the fact that he was still there, still touching her, still acting like the space between them hadn’t been broken open and left that way. She knew she should have walked away, knew every rational part of her was telling her to leave, to turn around and remind him that he didn’t get to have her like this anymore.
But her body moved before her mind could catch up.
She turned.
Not slowly, not carefully, but suddenly, like something snapping under pressure.
And then she was kissing him.
Hard, immediate, unrestrained, nothing like the careful, deliberate way they used to find each other in quieter moments. This was anger and frustration and everything she hadn’t said pressed into him all at once, her hands gripping his collar, pulling him down to her as though she needed him closer just to make sense of it. Her mouth moved against his with an intensity that bordered on punishing, teeth catching his lip as the kiss broke and collided again before either of them could breathe.
For a fraction of a second, Lewis stilled, not from resistance but from surprise at the force of it, at the way this felt different from anything that had come before. There was nothing slow about it, nothing controlled, just something sharp and unrestrained, like she was taking something back rather than giving it.
Then he answered it, his hands finding her waist, pulling her in fully this time, closing the last of the space between them as he matched her intensity without hesitation, letting her take whatever she needed from him because he knew he deserved it.
Her teeth caught his lip again, harder this time.
He tasted blood.
That was what made him pull back, not far, just enough to breathe, his chest rising sharply as he looked down at her, still too close, still holding her, and for the first time he saw the look in her eyes clearly.
It wasn’t softness.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
It was something darker, something charged and unsteady, like she had crossed a line and understood exactly what it meant, and didn’t care enough to stop.
For a moment neither of them spoke, the air between them thick with everything they weren’t saying, before she stepped back just enough to break the contact, her gaze still locked onto his.
“Follow me.”
Her voice was steady, controlled in a way that felt intentional.
She didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned and walked back inside, her steps quick and certain, as though hesitation would undo the decision entirely.
Lewis stayed where he was for a moment longer, catching his breath, the faint taste of iron still lingering on his tongue, before he followed her inside.
The elevator ride was silent.
Sena stood facing the doors, shoulders set, posture deliberately composed in a way that felt almost rigid under the surface. She could feel him behind her without needing to turn, could feel the weight of his gaze resting on her like something tangible, something that pressed rather than simply observed. It would have been easier to look, easier to acknowledge it, but she didn’t. Instead, she fixed her eyes ahead, using every ounce of self-control she had not to give in to the instinct that still pulled at her, the one that wanted to turn, to close the distance again before they had even reached the room.
The mirrored doors betrayed her anyway.
His reflection hovered just within her peripheral vision, close enough that she could make out the line of his jaw, the tension set into it, the way it tightened as the seconds stretched. He looked… restrained. Controlled in the way he got when something wasn’t going the way he wanted it to.
And that — that irritated him.
She knew it. Knew him well enough to recognise the signs, to understand that her refusal to look at him, to engage, to give him even the smallest acknowledgement, was getting under his skin. It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have felt like anything.
But it did.
It gave her a strange, quiet sense of control. Something small, but necessary. Because she knew exactly where this was going, knew exactly what she was walking into again, and if she was going to let it happen — if she was going to make that choice — then she needed something to hold onto, something that didn’t feel like surrender.
At least this way, she wasn’t giving him everything, she wasn’t completely losing.
The elevator chimed softly as it reached their floor, the doors sliding open with a quiet mechanical ease. Sena stepped out immediately, not waiting, not looking back to see if he followed, because she knew he would. She moved down the corridor with purpose, her steps quick, decisive, as though hesitation might undo the resolve she had barely managed to gather.
By the time she reached her room, she already had the keycard in hand. The door opened, she stepped inside—and she didn’t give him the chance to breathe, let alone speak.
She turned and crashed into him.
Her hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket, yanking him down to her as if force alone could silence everything else. The kiss wasn’t a beginning; it was a collision. There was nothing soft in it, nothing of the quiet, searching intimacy they had once known. It was sharp, consuming, a demand rather than an invitation, a frantic attempt to drown out the noise in her head with the overwhelming, immediate reality of him.
Lewis let out a low sound against her mouth, his hands finding her waist instinctively, pulling her flush against him—but even as he did, he felt it. The difference. She wasn’t melting into him. She wasn’t yielding. She was rigid in places that used to soften, controlled in a way that felt deliberate. She felt like a weapon in his hands—sharp, distant, intentional. She wasn’t losing herself in this. She was enduring it. Directing it. Keeping it contained.
And it frustrated him.
Something dark and reactive flared beneath the surface of his composure, sharp enough to shift the way he touched her, the way he held her. He didn’t want this version of her, didn’t want something stripped down to nothing but physicality, something clean and detached.
He wanted the version of Sena that unraveled, that felt too much, that gave too much, that trusted him with the parts of herself she kept hidden from everyone else. Not this—this controlled, clinical version that used him as proof she could still feel nothing.
His restraint slipped.
Not all at once—but enough to matter.
His movements lost their careful edge, becoming more urgent, more direct, his hands working at her clothes with a blunt impatience that betrayed him. The buttons of her blouse didn’t stand a chance, the top ones coming undone in quick succession beneath his fingers before he pushed the fabric from her shoulders, exposing pale skin to the cool air. For a second, her arms were pinned in place, caught in the fabric as he shoved it down, his touch no longer asking but taking.
She didn’t flinch.
Instead, she reached for him, her fingers finding his belt, steady despite the faint tremor running through them, stripping him of his jacket and letting it fall to the floor like something shed and discarded. Her hands slid up his shirt, over the firm heat of his chest beneath the fabric, grounding herself in something she could control.
She wanted to keep it mechanical.
But the moment didn’t stay that way.
As he backed her toward the bed, his mouth left hers, trailing heat down the length of her throat, and when he bit—just enough, just sharp enough to pull a reaction from her—it broke something in her composure for a fraction of a second. The sound that left her wasn’t planned. It wasn’t controlled.
It was real.
“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice rough against her skin.
“No,” she breathed, already moving ahead of him, hands fumbling slightly at her own clothes, trying to stay one step in front of whatever this was becoming, desperate to keep it from turning into something she couldn’t contain.
He stopped her.
His hand caught her wrists, firm, unyielding, pulling them away from what she was doing and pinning them against the mattress as he leaned over her, his weight settling in a way that made it impossible to ignore him. His eyes were darker now, something turbulent moving beneath the surface, desire tangled with something far less controlled.
He undressed her himself. Slower this time, deliberate, not rushed. Not careless.
A reclamation.
Every movement was slow but heavy, deliberate and loaded with a hunger that had been simmering for months. He undressed her himself, peeling away her clothes like reclaiming what had been denied for far too long. The way her skin shivered under his touch, the tightness of her body pressed against his—it all set his blood on fire.
Once she stood there in nothing but her knickers, his hand moved to his belt, undoing it with a sharp snap before letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. The only sound besides their ragged breathing was the slick slide of his boxers down, freeing his thick, hard cock that throbbed with need.
Sena’s breath hitched as he pulled himself free, the sight of him raw and ready making her ache in ways she hadn’t forgotten. If it had been any other time, Lewis might have enjoyed the way she focused on him, but tonight he wanted her eyes locked on his—no escape, no hiding. He knew it was cruel, using sex as a weapon, but after nearly four months apart, he wasn’t here to be gentle.
His fingers dug into her jaw, forcing her face up until their eyes met. His gaze was a storm—dark, commanding, merciless.
“Look at me, Sena,” he growled, voice low and dangerous, laced with something darker than desire.
She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, holding her gaze captive, stripping away every shred of her will. “No running. No hiding. Not from me.”
He slammed into her hard, the first thrust brutal and unrelenting, stretching her tightness in a way that made her gasp and shudder. The heat between them was electric, every inch of her clenching around him like she’d been waiting for this, craving it as much as he had.
His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he drove into her again and again, each thrust harder, rougher, pounding with a fierce urgency that left no room for softness. He slapped her ass sharply, the sting mixing with the slick heat of their bodies, marking her with his need.
She tried to resist at first, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to reduce it to nothing but sensation, but he wasn’t having it. His forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and ragged against her skin, forcing a brutal intimacy she hadn’t expected.
Her control shattered slowly, then all at once. She stopped holding herself apart and started moving with him, matching his rhythm, her body responding to every hard thrust, every growl that vibrated through him.
“Still trying to play it cool, Sena?” he growled into her ear, voice low and dangerous, thick with something darker than desire.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
His pace lost all restraint, turning raw and reckless. He wasn’t just fucking her—he was breaking through every wall she’d built, tearing down the distance with every brutal thrust.
She tried to hold on, tried to stay separate, but it was impossible.
Her resistance melted away under the relentless pressure of him, the heat, the force, the way he refused to let her hide anywhere—not in the dark, not in silence, not even in herself.
When she finally gave in, it wasn’t a crack—it was a shatter.
Her moans spilled out uncontrolled, raw and desperate, as her hands gripped him tight, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.
He felt it—the moment she surrendered, stopped holding back.
And when they finally came down from the storm, the silence that followed was louder than anything before it.
Sena stayed still for a moment, her breath uneven, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady it, as though if she could just get that under control, everything else might follow. The air still felt thick, heavy with what had just happened, with everything they hadn’t said, everything that had been dragged to the surface whether she wanted it or not. For a brief second, she allowed herself to feel it—the closeness, the aftermath, the dangerous pull of it—before instinct snapped back into place.
She moved.
Quickly.
Before he could.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood without looking at him, without giving herself the chance to hesitate, because she knew exactly what would happen if she did. If she stayed even a moment longer, if she let the quiet settle properly, he would reach for her. He always did. And worse—she wouldn’t stop him.
That was the part she couldn’t afford.
So she put distance between them instead.
Her movements were efficient, almost clinical, as she gathered herself just enough to walk, crossing the room without turning back, without acknowledging him, without letting anything soften in her expression. She reached the bathroom door, her hand already on the handle before she spoke.
“You can leave,” she said, her voice steady in a way that took more effort than it should have. “I don’t want to see you once I’m out.”
There was no room for interpretation in it. No softness left to misread.
And before he could respond—before he could step in, or speak, or undo it—she stepped inside and locked the door behind her with a quiet, final click.
The water was already running before she had fully processed the motion.
She turned it as hot as it would go, stepping under it almost immediately, letting it hit her skin without flinching, the heat sharp, scalding, grounding in a way nothing else had been. It rushed over her shoulders, down her back, washing away nothing and everything all at once. She stood there, unmoving, eyes closed, letting it burn just enough to feel real, just enough to drown out the lingering imprint of him that hadn’t faded yet.
It didn’t erase anything.
It just made the absence clearer.
Outside, Lewis hadn’t moved, not immediately.
For a moment, he remained exactly where she had left him, the silence pressing in from all sides, heavier now without her presence to fill it. The echo of her words lingered, sharp in their simplicity, sharper in what they refused to say. He could still feel her—physically, yes—but more than that, he could feel the distance she had forced back into place the second it had ended, the deliberate way she had pulled herself away from him before he had the chance to reach for her.
And that was what settled it.
Lewis exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face, his jaw tightening as the weight of it finally caught up with him, not all at once but enough to make it impossible to ignore. The room felt different now—emptier, colder in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. Whatever illusion he had tried to create, whatever version of this he had convinced himself he could return to, it was gone.
He had crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.
And worse, he had done it knowing exactly what it would cost her.
The realisation settled quietly, heavily, leaving no room to argue against it, no version of events that softened it into something easier to carry.
He hadn’t just complicated things, he had broken them.
And this time, there was no pretending it had been anything else.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: you guys asked for angst? i present to you, the saddest angst i have ever written. enjoy, or don't? read with care please x
pairing: lewis hamilton x ex!reader
wc: 6k (one-shot / part of my dear melancholy)
summary: after the breakup, lewis thought the worst was behind him. he was wrong. one glimpse of his ex showing up with max verstappen is enough to send him spiralling. trapped between unbearable love and crushing self-hatred, lewis keeps ruining himself for a woman who already doesn't care. even when she’s destroying him, he still can’t let her go.
warnings: horrible angst, dark themes, lewis being treated terribly, subtle suicidal ideation, graphic panic attacks and vomiting, self-destructive behaviour, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional torture by reader, reader shows up with max verstappen, no comfort, no happy ending.
Lewis had stopped drinking years ago. He made the choice back when he was still chasing the final edge, the invisible one percent that separated good athletes from great. Alcohol had never been his friend anyway. It only ever made the noise in his head louder, turned the pressure into something he could drown for a few hours before it came back twice as heavy. So he quit. Went clean. Stayed sober through every season, every controversy, every long night where the weight of the world sat on his chest. Until you.
Until you came in and made the quiet feel worse than anything else ever had.
Monaco’s lights shimmered across the black water like scattered diamonds someone had thrown away. Lewis stood at the open balcony doors with the cool night air brushing over his bare arms, staring out at nothing and everything at the same time. The half empty bottle of Macallan sat on the low table behind him, the cap still lying on its side where he had tossed it earlier. He’d only opened it tonight. One glass had turned into three. His throat still burned from the last swallow but the fire didn’t reach the place that actually hurt. Nothing ever did anymore.
He wasn’t sure exactly when the tears had started. Maybe an hour ago. Maybe three. Time had stopped meaning much of anything. They slid down his face without sound, warm at first then cold against his skin as the sea breeze touched them. He didn’t wipe them away. There was no point. The grief of losing you had worked its way into his blood now, thick and permanent, pumping through every vein like it belonged there. He could feel it in his wrists, behind his eyes, deep in the center of his chest where his heart kept beating like it hadn’t gotten the message that nothing was worth beating for anymore.
The phone on the table lit up and vibrated once, twice, then went dark again. Probably Miles. Or his mother. Or someone from the team still trying to pull him back into the world of data and strategy meetings and the next race weekend that suddenly felt like a joke. He let it ring out. Their voices wouldn’t reach him here. No amount of concern or careful words could touch the raw open wound you had left behind. They couldn’t fix this. They couldn’t even see it. Not really.
Lewis turned away from the sea and walked back inside. His bare feet made almost no sound on the cool marble. The penthouse felt too large, too empty, every expensive surface echoing the silence back at him. He picked up the phone anyway. The screen brightness cut through the dark and made his swollen eyes sting. He opened the camera roll without thinking, the way a man might press on a bruise just to feel something familiar.
The first picture hit him low in the stomach.
You, head tilted back laughing on his yacht in Ibiza, sunlight catching in your hair, his arm slung around your shoulders like he had any right to hold you that close. He remembered the salt on your skin when he kissed your neck later that afternoon. He also remembered stepping away mid conversation to take a call from the engineers, leaving you standing at the rail alone while the wind pulled at your dress. He had told himself it was only five minutes. He had told you he would make it up to you.
He never did.
His thumb moved again.
Another photo. You asleep in the passenger seat of the car after Silverstone, cheek pressed to the cool glass, the faint trace of a tear still shining on your lashes. He had been too wired from the win to notice at the time. Too full of adrenaline and interviews and the high of another podium. Now the image sat there in perfect clarity and the tear felt like an accusation he couldn’t answer.
He kept scrolling, each swipe pulling another memory to the surface like bodies from a shipwreck. You in his race suit after Brazil, sleeves too long, laughing while he kissed your collarbone in the back of the garage. You in the hotel in Abu Dhabi wearing nothing but his hoodie, eyes already distant because you had started to understand he would always choose the noise over the quiet moments with you. Every frame proved the same thing in different lighting.
He had been obsessed with you. So in love it scared him sometimes. He’d ruined pieces of himself trying to keep you. Skipped recovery sessions. Fought with the team when they needed him focused. Cancelled plans, ignored warnings, pushed his body and his mind past limits he knew better than to cross. All because the way you looked at him made the rest of the world feel small and manageable. He would have burned everything down if you had asked him to. He almost had.
And now it felt like none of it had ever happened. Like he had never been there at all.
Lewis sank down onto the edge of the bed, phone still glowing in his hand. The tears wouldn’t stop. They rolled freely now, landing on the screen and blurring your face in the latest photo. His shoulders started to shake with the force of it, crying that came from somewhere deeper than sadness, somewhere closer to the place where a man decides whether he wants to keep waking up tomorrow.
He whispered your name into the dark room and the sound cracked open in his throat. The bottle of whiskey sat waiting on the table. The balcony doors stayed open, the drop to the sea only a few steps away. The phone kept showing him ghosts he couldn’t delete and didn’t want to.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep sitting here, letting the pain settle deeper, letting it teach him new ways to break. But for now the night stretched on and the only thing that felt real was the burn in his throat and the ache in his chest that carried your name in every heartbeat.
He opened another video. Your voice filled the empty penthouse, soft and warm and already gone. And Lewis let himself drown in it one more time.
Lewis woke up the next morning on autopilot. It kept his legs moving even when his mind had already checked out. His whole body felt like it had been hit by a train. Head pounding, stomach twisted into knots, the sour taste of regret thick on his tongue. He barely made it to the bathroom before half the contents of last night came back up in violent heaves that left him shaking on the cold tile floor. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the sink and stared at the stranger in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes. Skin around his fingernails raw and picked bloody from hours of restless tearing at himself in the dark. He didn’t even remember doing it. The pain just felt familiar now. Like everything else.
Somehow he still made it to the airport. Somehow he climbed the stairs onto Toto’s private jet like a man walking through someone else’s nightmare. The leather seats smelled expensive and clean. Everything around him felt too bright, too loud, too much. He dropped into his usual spot by the window and immediately started tapping his right leg up and down in a frantic rhythm that would not stop. His heel bounced against the carpet like it was trying to dig a hole straight through the floor of the plane. He couldn’t make it stop.
Toto sat across from him, legs crossed, watching with a quiet, heavy gaze he had perfected over more than a decade of knowing Lewis better than almost anyone. He was no longer his team principal but he was still his friend. Still the man who had seen him through titles and crashes and everything in between. The older Austrian leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“I can smell the alcohol on you, Lewis.”
Lewis kept his eyes fixed on the window, watching the tarmac blur as the jet began to taxi. His leg kept tapping. Faster now. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Toto let the silence stretch for a moment. The engines whined louder as they picked up speed. “You look like shit. Worse than shit. When was the last time you slept more than two hours without waking up reaching for your phone?”
Lewis’s jaw tightened. He could feel the fresh scabs around his nails splitting open again as he dug his fingers into the armrest. A thin line of blood smeared across the leather. He didn’t bother wiping it away. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” Toto’s voice dropped lower, steady but lined with something close to anger. Not at Lewis. At the situation. At you. “I saw it, Lewis. I saw all of it. The way she pulled you in and kept you spinning. The constant calls during race weekends. The way you would disappear from the garage the second she texted, even when we were fighting for pole. You were obsessed with her. And she knew it. She used it.”
Lewis finally turned his head. His eyes were glassy, red rimmed, the tears from last night still dried on his lashes. “Don’t.”
But Toto didn’t stop. He never did when he thought Lewis was destroying himself. “She was toxic, Lewis. Beautiful, yes. Charming when she wanted to be. But toxic. She fed off the drama. Fed off how much you were willing to bleed for her. You skipped recovery sessions. You fought with the engineers. You pushed your body until it screamed because she needed you right then, right that second. And every time you tried to set a boundary she made you feel like you were the one failing her. Like you were never there even when you were giving her everything.”
Lewis’s leg tapped harder. The rhythm had turned violent, his knee slamming up and down so hard the whole seat vibrated. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. “She wasn’t like that. You don’t know her the way I do.”
“I know exactly what she was like.” Toto’s tone stayed calm but the words cut deep. “I watched you fall apart in real time. You were in love with her, really in love, love that most men never get close to. And she let you ruin yourself for it. She liked the power. Liked knowing a seven-time world champion would drop everything the moment she crooked her finger. And when it got too heavy for her, when she realised she couldn’t handle the weight of what she’d created, she walked away and left you holding the pieces.”
Lewis pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until white sparks exploded behind his lids. His voice came out cracked and small, barely louder than the engines. “I still love her. Fuck, Toto, I still love her so much it feels like it’s eating me alive. Every photo, every message, every second I spent with her… I keep thinking if I had just been better, if I had given more, maybe she would have stayed. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was never even there.”
His shoulders started to shake again. The tears came back hot and fast, spilling down his cheeks without warning. He didn’t try to hide them. There was no point. Toto had seen him cry before, back when they lost championships by a single point, back when life felt simpler. This was different. This felt like dying slowly in front of someone who could do nothing but watch.
Toto reached across the small space between them and placed a heavy hand on Lewis’s knee, trying to still the restless tapping. It barely helped. “You were there, Lewis. More than she deserved. You gave up pieces of yourself I didn’t even know you had left to give. And she took them. She took them and then acted like you were the ghost. That is what is killing you. Not the love. The way she made you question if any of it was real.”
Lewis pulled his knee away and turned back to the window. The plane was lifting off now, Monaco shrinking beneath them into a glittering toy city. His picked-raw fingers curled into fists in his lap, fresh blood staining the cuffs of his hoodie. The tapping started again, harder, like his body was trying to outrun the thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone.
“I keep seeing her face every time I close my eyes,” he whispered. “And I keep thinking about how easy it would be to just… stop. How clean it would feel. No more scrolling. No more waking up missing her. No more wondering why I was never enough even when I was destroying myself for her.”
Toto’s face tightened with real pain. He had known Lewis for years. Had watched him grow from a hungry kid into a legend. Seeing him like this, broken and bleeding and still defending the woman who had hollowed him out, made something in his own chest ache.
“You are not going to do that,” Toto said quietly, voice rough. “Not while I am still breathing. But you need to stop poisoning yourself with her memory, Lewis. She is gone. And the longer you keep chasing the ghost, the more you are going to disappear too.”
Lewis didn’t answer. He just stared out at the clouds and let the tears fall freely now, his leg still tapping the same frantic rhythm against the floor of the jet.
The ache in his chest felt heavier than gravity.
Lewis barely slept in the Miami hotel. The tapping in his leg had followed him off the plane and into the bed, where it kept him awake until the early hours. When he finally dragged himself to the paddock on Thursday, the Florida sun felt too sharp, the noise of the garages too loud. His hands would not stop shaking. The skin around his nails was torn raw again, little crescents of dried blood under the edges where he had picked at them during the flight. He kept his sunglasses on even indoors. Anything to hide how swollen his eyes still were.
Toto hadn’t said much more after that conversation. Just a quiet warning to keep it together for the weekend, for Ferrari, for the fans. Lewis had nodded, but they both knew it was useless.
He was walking through the paddock toward the Ferrari motorhome when he saw you.
You were standing outside the Red Bull garage, laughing at something. Red Bull cap pulled low over your hair, a team polo that was not yours hanging loose on your frame. And next to you, one arm casually draped around your waist like it belonged there, was Max Verstappen.
Lewis stopped dead in the middle of the walkway. Engineers and media people moved around him but he didn’t register any of them. The world narrowed to the two of them. Your head tilted back the way it used to when you laughed at something he said. Max leaned in, said something close to your ear, and you smiled up at him. The smile Lewis had not seen from you in months. Not since you started looking at him like he was already fading.
His stomach lurched so hard he thought he might throw up right there on the pavement. The tapping started again in his right leg, violent and uncontrollable, his heel slamming down in short frantic bursts. Blood rushed in his ears. The raw skin on his fingers burned as he clenched his fists.
Max noticed him first. Their eyes met across the short distance. Verstappen’s expression didn’t change much, his simple unreadable stare he had perfected over years of going wheel-to-wheel with Lewis. But there was something in it. Recognition. Maybe even a flicker of whatever passed for sympathy in Max. He didn’t remove his arm from your waist.
You turned then. The moment your gaze landed on Lewis the smile dropped from your face. For a second you looked almost guilty. Almost. Then it hardened into something closer to pity, and that was worse than anything.
Lewis’s feet moved before his brain caught up. He sprinted toward the Ferrari motorhome, ignoring Santi calling his name, ignoring the concerned glances from mechanics, ignoring everything except the need to get away. He shoved through the hospitality door and went straight for his driver’s room, slamming it shut behind him. The lock clicked.
He was dreaming. That must be it. He must have slipped into some sort of nightmare or psychosis or something. Surely.
The room was small and quiet, the air conditioning humming low. Lewis pressed his back against the door and slid down until he was sitting on the carpet. His legs wouldn’t stop moving. Both of them now, knees bouncing up and down in a frantic rhythm that made his whole body shake. He could hear his own breathing, ragged and too fast, like he had just finished a sprint in full race gear.
His stomach twisted again, harder this time. He scrambled to his feet and barely made it to the small sink in the corner before everything came up. Violent heaves that tore through him, leaving him gasping and retching long after there was nothing left. Bitter bile burned his throat. His eyes watered. He gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white, blood from his nailbeds mixing with the water he tried to splash on his face.
It wouldn’t stop.
He sank back down to the floor, forehead pressed against the cool wall, shoulders heaving. The images wouldn’t leave him alone. Your laugh. Max’s arm around your waist. The easy way you leaned into him like you had never done that with Lewis. Like all those nights he had stayed up ruining himself for you had been erased the second someone else came along.
His chest tightened until he couldn’t draw a full breath. Panic flooded in hot and suffocating. His vision started to blur again. He clawed at the front of his hoodie, fingers digging into the fabric as if he could rip the ache out of his ribs.
You were with Max.
Max of all people. The man who had taken so much from him on track. Now he had taken you too. And you had let him. You’d smiled for him the way you used to smile for Lewis, back when Lewis still believed he could hold onto you if he just gave enough, if he just loved harder, if he just ignored every warning sign.
The tapping in his legs turned into full tremors. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rocked slightly, trying to hold himself together and failing. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat and the remnants of vomit on his chin. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he deserved every second of it. Maybe his karma had come back to haunt him.
His phone was still in his pocket. He pulled it out and opened his camera roll even though he knew it would destroy him more. The first photo loaded. You in his arms after a race win, eyes soft, lips parted like you were about to tell him you loved him. He had believed it then. He had believed every word. Now it felt like a lie he had told himself for months.
Another wave of nausea hit. He crawled back to the sink and threw up again, nothing but acid this time, his body convulsing so hard he thought something inside him might actually tear. When it passed he stayed on his knees, forehead resting on the rim of the sink, breathing in short desperate gasps.
The panic wouldn’t let go. His mind kept spinning the same thoughts over and over. You had chosen the one person who represented the worst loss Lewis had ever felt. The title that was ripped away. Every night he had spent alone wondering if he was enough. And now you were laughing in the Red Bull garage like none of it had ever happened. Like Lewis had been a temporary ghost in your life, something you could walk away from without looking back.
He loved you still. He loved you so much it made him want to claw his own skin off. He would have taken you back in a heartbeat. He would have dropped to his knees right there in the paddock and begged if you had asked. Even knowing how toxic it was. Even knowing you had poisoned him slowly until there was almost nothing left.
But you didn’t want him anymore. You wanted Max, apparently.
Lewis curled into a ball on the floor of his driver’s room, arms wrapped tight around his knees, body still shaking with the aftershocks of vomiting and panic. Outside the door the paddock carried on without him. Teams prepared for practice. Fans waited for glimpses of their hero. Somewhere across the way you were probably still smiling up at Max, safe and untouched by the wreckage you had left behind.
Lewis pressed his face into his arms and whispered the same broken words again and again until his voice gave out.
“It won’t matter. When it’s time… it won’t matter. When I get my 8th, when this pain stops, when I move on…”
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep breathing through the grief that felt like it was swallowing him whole.
Lewis stayed locked in his driver’s room for what felt like hours. The shaking never stopped. The taste of bile still coated his throat. Every time he closed his eyes he saw your smile aimed at Max, that easy tilt of your head, the casual way his arm sat around your waist like it had always belonged there. His leg kept tapping against the carpet until the muscle burned. Blood had dried in thin lines across his fingers. He did not move to clean it.
Eventually the team started knocking. Practice sessions were approaching. He had to show his face. He forced himself up, splashed water on his face until the redness around his eyes looked slightly less obvious, and stepped back into the hospitality area like a man walking onto a stage he no longer recognised.
The Ferrari hospitality was bright and loud with the usual pre-session chatter. Mechanics grabbed coffee. Engineers huddled over laptops. And there you were.
Not in the Red Bull cap. Not in the team polo. Just you, in a simple black top and jeans, standing near the corner table chatting to Charles Leclerc like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. Charles was smiling politely, nodding at whatever you were saying, but his shoulders were tense, his posture stiff like someone had warned him not to get too comfortable. He kept glancing toward the door as if he expected Lewis to appear at any second.
Lewis felt the floor fall from under him.
Fucking hell. Was he going crazy? Had he imagined the whole thing in the paddock? Had the lack of sleep and the whiskey finally cracked his brain open? You looked so normal. So calm. Like you hadn’t just been wrapped up in Max Verstappen’s arm a few hours ago. Like you hadn’t destroyed him all over again with one careless smile.
His hands started shaking harder the second he saw you. The tremors ran up his arms and into his chest. He shoved them into the pockets of his hoodie but it didn’t help. His leg began its frantic tapping again, heel bouncing against the polished floor.
Charles noticed him first. The younger driver’s face tightened even more. He said something quick and low to you, then stepped back with an awkward half-nod in Lewis’s direction before disappearing toward the engineering area. You turned slowly. Your eyes met Lewis’s across the room and for a moment the noise of hospitality faded to nothing.
He couldn’t breathe.
You walked toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Small talk. That was what you offered first. Something about the heat in Miami, about how the track always felt different in the afternoon. Your voice was light, casual, the same tone you used with strangers. Lewis stared at your mouth moving, hearing nothing, and felt his stomach twist again.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The words came out low and rough, barely controlled.
You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Watching my favourite sport? Last time I checked I was still allowed to be in the paddock.”
Lewis’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He pulled them out of his pockets and clenched them at his sides. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is normal. I saw you. This morning. With him. Laughing. His arm around you like…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. The image burned behind his eyes again.
You sighed, the sound tired and impatient. “Lewis, we’re not together anymore. I can talk to whoever I want. Max was just being nice. I was visiting. That’s all.”
That was when the dam broke. He grabbed your wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away easily, and pulled you straight back toward his driver’s room. You resisted for half a second then let him drag you inside. He slammed the door shut and locked it again. The small space felt even smaller with both of you in it.
“I’m not sleeping because of you,” he said, voice cracking open. “I’m not eating because of you. I can’t train or think or do my fucking job properly because of you.”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even react visibly. You gave him the same empty stare you had given him the night you left, when you packed your bags and ignored his tears, his pleading, his screams.
Lewis kept going, the words pouring out faster, uglier. “I keep seeing your face every time I close my eyes. I scroll through every photo like a fucking addict because it’s the only place you still exist for me. I ruined myself for you. Skipped recovery. Fought with the team. Pushed my body until it broke. All because I loved you so much I thought if I just gave more, if I just stayed longer, you would stay too. And now you’re here smiling at Charles like none of it happened. Smiling at Max like I was never even real. You let him put his arm around you. You let him touch you while I’m still dying over here.”
You looked at him for a long moment, then shook your head slowly. “You did that to yourself, Lewis. You have this fucking self-importance. Like the whole world has to stop because Lewis Hamilton is in love. Like your pain is bigger than everyone else’s. I told you it was too much. I told you I needed space and you kept pushing, kept calling, kept showing up like you could love me hard enough to fix everything. You made it toxic. Not me. You turned every normal argument into a crisis because you couldn’t handle the idea that I might not need you every second of every day. You were obsessed. You suffocated me.”
Lewis laughed, but it came out as a broken sob. He stepped closer, hands still trembling violently. “I suffocated you? That’s rich coming from you. You were the one who kept me on a string for months. Hot one day, ice cold the next. You’d call me crying at 2am saying you needed me, then disappear for weeks when I actually showed up. You loved the attention. Loved knowing I would drop everything for you. You fed off it. You made me feel like if I didn’t prove my love every single day I was failing you. That’s toxic. You were toxic. You knew exactly how to make me question everything and you enjoyed it.”
You folded your arms, eyes narrowing. “And you loved playing the martyr. Poor Lewis, always sacrificing, always the one giving more. You threw it in my face every time we fought. ‘I skipped training for you. I fought my team for you.’ Like I was supposed to thank you for destroying your own life. You made me the villain for wanting something normal. For not wanting to be the reason a world champion was falling apart every other week. You did that. Not me.”
“I was trying to love you!” Lewis shouted, voice raw. His leg tapped so hard the table beside him rattled. “I gave you everything I had. I would have died for you. I still would. And you just took it all and then acted like I was never there. Like I disappeared into thin air the second you got bored. Now you’re parading around the paddock letting Max put his hands on you and smiling like it’s nothing. Was that nice too? Was he just being friendly when he had his arm around your waist?”
You stared at him, cold and steady. “It was nothing. He was being nice because he’s not you. He doesn’t turn every interaction into a fucking tragedy. You see betrayal everywhere because you can’t stand the thought that I moved on while you’re still here picking yourself apart. That’s on you, Lewis. Your obsession. Your need to make everything about how much you’re suffering.”
Lewis’s knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the small couch, breathing in short desperate gasps. The room felt like it was closing in. Tears streamed down his face again, mixing with the sweat on his skin. He looked up at you through the tears, voice breaking completely.
“I loved you. I still love you. So much it’s killing me. Every day I wake up and the first thought is you. Every night I go to bed and the last thought is you. And you just… don’t fucking care. Like I was a chapter you could close. Like I was never there at all.”
You looked down at him for a long moment, something almost like pity flickering across your face again. Then you turned toward the door.
“I’m done, Lewis. Let it go. Before you really do something you can’t come back from.”
You unlocked the door and reached for the handle.
“Don’t fucking walk away from me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them. He shot up from the sofa, grabbed your wrist, and yanked you back into the room. The door slammed shut again under his free hand. He pulled you hard against his chest and buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like a dying man.
“Please,” he whispered, voice fracturing into pieces. “Please, please, please… just… don’t go. For a second. Please.”
You stood still for a second. Then your arms came up and wrapped around him. You held him there, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his braids. You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew the power you still had over him. Maybe that was what you had always wanted. The great Lewis Hamilton, reduced to this. Shaking. Begging. On his knees in every way that counted. You soothed him anyway, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
“Shh,” you murmured against his ear. “I’m here. Breathe.”
Lewis shuddered hard against you. His arms tightened around your waist like he was afraid the floor would drop out from under him if he let go. For a few long seconds the frantic tapping in his leg eased. The relief crashed over him so fast it made his knees weak. The constant ache in his chest quieted, just enough to let him draw a full breath. He pressed his lips to the warm skin of your neck, not quite a kiss, desperate for the contact.
“I hate how much I still need you,” he said quietly, voice muffled. “Even after all the shit we said to each other. Even knowing how toxic we both are. I keep telling myself I should walk away, but the second you’re close again everything else disappears.”
You kept stroking the back of his head, calm and in control. “You make it so easy to hurt you, Lewis. You hand me the knife every time and then act surprised when I use it. But I’m not the only one who made this ugly. You turned love into a battlefield. Every time I tried to breathe you made me feel guilty for it.”
He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes red and desperate, tears still wet on his lashes. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides like he could keep you anchored there. “I know. I know I pushed too hard. I know I made you feel trapped. But you liked it too. You liked knowing I would burn everything down for one more night with you. You liked the power. Tell me I’m wrong.”
You didn’t deny it. Instead you brushed a thumb across his cheek, wiping away a tear. Your voice stayed soft, almost tender. “Maybe I did. For a while. You made me feel wanted in a way no one else ever has. But it stopped being enough when it started destroying you. And me.”
Lewis leaned his forehead against yours, breathing shaky. “I would have died for you. I still would. That’s how fucked up I am over you. One look and I’m ready to throw everything away again. Even knowing you’re going to walk out that door and leave me worse than before.”
For a moment the room felt strangely peaceful. The two of you breathing the same air, the anger from minutes ago simmering underneath something quieter and sadder. Your hand stayed on the back of his neck. His fingers traced small, unsteady circles on your lower back.
Then you tilted your head and kissed him.
It started slow, almost careful. But the second his lips met yours the hunger took over. Lewis kissed you like a man who had been starving for months. Deep and desperate, hands moving up to cup your face, tongue sliding against yours with all the pain and longing he couldn’t put into words, couldn’t let anyone else see. You kissed him back, matching the intensity for a few long seconds, fingers tightening in his braids as if you might actually stay.
When you finally pulled away, your lips were swollen and your breathing uneven.
You stepped back, smoothing your top down. Your eyes had already started to shift, that distant look creeping back in.
“I have to go.”
Lewis stood there, chest heaving, the taste of you still warm on his mouth. The relief that had flooded through him only moments ago slammed straight into anger. Hot. Sickening. Crushing.
He had done it again. Let you back in. Begged like he had no pride left. Kissed you like an idiot who never learned. And now you were leaving, calm and untouched, while he stood here breaking all over again.
“You’re really just going to walk out,” he said, voice low and bitter. “After I fell apart in front of you. After I kissed you like that. You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Felt the power. And now you’re done again?”
You paused at the door, hand on the handle. You didn’t turn around fully. “Get some help, Lewis. Before you really break something you can’t fix.”
The door opened and closed with a quiet click.
Lewis stared at the empty space where you had been. The relief curdled fast and hard in his stomach, turning into something darker, something that made him feel physically sick. He had touched you. Held you. Tasted you. For one minute the pain had gone quiet. Now it roared back louder than ever.
He was going fucking crazy. One second he wanted to die because of you. The next he was begging you to stay, kissing you like nothing else mattered. And now here he was, alone again, the taste of you still on his lips while the rest of him fractured wider than before.
Even after everything, even after the kiss, even after the way you had held him, he still felt like a ghost in his own life. A man who kept poisoning himself with the same thing that was killing him.
He didn’t know how to stop. He wasn’t sure if he ever could.
tags: @70srogertaylor @forzalewis44xo @mikaissance @saintslewis @liveloungeharry @knowinglewis @dr-hamilton @palefacestudentlove @lulusgowild @dewylewis44 @yeoldebytche @raysmayhem-72 @dolyswonderland @vintagesoul-01 @thegirlinblackgreensilver @aashimania @iamquiantrelle @misolii @butterflykey @magnificentlyrainythunder @moonballspls122 @scenesofobx @nebulastarr @thesizzler @africandiasporagoods44(some of these tags are from january 2026, if u dont want to be tagged anymore pls let me know <3)
"I've been the archer, I've been the prey, Screaming: Who could ever leave me, darling?, But who could stay."
『⩇⩇:⩇⩇』 • masterlist • The Archer Playlist
✩ smau / real life
✩ lewis hamilton x driver oc
⬅previous • next➡
SUMMARY: Both Sena and Lewis deal with the aftermath of Lewis’s decision in their own ways. While one is trying to move forward and rebuild something steadier, the other begins to realise that what he walked away from might be the only place he ever truly wanted to stay.
Warnings: jealousy, avoidance of commitment, unresolved tension
Word count: 5.6k
Author’s Note: Think of Chapter 11 as a season finale. I took a little break after that to reconstruct where the rest of the story is going and to make sure it feels right. I can’t promise consistent updates, but I can promise the story isn’t abandoned. It will come when it’s ready. Thank you for sticking around. Love you guys. Have a good read and let me know what you think. <3
Just a quick heads-up: this story is 100% fictional. I’ve twisted timelines, switched up careers, and added some characters to tell the story I want to tell. It’s all vibes, emotions, and a whole lot of imagination.
✧ Chapter 12 ✧
Liked by centralcee, taylorswift, and others
senafox baby I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake (I am actually freezing)
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livysmith: I offered her my coat. she said “it ruins the vision”
⤷senafox: vision secured though
faith.cartier: I wonder why oh maybe cause you refused to wear your jacket for the pics
⤷senafox: it was a necessary sacrifice
centralcee: need a jacket? liked by the author
user1: the waist in negative temperatures is insane
user2: somebody zoom into the comment section
⤷user3: I’m sat on whatever this is
Sena stood still long enough for the cold to settle into her bones, letting the sun fall across her face as if it were something earned. It was a strange kind of warmth, thin, almost fragile but against the endless white around her it felt like grace. Snow stretched in every direction, softening the world into something gentler than it had any right to be. The mountains were quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t ask anything from you, didn’t expect answers or explanations. Just her and the slow rhythm of breath in freezing air. It had been a good trip so far. Simple. Clean. Undemanding.
She tried not to think about her birthday. About the photographs. About him. The image of candlelight in Barbados had faded into something less sharp, less immediate, though not harmless. She surprised herself with how steady she felt now. Not healed — she wasn’t naive enough to call it that — but stable. Contained. Maybe it helped that whatever they had never had a name. No official beginning meant no official ending. Maybe it helped that her friends hadn’t known the depth of it, or if they had, they’d been kind enough to pretend otherwise. Mercy disguised as ignorance. Let her pretend. Let her keep dignity where she could.
She barely touched her phone during the trip. That alone felt like progress. She called her father every now and then, and listened to him complain about the weather back home. That was enough. That anchored her. The only other time she unlocked her screen was that morning, to post the pictures from the trip.
But every time the screen lit up in her hand, that quiet, treacherous voice surfaced.
Check.
Just check.
See what he’s doing.
She had a rough idea anyway. She’d heard enough, seen enough in passing headlines and blurred notifications. But it was different seeing it yourself. It was different letting the image settle into your own eyes, claiming space in your memory.
For a split second, she almost did it. Almost searched his name. Almost let curiosity masquerade as closure.
But the thought alone felt like swallowing a rod pulled straight from flame.
There was still enough self-respect left in her to refuse that kind of pain. Enough instinct to shield her own heart from deliberate injury. Or maybe — if she were being honest — she wasn’t protecting herself from what he was doing. She was protecting herself from what it would reveal about her. About how much it still mattered.
She lifted the cigarette to her lips and inhaled, smoke mingling with the air so cold it scraped her throat on the way down. The burn was clean, immediate, almost clarifying. It filled her lungs sharply, like a reset button pressed too hard. She told herself that if she breathed deeply enough, if she let the smoke travel through her entirely, it might cloud whatever remained of him inside her. Erase him on the exhale.
She let the smoke leave her slowly, watching it dissolve into the white.
It didn’t erase anything.
All it did was burn.
The smoke didn’t numb him out of her system. It only made the emptiness clearer, more defined against the silence. And still, she stood there, eyes closed against the sun, steady on her feet, holding herself together in a landscape that didn’t ask her to be anything but still.
Her thoughts were broken by Olivia’s voice calling from inside the suite. “Sen! Come on, we’re going skiing. You are not spending another day out there pretending you’re not sulking over that man.”
Sena was already forming a protest — she wasn’t sulking, she wasn’t thinking about him, she was perfectly fine — when she turned and caught the look on Olivia’s face. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just knowing.
It confirmed what she had suspected all week.
They knew exactly who she had been waiting for that night. They knew who hadn’t shown up. They knew why, all of a sudden, she had insisted on flying to the top of the mountains and dragging them with her, as if altitude could thin out memory.
They hadn’t asked questions. They hadn’t cornered her with concern. They had let her perform normalcy because they loved her enough to let her keep control.
But the mercy wouldn’t last forever.
Sena held Olivia’s gaze for a moment, weighing whether she had the strength to deny it out loud. She knew that if she said anything other than okay, the careful silence her friends had maintained would dissolve instantly into interrogation and comfort and all the things she wasn’t ready to accept.
So she just nodded.
“I’m coming,” she said lightly.
She crushed the cigarette into the ashtray beside her, pressing it down harder than necessary, then pushed off the balcony railing and slipped back inside, almost skipping as if motion alone could prove she was fine.
Faith was leaning over the vanity when Sena walked back into the suite, one knee propped on the chair, eyeliner balanced carefully in her hand. The room smelled faintly of perfume and heat from the radiators, a sharp contrast to the frozen quiet outside. Faith caught her reflection in the mirror before she turned fully.
“Oh, there she is,” she said, tone light but edged with something observant.
Sena shrugged out of her jacket, fingers still slightly numb. “I was having a smoke,” she replied, not quite meeting her eyes, focusing instead on toeing off her boots near the door. She could feel Faith watching her through the mirror — not suspicious, not accusatory — just assessing. Taking stock.
She hated that they could read her so easily.
“So,” Sena added, brushing snow from the sleeves of her jumper as if that had been her only concern out there, “what are we doing today?”
"We're skiing,” Liv said matter-of-factly. “Properly this time. No more of you disappearing halfway up the mountain to stare into the void.”
Sena rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t staring into the void.”
“Yeah,” Faith muttered, capping her mascara and turning around fully now, leaning back against the desk. “You were communing with nature.”
“Very spiritual,” Liv added, deadpan.
Sena exhaled through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. “You’re both dramatic.”
They had planned it the night before — skiing all morning, then staying for the festival down at the base of the resort in the afternoon. The ski village had transformed overnight into something out of a postcard: fairy lights strung between wooden chalets, music drifting up from speakers half-buried in snow, people in bright jackets weaving between stalls selling mulled wine and pastries dusted in sugar. There was something intoxicating about it — the kind of atmosphere that made you feel temporarily suspended from the rest of your life.
A ski resort in winter had its own rhythm. Mornings belonged to the slopes — sharp air, adrenaline, the scrape of skis against packed snow. Afternoons belonged to laughter, to flushed cheeks and clumsy dancing in ski boots, to the easy warmth of crowded tents where strangers became friends for an hour.
Sena moved further into the room, perching on the edge of the bed as she reached for her gloves. “Fine,” she said. “We ski. Then we stay at the festival for a bit.”
“For a bit?” Liv scoffed. “We’re staying until you’re too tired to overthink.”
“I don’t overthink,” Sena replied automatically.
Faith raised a brow. “Sure”
She pulled her hair into a tighter ponytail, fingers moving with practiced precision. She liked preparation. Liked structure. The ritual of gearing up gave her something to focus on that wasn’t memory. It was mechanical. Clean. Necessary.
Outside the window, skiers were already cutting long arcs into the slopes, leaving temporary signatures in the snow that would be erased by nightfall. Sena watched them for a moment, feeling the familiar itch under her skin.
Faith stepped closer, adjusting Sena’s collar without comment. It was a small, wordless gesture. Protective without being obvious.
“You good?” Faith asked quietly, just for her.
Sena met her eyes then. Steady. Measured.
“Yeah,” she said.
It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Liv clapped her hands once, breaking the moment. “Right. If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the best snow.”
They filed out together, laughter already spilling ahead of them down the corridor. Sena let herself fall into step between them, shoulders brushing theirs as they walked. She could feel the cold waiting beyond the doors, could feel the mountain calling in that silent, indifferent way.
Today, she decided, she would let it swallow her whole.
Lewis sat on the floor with his back resting against the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him, shoulders sinking into the familiar softness of home. At some point during the film his niece had curled into the corner of the couch, one small arm draped over a cushion as though claiming territory in her sleep. His nephew had lasted longer, stubbornly insisting he wasn’t tired, only to eventually tip sideways against his sister, the controller slipping from his hand. Now both of them were asleep, breathing slow and heavy.
The television still played quietly, the credits rolling unnoticed. The room was dim except for the low lamplight in the corner and the blue glow flickering across the walls. The house felt full in the way only a family home could feel full, layered with noise, memory and routine. It was warm, not just in temperature but in texture, in history.
Lewis leaned his head back against the sofa cushion and looked at the ceiling for a moment.
He loved this. He really did. These were the nights that had steadied him for years, after seasons that slipped through his fingers, after the kind of public scrutiny that turned everything into spectacle. He had always come back here and let the warmth recalibrate him. Let the simplicity of it remind him who he was without the helmet.
But the hollow in his chest remained.
Since Barbados, he had been seen more than usual. Photographed stepping out of restaurants, leaning too close to women he barely knew, smiling into cameras with that familiar composure people mistook for contentment. None of it had been accidental. He understood optics. He understood narratives. If there was going to be a break, if there was going to be distance, it needed to look deliberate. Clean. Undeniable. The world needed a story to replace the one it had started writing about him and Sena, and so he had given it one.
It had worked.
The rumours shifted almost overnight. Speculation turned into correction. People congratulated themselves for not believing in something that had never officially existed. Her name slowly detached from his in headlines. The noise redirected.
This is what’s best, he reminded himself. This is what protecting her looks like.
But protection had never felt so much like self-inflicted damage.
His sister watched him from across the room longer than usual before finally speaking. “You’re quiet today,” she said lightly, as if she were commenting on the weather. Not accusatory. Just observant.
“Just tired,” he replied automatically, running a hand through his hair before letting it rest against the sofa again. “Long year.”
His mum paused in the doorway, dish towel in hand. “You say that every year.”
He gave a small shrug. “Car wasn’t where we wanted it to be. Mentally draining, that’s all.”
It was an easy excuse. Racing was the perfect shield, technical enough to end conversations, complicated enough to sound plausible, familiar enough that no one felt the need to dig deeper. They all knew what a difficult season could do to him. It was not entirely a lie, just not the truth.
They did not push. They never did when they sensed the wall was deliberate.
His niece shifted slightly in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent before settling again, and Lewis found himself staring at the space between the two children on the sofa. His family’s voices blurred together for a moment, the room tilting slightly as his thoughts drifted somewhere he had been trying to avoid.
Sena would have liked this, he realised.
Not the chaos necessarily, though she would have pretended she thrived in it, but the intimacy of it. The unguardedness. The way no one here cared about headlines or speculation or strategy. She would have sat cross-legged on this same rug, speaking more than listening. The thought landed heavier than he expected.
He had told himself that distance was mercy. That removing himself from her orbit would spare her from being dragged into conversations she did not deserve. He had watched the comments spiral, watched strangers reduce her to something transactional simply because she had stood too close to him for too long. He could handle being dissected. He had built armour for it over decades. But watching her become collateral damage had done something sharp and violent to him.
So he had chosen for her.
He had decided what she needed.
He had assumed that hurting her once would hurt less than letting the world keep doing it slowly.
Now, sitting in a living room full of warmth that did not quite reach him, he was no longer sure he had been protecting anyone at all.
His phone buzzed against the coffee table and he looked at it instinctively, his pulse tightening before he could stop himself. It was not her. It had not been her in weeks. He did not know what he would do if it ever was again. The last message still sat in their chat like a sealed door.
Thank you, Hamilton.
He had read it so many times that the words no longer felt like language. Just shape. Finality.
He was thinking about the version of her that had laughed in that stable, arms wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from cold air and disbelief. The way she had looked at him like he had given her something sacred. The way he had promised, silently and stupidly, that he would never be the reason that light dimmed.
And then he had been.
The women he had been photographed with since then had been distractions at best, shields at worst. He did not remember their perfume, their jokes, the colour of their dresses. He remembered the absence. The constant, quiet comparison that was unfair to everyone involved. He had convinced himself he could compartmentalise, that he could behave normally and eventually feel normal.
But hollow things do not fill simply because you surround them with noise.
His mum came to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. She did not look at him when she spoke. “Whatever it is,” she said gently, “don’t let pride make it worse.”
He swallowed, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. “It’s not that.”
She hummed softly, unconvinced but respectful of his refusal. “You’ve always carried too much on your own.”
He did not answer.
Because the truth was he had chosen this weight. Chosen to carry it instead of letting her decide whether it was worth holding together. He had taken control in the name of protection, and now he had to sit inside the consequences of that control.
He had wanted to protect Sena from the world.
And for the first time since that night in Barbados, sitting in a room full of people who loved him without condition, Lewis felt the full, undeniable weight of what he had done, not as strategy, not as sacrifice, but as loss.
Later, when the house settled into the softer quiet of post-dinner calm and he finally retreated to his room, he sat on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand longer than he meant to. He had already decided he wasn’t going to check. There was nothing to gain from it. No version of scrolling that ended with relief.
He opened Instagram anyway.
Her post was unavoidable.
Snow bright enough to hurt. Mountains stretching out behind her like a painted backdrop. And Sena in the foreground, eyes closed against the sun, chin tilted slightly upward, light catching along the curve of her cheekbone. She looked composed in a way that wasn’t defensive. Not hardened. Just… settled. Like she had found a rhythm that didn’t require him.
His throat tightened before he could stop it.
He zoomed in unconsciously, studying the details, the familiar arch of her brow, the way she held her shoulders when she was relaxed. Winter had always suited her. It sharpened her features, made her look almost untouchable. The second photo struck deeper. She was on the ground, tangled in snow with her friends, boots in the air, hair messy, laughing without restraint. It wasn’t curated. It wasn’t controlled. It was the version of her that had once pressed her face into his neck and thanked him for giving her something she’d loved as a child.
He let his thumb hover, suspended in the space between restraint and self-inflicted injury.
Then he saw it.
Central Cee had commented. Again.
The tone was light. Harmless on the surface. Nothing overt. No claim. No declaration. Just presence.
And she had liked it.
That small red heart hit harder than it had any right to.
Heat flared in his chest, sharp, instinctive, humiliating in its intensity. His fingers curled tighter around the phone as if grounding himself physically might steady the reaction. He had forfeited any authority here. He knew that. He had dismantled whatever unspoken understanding existed between them the moment he decided to orchestrate an ending instead of having a conversation.
Still, the idea of another man inserting himself into her orbit — even subtly, even publicly — scraped against something primal inside him. It wasn’t about status. It wasn’t about ego. It was about proximity. About someone else being allowed to exist in the margins of her life where he had once stood unchallenged.
This is what you wanted, he reminded himself.
You wanted her free from the fallout that follows you.
You wanted her detached from your name.
You wanted her untouched by the ugliness.
Freedom, it turned out, included other people.
His gaze drifted back to her face on the screen. There was no trace of him there. No shadow. No grief visible enough for strangers to dissect. She looked like someone who had absorbed the impact and decided to keep moving.
A sharp edge of something darker surfaced — not anger at her, not even at that guy — but at the realisation that she was capable of moving forward without waiting for him to circle back.
Possessiveness crept in quietly, dangerous because it felt justified in his own mind. He knew her in ways that no one else did. Knew the parts she didn’t let the world see. The stubborn softness beneath the defiance. The way she shut down when she was hurt instead of exploding. He had been inside those silences. He had been trusted with them.
And now someone else was stepping into frame.
He locked the phone and placed it face down on the bedside table, as if removing it from sight might dull the reaction in his chest.
He lay back fully this time, staring at the ceiling in the dim light, letting the truth settle where he had been avoiding it. He had told himself that stepping away was strength. That distancing himself was care. That if he absorbed the blame and redirected the narrative, she would be safer for it. But watching her exist without him — watching her acknowledge someone else — forced something else into the open:
He hadn’t stopped wanting her.
He had only stripped himself of the right to act like he did.
And that quiet, simmering feeling burned hotter than any public rumour ever could.
He didn’t sleep.
The house had gone quiet hours ago and still he lay awake staring at the ceiling like it might rearrange itself into clarity. The decision wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t crash into him like revelation. It built slowly, heavily, like something rising from deep water, something that had always been there waiting for the moment he stopped pretending he could live without it.
What he was feeling now wasn’t noble. It wasn’t protective.
It was yearning.
Not the soft, sentimental kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that lodged itself in the chest and refused to be reasoned with. The kind that made logic irrelevant and pride feel secondary.
When he’d seen her photo — sunlight cutting across her face, snow bright behind her, eyes closed like she owed no one anything — something inside him had shifted in a way he couldn’t ignore. She looked untouched by him. Just… existing. Whole. That image unsettled him more than anger would have. He could have managed anger. He understood conflict. But this quiet steadiness, this suggestion that she could carry on without him, when even breathing without her hurt scraped at something instinctive.
And then that comment.
It shouldn’t have mattered but it did it mattered too much.
The jealousy hadn’t been explosive. It hadn’t been loud or reactive. It had been colder than that. It had moved through him like a slow, controlled burn, in a way he didn’t have the right to be. He had dismantled whatever they were with deliberate precision. He had stepped away. He had made sure the world believed there was nothing to see.
And now she was responding to someone else.
He turned onto his side, staring into the darkness, jaw tight.
He didn’t want her public. He didn’t want her displayed or claimed or dissected by strangers. That had never been the appeal. What he wanted — what he had always wanted, though he had never said it plainly — was her, just her. The way she softened when she trusted. The way she looked at him when she thought no one else was paying attention. The way she gave fully once she decided to give.
He missed that with an ache that felt almost physical.
And that’s when the thought formed. They didn’t need to define anything. They didn’t need to fix anything publicly. They could slide back into what they had been before. It had worked. It had been contained. He had known exactly where the edges were and how far he could step without falling into something that demanded too much of him. She had been his.
He didn’t want a grand reconciliation. He didn’t want declarations or promises or the vulnerability of saying, I was wrong. He wanted her back in the quiet ways. Back in his bed without cameras. Back in his messages late at night. Back in the space where she reached for him without hesitation.
He wanted the warmth of her devotion again.
And selfishly — deeply selfishly — he wanted it without restructuring his life around it.
The awareness of that should have disgusted him more than it did.
He knew her. That was the part he couldn’t ignore. He knew how she loved. Once she allowed herself in, she didn’t do it halfway. She didn’t ration affection. She didn’t keep contingency plans. When she chose, she chose fully. That had been beautiful. Terrifying. Addictive.
If he went back carefully, just present, familiar — she would respond. Not immediately. Not recklessly. But inevitably. He could feel that certainty settle in him like gravity.
Because if the roles were reversed, he would.
If she showed up at his door with that quiet, unwavering look in her eyes, asking for something undefined but intimate, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her. He wouldn’t demand structure. He would take whatever version she offered.
So why wouldn’t she?
The feeling twisted deeper there, not just for her body or her attention, but for the way she had once looked at him like he was something irreplaceable. The way she had leaned into him without calculation. The way she had trusted him to hold her without asking where it was going.
He missed that trust more than he wanted to admit.
He stood and walked to the window, pushing the curtain aside slightly, staring out into the night sky as if it might cool the heat under his skin.
He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.
A small, fractured part of him hoped she wouldn’t fold. Hoped she had grown beyond him. Hoped she had built something inside herself strong enough to refuse him if he came back offering only half of himself.
But the larger part — the honest, yearning, selfish part — didn’t believe she would.
And he hated that he was counting on it.
He wasn’t planning to give her more. He was planning to take her back into a space that required less of him than she deserved.
And the ache in his chest wasn’t guilt. It was hunger.
Bahrain was the same, and yet it wasn’t, not really.
The desert still breathed heat even in testing season, the air shimmering faintly above the tarmac, the sand stretching endlessly beyond the circuit like it had always been there, watching, waiting. The garages still smelled of fuel and rubber and hot metal. Engineers still leaned over laptops with the same furrowed brows, mechanics still moved with that precise, economical urgency that never quite left them. On the surface, nothing had changed.
But Sena had.
Last year, she had walked into this paddock like someone stepping back onto ground that had once tried to swallow her whole. Every glance had felt like a question mark. Every on-board lap, a silent trial. She had been the girl who came back from the flames, the one people watched with cautious fascination, half-expecting brilliance, half-expecting disaster. She’d carried that weight quietly, stubbornly, determined to prove she still belonged here without ever asking anyone’s permission to exist.
Now, she stood there as the reigning world champion.
The title sat on her shoulders differently than she’d imagined it would. Not heavier — if anything, it made her lighter — but sharper. Defined. There was no question anymore of whether she deserved the seat, the attention, the space she took up. The paddock didn’t tilt its head at her now. It looked straight at her. Some with admiration. Some with resentment. Some with something closer to wariness. She recognised all of it. She had earned every reaction.
They were calling her the Vixen again.
The nickname had started years ago, long before championships and comebacks and scars the public never quite saw properly. One of the drivers had said it offhandedly at first, a half-joke during a debrief, when she’d managed to pass three cars on worn tyres with a move that shouldn’t have worked but did anyway. “Clever little vixen,” Seb had muttered, equal parts impressed and irritated.
The media had latched onto it instantly.
A vixen, clever, elusive, sharp-toothed when cornered. A creature that survived by wit as much as speed. It didn’t hurt that her last name was Fox; the metaphor practically wrote itself. They liked the way it sounded, liked how easily it slipped into headlines and commentary, liked the faint edge of danger it suggested. A woman who wasn’t just fast, but cunning. Not just talented, but strategic. Not just surviving the grid, hunting on it.
At first, she’d hated it.
It had felt reductive, another way to turn her into something symbolic instead of human. But over time — and especially now — she liked it. Let it become armour rather than a cage. If they wanted to see her as something sharp and untameable, fine. She would give them exactly that.
And then she saw him.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no slow-motion recognition, no cinematic pause in the noise around them. He was simply there, a few metres away, leaning slightly against the barrier near the Mercedes hospitality unit, sunglasses on, talking to someone she didn’t immediately register.
Lewis.
The first time since the stables. The first time since that night, since Barbados, since the photo, since the message she had sent with hands steadier than she had felt.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. A small tightening in her chest. A flicker low in her stomach that she refused to name. She forced her breathing to stay even, her steps to remain measured.
I’m not bothered, she told herself, the words rhythmic, almost rehearsed. We weren’t even anything. I’m not bothered.
They hadn’t had a title. They hadn’t made promises. There had been no public claim, no official beginning to justify an official end. If anything, this was clean. Simple.
He didn’t call, didn’t text, and most importantly he didn’t show up. The facts were easy to hold onto because they didn’t argue back.
Until he saw her.
She knew the exact second it happened because the air shifted. Because his body went still in that particular way she remembered too well. Because even across the distance, she felt the weight of his attention land on her like something physical.
She didn’t look at him immediately. She refused to give him that satisfaction. Instead, she stopped to speak to one of her engineers, nodding at something on a tablet screen, leaning in as if the numbers on it were suddenly the most fascinating thing she had ever encountered.
But eventually, instinct betrayed her.
She glanced up.
And there it was — that look.
It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t the detached, friendly acknowledgement of two drivers who had once been rumoured and nothing more.
It was intent, sharp, predatory.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t pretending not to stare. He was just… watching her. Like he was assessing distance. Like he was measuring how far she had moved and how easily he could close it.
Her pulse stumbled.
Sena knew that look. She had felt it on her skin before. In crowded rooms. On dance floors. In quiet spaces where the world had narrowed down to just the two of them and the tension between.
It had always undone her.
And that was what frightened her now, not him, not exactly, but the part of herself that responded to it.
Because that look didn’t feel like indifference. It didn’t feel like regret. It felt like claim.
She straightened unconsciously, chin lifting just slightly, the Vixen mask sliding into place with frightening ease. If he was going to look at her like prey, she would remind him that foxes had teeth.
But even as she held his gaze, she felt something treacherous stir inside her. A pull. Subtle but undeniable. Like the edge of a current beneath still water.
It felt like a trap. Not a brutal one. Not something forced or ugly.
A beautiful one.
The kind you walked into knowing exactly what it was, knowing exactly how it would end, and still convinced yourself you could handle it this time. The kind woven from memory and touch and unfinished sentences. The kind that whispered, just once more.
Her feet almost moved.
It was barely perceptible, a shift of weight, the slightest lean forward. As if some invisible thread between them had tightened, tugging her across the concrete.
He didn’t look away. His eyes darkened, as though he sensed it, that she was closer to stepping into his orbit than she wanted to admit.
Sena’s throat went dry.
She hated that he still had that effect on her. Hated that after everything her body remembered him with a loyalty her pride did not share.
I’m not bothered, she repeated, but it sounded weaker now. Less convincing.
Because if she truly wasn’t bothered, she wouldn’t be aware of the way his gaze traced her from head to toe. Wouldn’t notice the faint tightening of his jaw. Wouldn’t recognise that flicker of something possessive, something almost territorial, in the way he looked at her standing there in McLaren colours, sunlight catching in her hair.
It was dangerous.
It made her want to walk straight toward him.
To stand close enough to smell his cologne beneath the heat. Close enough to see whether his expression would soften or sharpen. Close enough to ask “Why?”
Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you call? Why did you decide for both of us?
Her body betrayed her again — one step. Just one.
And in that split second, before she could overthink it, she did something she hadn’t done since that night.
She felt small.
Not weak. Not helpless. Just… exposed. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. And then —
“Sena!”
The call cut through everything.
Sharp. Immediate. Real.
She blinked, the spell fracturing like glass dropped onto stone. One of the team members was waving from the garage entrance, urgency clear in his voice. “We need you in the car — run plan’s changed!”
The thread snapped.
She inhaled sharply, almost like surfacing from underwater. For half a second, she looked back at Lewis.
He hadn’t moved.
But something in his expression shifted a flicker of frustration? It was gone too quickly to define.
Sena held his gaze one last beat.
Then she turned away.
Each step back toward the garage felt deliberate, reclaiming ground she had almost surrendered. The noise of the paddock rushed back in, engines firing, radios crackling, voices overlapping. She slipped her helmet back on, letting the world narrow again to visor and breath and the clean logic of speed.
As she lowered herself into the cockpit, she whispered something silent and desperate to whatever god was listening.
Not today. Please, not today.
Because she knew with terrifying clarity that if she had taken three more steps, she would have walked straight into that trap.
Summary: Alina and Harry face the quiet aftermath of their first conversation in ten years, processing what was said — and what still wasn’t — as they return to their separate lives, both learning what it might mean to stay.
Author's note:.I know it’s been a while since the last update but still thank you so much for being patient and for still being here. <3
Alina stepped back onto the pavement with the taste of caramel still lingering on her tongue, the London afternoon pressing in around her as if nothing had shifted at all. Traffic lights changed with their usual mechanical indifference. A bus hissed past, brakes screeching softly as it pulled in at the stop, and somewhere further down the road a siren cut through the air — distant, unbothered, entirely uninterested in the quiet reckoning she had just left behind. She drew her coat tighter around herself and turned towards the hospital, spine straight, pace measured, folding the conversation carefully away inside her — not denied, not dismissed, simply set aside in the place she reserved for things that could not yet be solved. There would be time to think later. There always was. For now, she walked.
By the time evening arrived, the day had stretched itself thin.
The hospital hours dragged on endlessly, not because of chaos, but because of accumulation. Alina spent the next ten hours exactly where she always did, moving between paediatric rooms that felt too small for the fear they contained, her hands steady over bodies still growing into themselves, her voice deliberately softened when she spoke to parents whose eyes searched her face for certainty, for reassurance, for something solid to hold onto. Paediatric surgery did not allow for emotional distance; it demanded precision, yes — sharp, unforgiving accuracy — but it also demanded presence, the kind that stayed with you long after gloves were stripped away, charts were signed, and you told yourself the day was done. She consulted with specialists, adjusted surgical plans, reassessed children who were healing slower than expected and others who were recovering faster than anyone dared hope, each decision heavy because none of them were theoretical. These were futures still forming beneath her hands.
By the time the clock edged towards five, her body was a tight coil of held breath and disciplined posture, muscles aching beneath scrubs that no longer felt like fabric so much as a second skin she couldn’t quite remove. Exhaustion settled deep in her bones — not the kind that begged for sleep, but the kind that came from carrying responsibility without ever setting it down. Her mind refused to slow, replaying vitals, conversations, the careful calibrations of tone she’d made all day long, and even now fragments of the café tried to surface at the edges of her thoughts — the way Harry’s hands had shaken around his cup, the look in his eyes when he spoke — but she pushed them back. Later.
Edward was waiting by the exit, shifting his weight, coat half-zipped, phone idle in his hand, and when he saw her he lifted his head with an expression that mixed relief and familiarity. “Finally,” he said. “I was starting to think paediatrics swallowed you whole.” She shot him a tired, sharp look. “You say that like it isn’t my entire job.” He grinned and fell into step beside her, shrugging. “You disappear in there. Like you merge with the ward.” She didn’t deny it.
Outside, the cold London air bit at her cheeks — sharp, clean, bracing — and she welcomed the sting for the way it grounded her, reminded her there was a world beyond fluorescent lights and measured breaths. They walked to the car in companionable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling, the silence of people who understood what it meant to leave parts of themselves behind at work and pick them up again later, if at all.
The flat greeted her with the familiar smell of stale coffee and leftover takeaway, not elegant but honest, lived-in in a way that felt forgiving. Matilda and Joan were sprawled across the sofa beneath heavy blankets, limbs tangled in shared exhaustion, a bowl of popcorn sitting between them mostly untouched while the television murmured in the background, more atmosphere than entertainment. Joan lifted a hand without looking away. “You’re back.” “Yeah,” Alina said quietly. “Finally.” Matilda stretched, yawning. “How was today?”
Alina paused — just long enough to be noticeable. Edward caught it instantly, freezing halfway through shrugging off his coat. “Oh no. That pause is never good.” She blinked at him, feigning innocence. “What pause?” “The one where something happened and you’re pretending it didn’t,” he said. “Out with it.” She rolled her eyes, but the faint smile that surfaced betrayed her, and instead of answering she moved into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and let the moment stretch — not avoidance, just control. “I had coffee with Harry,” she said, carefully casual.
The room reacted at once. Matilda bolted upright. “You did what?” Joan dropped the blanket entirely. “Sit down. Now. Start from the beginning.” Before Alina could respond, the front door swung open and Victoria stumbled in, cheeks flushed from the cold, scarf slipping loose from her shoulders. “Remind me why I thought cardiology was a good idea,” she groaned. “I should’ve been a florist. No codes. Just flowers.” She stopped short, taking in the room. “Why do you all look like something detonated?” “Alina had coffee with Harry,” Matilda said flatly. Victoria froze, then decisively said, “I need a drink,” and Edward passed her a glass of wine as if it had been rehearsed.
All eyes turned back to Alina. She finally sat, folding her legs beneath her, glass steady in her hands, taking a sip before speaking — not because she needed it, but because it anchored her. She explained how Harry had run into her at the club, how he’d said he wanted to talk, how he hadn’t sounded rehearsed, how flowers had arrived at the hospital, and how eventually they’d met at the café near work. They leaned in instinctively as she spoke. She told them it had been awkward at first, painfully so, that he hadn’t known where to look and she hadn’t known which version of him she was sitting across from, but that eventually he’d started talking — and for the first time in years, they actually had.
Victoria’s voice softened when she asked what he’d said, and Alina hesitated, not because she couldn’t remember, but because the words still carried weight. She told them he’d apologised, that he hadn’t wanted her to see him fall apart, that disappearing had felt easier than explaining, and silence settled over the room, heavy but unhurried. Edward exhaled slowly, calling it devastating. Matilda admitted she hadn’t realised they’d been that close. Joan squeezed Alina’s hand and told her she’d deserved more than silence.
When Victoria asked what happened next, Alina stared into her glass and admitted she didn’t know. Her voice stayed steady, but something beneath it shifted as she spoke about the anger, the years she’d thought he’d simply stopped caring, the times she’d blamed herself and wondered if she’d asked for too much while he’d been trying to survive. She swallowed and said that now she understood it hadn’t been about her at all — he’d been hurting, and he hadn’t known how to let her in.
No one rushed to fix it. No one tried to make it neat. Matilda reminded her she was allowed to feel conflicted. Edward said understanding didn’t erase damage. Joan told her that closure didn’t mean she owed him anything — only that she got to decide what happened next. Alina nodded slowly. She hadn’t decided yet, but she felt held — not fixed, not pushed, just seen.
The night softened after that. Edward launched into a story about a Tinder date so catastrophic it bordered on fiction, Matilda recounted a battle with a scrub nurse and a surgical complication that refused to cooperate, and laughter crept back into the flat, tentative at first, then real. Alina laughed with them, even as part of her remained unfinished, knowing the conversation with Harry wasn’t over and that there were still things left to say and feelings she hadn’t yet allowed herself to fully touch.
But for now, surrounded by people who stayed, she let herself rest in the moment, and for the first time in a long while she didn’t feel alone — a quiet certainty she knew she could carry back with her tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Harry stumbled into his house, letting the door fall shut behind him with a dull click that echoed louder than it should have. He crossed the entryway on autopilot, dropped his keys into the ceramic dish by the door, and stood there for a second too long, as if waiting for something else to happen — some noise, some interruption, something to fill the sudden quiet. Nothing did. The silence pressed in, thick and uninvited, settling into the corners of the room. He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering briefly before unlocking the screen, already knowing what he was looking for.
The Sidemen group chat was blowing up, messages stacked in layers from earlier in the afternoon, names flashing faster than he could read them. He scrolled once, then typed.
The steakhouse was tucked away on a quiet downtown corner, dimly lit and unassuming, the kind of place that felt deliberately removed from the rest of the city. Inside, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of grilled meat, the low hum of voices blending into something almost soothing. No cameras. No fans. No questions. Just familiarity contained within four walls, safe and private.
They slid into a large leather booth at the back, shoulders brushing as they settled in, jackets shrugged off and draped carelessly beside them. Pints were already waiting, condensation gathering and dripping onto the table, rings forming beneath the glasses. Burgers, ribs, fries followed soon after — indulgent, excessive, comforting. The leather cracked softly beneath their weight, the low amber light casting warm halos over worn wood, making the table feel smaller, the space more intimate, like a pocket cut out of the night just for them.
Simon raised his glass first, grin wide and unapologetic. “To Harry,” he announced, voice thick with teasing pride, “for finally growing a pair and talking to her.”
The reaction was immediate and loud. Cheers erupted. Fries were flung recklessly. JJ whooped like they’d just won something. Ethan banged the table, laughing, the sound sharp and bright.
Harry rolled his eyes but lifted his glass anyway, smiling despite himself. The rim was cold against his lip. He drank, then set it down with a quiet thunk, exhaling slowly, as if trying — and failing — to ease the tight knot still lodged in his chest.
As the food arrived and the first edge of hunger dulled, the energy shifted. The laughter softened, conversation slowing, looping back — inevitably — to her. To Alina. To Nina. Her name sounded different spoken aloud, like something that had existed privately for too long and was now being tested in open air. None of them, until a week ago, had even known she existed.
“So what did you say?” Josh asked, leaning in, curiosity overtaking disbelief. “After all this time, what do you even start with?”
Harry pushed a fry around his plate, watching it drag a red line through ketchup. “I told her the truth,” he said finally. “No excuses. Just… why I disappeared. Why I ghosted her. I didn’t ask for anything. I just told her everything.” He paused, throat tightening slightly. “She let me say it all. Even the ugly parts. She didn’t interrupt.”
A brief silence followed. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.
“She said we’d take it one day at a time,” he added, a half-smile tugging at his mouth — fragile, uncertain — like he didn’t quite believe he’d been given even that much.
JJ snorted. “Sounds like you’re on probation, mate.”
“Feels like it,” Harry replied, the laugh that followed softer than usual, not quite reaching his eyes. His thumb tapped against the side of his glass, rhythmic, restless.
Then something shifted.
Josh leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, voice lowering into something more real. “Can I ask something?”
Harry looked up. “Sure.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell us about her?”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure where to look. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to,” he said slowly. “I just… couldn’t.”
“Why?” Freya asked, gently.
He looked down at his hands, fingers flexing once before stilling. “Because she wasn’t a story I wanted to share. She was… mine. The part of my life that existed before all this.” He gestured vaguely at the table, at the world they now lived in. “Before the channel. Before fans. Before cameras in my face. She knew me when I was just… me.”
The silence that followed was unhurried. No one rushed to fill it.
Then Faith spoke, carefully. “Harry… you know it’s been years, right? She didn’t stop living when you left.”
He glanced up. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying…” Faith hesitated, then continued, voice steady. “What if she moved on?”
The words landed hard, cracking something open in his chest. Ethan shifted beside him, clearly wanting to step in, not quite knowing how.
“I’m not saying it to be cruel,” Faith added. “You said it yourself — she’s beautiful. Brilliant. A surgeon, for God’s sake. You really think no one else has been in love with her? That no one else showed up when you didn’t?”
Harry hadn’t let himself think about it. Not fully. And now that he was, his chest felt too tight, like something heavy had settled there and refused to move.
“What if she has someone else?” he asked, voice rougher now.
“Then you respect it,” Ethan said immediately, firm and unwavering. “If you care about her, that’s non-negotiable.”
Harry nodded slowly, fingers curling around the base of his glass. He didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to.
Simon leaned back, arms crossed, studying him quietly. “If you want to be in her life now,” he said, “you’ve got to show her that.”
“Do you think I even deserve that chance?” Harry asked.
No one answered straight away. The question lingered, unresolved, heavy in the space between them.
Eventually, Josh spoke. “Not automatically. But maybe. If you mean it.”
The conversation eased after that, drifting towards safer ground. JJ complained loudly. Arguments sparked over nothing of consequence. Laughter returned, filling the booth again.
But Harry stayed quieter than usual. He smiled when expected, nodded along, but his mind was elsewhere — still with her, still circling what-ifs. What if someone else had been there during those years of silence? What if she’d found someone steady, someone who didn’t run? What if she was happy?
Would he still try?
Could he be selfish enough to hope she wasn’t?
And more than anything — what would he do if it really was too late?
Because now they all knew.
Alina wasn’t just a girl from his past. She wasn’t a college sweetheart or a summer fling. She was the cornerstone of a life he almost had — the version of himself that existed before the noise, before the chaos, before the world knew his name. She was the ghost he’d carried quietly all this time, and in hiding her, he’d made her invisible — not just to his friends, but to himself.
And maybe — just maybe — he hadn’t missed every train.
Maybe one still waited.
And if it didn’t?
He would still be there.
Because this time, he wouldn’t disappear.
Later that night, when Harry finally made it home and climbed into bed, the unease followed him there, settling in alongside him as naturally as the dark. The flat was quiet in the way it always was when he returned alone — not peaceful, just empty — and he moved through it on autopilot, switching off lights, setting his phone face-down on the bedside table, pulling the duvet up around himself with the same habitual motions he’d repeated a hundred times before. When he lay back, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, familiar and unremarkable, offering no comfort and no resistance either. Sleep, predictably, did not come.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the slow movement of shadows cast by passing headlights outside, the room breathing softly around him as the night stretched on. Time passed, though his thoughts did not move with it. They circled instead, drifting inevitably back to Alina, to the way she had looked earlier that day — beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with effort, strong in a way that came from having endured and survived. There had been something guarded about her, a carefulness he hadn’t remembered but now recognised, visible in the way her arms had folded loosely across her chest, not defensive exactly, but protective, as if she had learned somewhere along the way that some things were better kept close.
He thought about her smile — how sparingly she’d offered it, how it appeared and disappeared again like something tested rather than given freely — and about the way she chose her words with intention, measuring them before letting them land, never saying more than she meant. There was a discipline to her now, an economy of expression that spoke of years spent holding herself together, and it struck him that he’d noticed all of this without ever really asking her about it.
Slowly, uncomfortably, another thought surfaced.
He had barely asked her anything.
The realisation settled in his chest with a dull, unyielding weight as he replayed the conversation piece by piece, seeing it clearly now — how much space he had taken up, how focused he’d been on explaining himself, on justifying the silence, on laying his guilt bare as if that alone might somehow balance the years he’d been absent. He hadn’t asked about her friends. He hadn’t asked about her work beyond the surface. He hadn’t asked about the life she’d built in the decade he hadn’t been part of. He hadn’t asked if there was someone else. He hadn’t asked if she was happy.
The truth of it was hard to swallow precisely because it was familiar. He had been selfish before — not deliberately cruel, not malicious — but centred, consumed by his own fear and confusion, convinced that his inner chaos excused the silence he left behind. And maybe, lying there in the dark, he had to admit that part of him was still like that, still instinctively focused inward when things grew difficult.
But another part of him — quieter, steadier — was learning.
He rolled onto his side, the sheets rustling softly, eyes finally closing though sleep still refused him, and in the absence of distraction something solid began to form beneath the regret. Not dramatic. Not grand. Just real. If she gave him another chance — any kind of chance — he wouldn’t waste it talking about himself. He would listen. He would ask about her days, her work, the things that mattered to her now. He would learn who she had become without trying to map her back onto the girl he remembered, without pretending she had been waiting where he’d left her.
He would accept that she was not frozen in the past, not preserved in memory, and he would not expect her to fit neatly into the version of her he still carried. He would not ask for the past back, either — that version of them was gone, and pretending otherwise would only fracture something else that might still be salvageable. Instead, he would try to build something new, something fragile perhaps, but honest, starting from where they were now rather than where they had once been when everything felt simpler and the world hadn’t yet intervened.
Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe it wouldn’t unfold the way he hoped. Maybe she would decide that one day at a time ended somewhere he wasn’t meant to follow.
But for the first time in a long while, Harry realised he was willing to try anyway — not to erase what he’d done, not to reclaim something he hadn’t protected, but to become someone who would not disappear again. And maybe — just maybe — she would let him.
And if she didn’t?
He would still know that this time, finally, he had learned how to stay.
"I've been the archer, I've been the prey, Screaming: Who could ever leave me, darling?, But who could stay."
『⩇⩇:⩇⩇』 • masterlist • The Archer Playlist
✩ smau / real life
✩ lewis hamilton x driver oc
⬅previous • next➡
SUMMARY: Sena finally wins her championship and celebrates to the max and it seems Lewis was right about her surprises both hit a place in her she never expected
Warnings: explicit sexual content, misogynistic rumours, language, alcohol use.
Word count: 8.2 k
Author’s Note: This one is a long one but it was so worth it might be my favourite chapter so far I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did while writing let me know what you think love you all and I am sorry in advance <3
Just a quick heads-up: this story is 100% fictional. I’ve twisted timelines, switched up careers, and added some characters to tell the story I want to tell. It’s all vibes, emotions, and a whole lot of imagination.
✧ Chapter 11 ✧
One more lap.
Just one more. The thought kept echoing in Sena’s mind, barely contained beneath the roar of the engine, the blur of color along the straight. This was it. One minute more and everything she’d ever wanted, everything she’d ever fought for—burned for—would be hers.
She could feel the championship humming just beneath her skin, wild and electric, like some dream coming true. And for the first time, the hope didn’t feel dangerous; it felt…almost beautiful.
With every second, that hope—fragile and persistent—grew a little bolder. The finish line was drawing closer, its promise so dazzling she could almost forget her fear. Light, noise, and history blurred together, and for once, the impossible didn’t seem so far away.
And then, it was done. Just like that, the thing she’d spent a lifetime chasing was hers. Sena laughed—shaky, breathless, hardly daring to believe it. For a moment, she let herself have it: the pride, the joy, the sense that maybe she could have nice things. Just this once, she let herself believe in a happy ending. Even if it still terrified her.
She didn’t remember climbing out of the car, or who reached her first. Later, all she could recall was her father’s arms wrapped tightly around her, the rough press of his lips against her hair, the sticky blur of sweat and tears on her face. She was sure she didn’t look like the “cool girl” or the Vixen the media made her out to be—none of that armor had survived the checkered flag. In those first moments, she let herself be small again, just a daughter held in her father’s embrace.
Eventually, the noise and color of the paddock swept her onward. She drifted through the whirlwind—marshals, mechanics, friends—her chest tight with a joy she hardly dared trust. Then came the familiar route: the scale, the weight checks, the waiting, surrounded by the other drivers. That was where she found Lewis, helmet off, still flushed from the race. Their eyes met across the room, and for a heartbeat, she wanted nothing more than to cross the space between them, let herself be gathered up in his praise, to let him see the part of her that belonged only to him.
Instead, she forced herself to keep it light, to offer the same professional hug she’d given to the others, a careful nod, a brief embrace that could be explained away in every photo. But as Lewis leaned in, his words found her ear, low and just for her: “I’m proud of you.” Something in his voice—warm, rough, and achingly sincere—sent a tremor through her. Even in this place, surrounded by eyes and noise, the meaning slipped quietly beneath her skin, and she carried it with her into the chaos that followed.
Liked by lewishamilton, georgerussell63, and others
senafox Still feels like a dream.
Cheers to the late nights, the early flights, the miracles, the meltdowns, and thank you to everyone who never stopped believing, even when I did. We did it. 🏆🧡✨
PPS: No, you can’t touch it. (Yes, that means you, Faith.)
(and yes, the trophy’s coming to bed with me tonight. non-negotiable.)
View All comments
lewishamilton: Beyond proud of you, Fox. History made.🖤
faith.cartier: You’re still not faster than me on foot, but damn, you did that. 🔥
⤷faith.cartier: I love you btw I feel like a proud parent!!!!!!
livysmith: She races, she wins, she parties. You killed it, babe x
carmenmmundt: Queen of the grid, queen of the party 💅🏼
caradelevingne: Now THAT is how you win. You look unreal 🧡
lilymhe: Gorgeous, gorgeous girls win world titles 💖
selenagomez: Obsessed with this energy, keep shining Sena!
The party was in full swing, the kind that seemed to buzz right down to the bones—her name echoing through the air, friends lifting their glasses, the room shot through with that golden, feverish joy that only came with winning. Sena was in pure, unfiltered bliss, swept along by the current of it all. And Lewis—Lewis was yet to leave her side. For once, neither of them seemed to care about the stares, the what-ifs, or the inevitable morning-after whispers. The place was safe enough to let themselves breathe, to let their guard slip just a little. There was no need for strategies or glances over the shoulder. It was just them, heat and music and a victory that belonged to her.
She felt him behind her, a constant, grounding presence. On the dance floor, her back pressed flush against his chest, the sequinned dress leaving her skin bare and inviting—God, he couldn’t keep his hands away. The thump of the bass was nothing compared to the press of his palm on the small of her back, the brush of his lips against the delicate curve of her neck. He was saying nothing, but his hands and his mouth said everything. The way his fingers teased at the open back of her dress, slipping lower every time she moved—she couldn’t help but arch into him, pretending not to notice how deliberate he was being. If she were honest, she loved it; loved the way his touch made her feel as though she was something precious, something rare. The air between them felt heavy with something unspoken, barely contained by the pulse of the music and the noise around them.
Then he noticed her glass was empty. His voice was a low murmur against her skin, the edge of a grin audible in every word. “A champion shouldn’t have an empty glass,” he whispered into her neck, lips brushing the spot that always made her shiver. His hand slid down the length of her arm as he reached for her glass, trailing heat in his wake, his touch lingering a moment too long to be innocent. He didn’t even bother hiding it, and she didn’t bother pretending she minded.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, already starting towards the bar. He glanced over his shoulder with that look—half promise, half warning—leaving her dizzy, skin tingling where he’d touched.
She barely had a second to catch her breath before Faith sidled up, eyes still locked on Sena with that familiar, mischievous gleam. “Well, that’s exactly how friends act, isn’t it, Liv?” Faith asked, voice pitched high with mock innocence but laced with meaning.
Liv wasn’t slow to catch on. “Oh yes, that’s how we always dance,” she replied, snorting. She slid behind Faith, arms winding around her waist, the pair of them now doing an exaggerated impression of Sena and Lewis. It was so absurd that Sena couldn’t help but laugh, cheeks hot, the last of her defences slipping away.
She raised her brow at them, refusing to be embarrassed. “Jealous you lot haven’t got anyone to dance with you like that?” she teased, the confidence coming easy now, sweetened by champagne and victory.
Faith pulled a face. “Please, pff. I was just trying to figure out when did coworkers start grinding on each other on the dance floor ”
Liv snorted. “The day I let “just a friend” get that close to me in public, is the day i’ve lost the plot.”
Sena just smirked, feeling wild and untouchable for once. “It's complicated.”
“Try us,” Faith shot back, winking. “But seriously, Sen, since when did you and Lewis get so…,” she made a vague gesture with her hands, “brazen?”
Liv jumped in, eyes dancing. “Yeah, when did you start doing PDA?”
Sena shrugged, unable to hide her grin, feeling the weight of their curiosity like a crown rather than a burden. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, mock-sweet, her heart still hammering.
Lewis returned before they could grill her further, two glasses in hand and that devilish glint back in his eye. He pressed a fresh drink into her hand, his fingers brushing hers, and leaned in just enough that only she could hear. “Did I miss anything?” he murmured, lips close to her ear.
She gave him a look. “Just Faith and Olivia proving why comedy wasn’t in the path for either of them”
He smirked, his hand settling possessively on her waist, fingers splaying just beneath the open line of her dress. The spark between them was tangible, a secret language in every touch, every look.
As they drifted back into their own world, Faith and Liv exchanged a glance, both shaking their heads in awe and amusement. “Honestly, I can’t decide if I want what they have or if I just want to slap them,” Faith muttered, just loud enough for Sena to hear.
“Bit of both, I reckon,” Liv replied, raising her glass in Sena’s direction, grinning wickedly.
When Sena turned back to him, his attention was already fixed on her, unwavering. The music throbbed around them, bass heavy enough to feel in her bones, bodies moving and laughing and celebrating all around, but it might as well have been just the two of them standing there. She tilted her chin up, closing the distance until their noses were almost brushing, her smile slow and deliberate.
“Well,” she said, voice low, playful, “this is an amazing party, I’ll give you that. But I fear there’s something missing.”
Lewis frowned slightly, brows drawing together as his gaze drifted past her shoulder, scanning the club as though he might actually spot whatever invisible thing she was accusing him of forgetting. “What is it?” he asked, distracted, already halfway to solving the problem.
A soft laugh slipped out of her, warm and teasing. “My gift,” she said simply. “You still haven’t given me my gift.”
He turned back to her then, full attention snapping into place, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like you’re going to have to wait a little longer for that,” he replied calmly.
Her mouth fell open in exaggerated offence. “Why is that?” she asked, her tone slipping into something almost petulant. “You didn’t forget it, right? Because I was promised an exceptional gift, and I do expect it.” She stepped back just enough to press her finger into the centre of his chest, eyes narrowed as if she were genuinely scolding him.
Lewis bit back a laugh. Something about the way she was looking at him told him laughing would be a mistake. “No,” he said evenly, “I didn’t forget. It’s waiting for you back home.”
That only deepened her confusion. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he could’ve bought that couldn’t be brought with him. She barely had time to think about it before his hand slid firmly around her wrist, tugging her away from the crowd.
“Lewis—” she started, but he was already leading her towards the stairs tucked discreetly to the side of the club, the ones marked VIP only. The music dulled as they climbed, replaced by the distant hum of bass through walls and the soft echo of their footsteps.
“What are we doing here?” she asked as he pulled her into one of the private rooms and shut the door behind them, locking it with a decisive click.
When he turned back to her, the look in his eyes had shifted completely. Gone was the relaxed amusement, replaced by something darker, more intent. He leaned back against the door for a moment, arms folded as he watched her, taking her in slowly—the open back of her dress, the exposed line of her spine, the way her shoulders rose and fell with anticipation.
“Well,” he said quietly, pushing himself off the door and moving towards her with unhurried steps, “until I give you your actual present… how about I give you another one first?”
The way he said it sent heat curling low in her stomach. He stalked towards her with deliberate confidence, like a predator who knew exactly where his prey would end up. Sena instinctively stepped back, pulse quickening, until the backs of her knees hit the couch in the centre of the room and she dropped down onto it with a soft gasp.
“Lewis,” she warned, though there was no real protest in it.
He stopped just in front of her, hands braced on either side of her legs, crowding her space. “You looked so good the whole night” he murmured, voice rough, low enough to vibrate straight through her. “Grinding on me on the dance floor, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
She lifted her chin, defiant even as her breath came faster. “What do i do to you exactly Lewis” His name softening with her voice curling around him.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. “You know exactly what you do,” he said, one hand sliding up the back of her thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make her inhale sharply. “ But if you insist on hearing it from me fine”
His touch grew bolder, palms roaming over bare skin, thumbs tracing slow, maddening lines. She reached for him instinctively, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until his body was pressed flush against hers.
“I love it when you look at me like this,” he murmured against her ear, teeth grazing her skin. She shivered, heat pooling between her legs as his hands slid lower, grip firm and unapologetic. “Like what?” she asked breathlessly, though she already knew.
“Like nothing else exists. Like it’s just me.” He said then, he kissed her—hard, claiming, all tongue and teeth—one hand tangling in her hair as the other pushed her back against the couch cushions. The kiss left no room for doubt, no space to breathe properly, and she melted into it with a soft sound she didn’t bother to suppress.
The couch creaked beneath them as Lewis pressed her back, hands already everywhere, greedy, as if he’d been starving for this for days. He kissed her as if he could devour every unspoken thing between them, every doubt and every ache, and she let him, melting under the force of it, her hands sliding up to fist in the back of his shirt, holding on for dear life.
He dragged his mouth from hers only to nose along her jaw, breath hot against her skin, lips catching at the delicate shell of her ear. “You want to hear what you do to me,” he muttered, voice rough, worshipful, all the edges of control gone soft and unguarded. “Standing out there in that dress, dancing on me all night and you’re not even trying, do you?”
Sena shivered, her laughter curling into a gasp as he scraped his teeth along her throat, the sensation sharp and sweet. letting her head fall back, giving him room, her pulse pounding against his mouth.
He huffed a low laugh, but there was nothing amused about it—just heat, just the need that always seemed to burn a little too hot, a little too wild between them. He slid his hands down her body, over her hips, around to the back of her thighs, bunching her dress up with shameless urgency. “All fucking night, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you.” he broke off, dragging her forward on the couch so her legs fell open for him, the bare skin of her thighs exposed to the cool air.
She made a sound—half-daring, half-plea—as he knelt between her knees, hands braced on either side of her, his eyes tracing every inch of her like he was memorising her shape. The air felt thick with anticipation, charged with all the things neither of them said. She reached out, curling her fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at her.
“Then ruin me,” she said, a dare in her voice.
Lewis’s expression shifted, darkened, softened all at once. “Yeah?” He leaned in, kissing her again—slower, deeper, tongue searching, coaxing—until she was breathless, clutching at him, hips rocking up into his. He caught her mouth between his teeth, biting down just enough to leave a sting, and she gasped, her body arching into his touch.
His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs tracing maddening circles along the soft skin. He tugged at her knickers—lace, damp already—and eased them down, dragging them over her knees, her calves, then letting them drop to the floor. She felt exposed, raw, and beautiful in a way she hadn’t let herself believe for a long time.
He sat back on his heels, just looking at her, his eyes dark and glassy, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. “You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, reverence threading through every syllable, as if this was a prayer.
Sena flushed, her hands fluttering uselessly at her sides, unsure whether to cover herself or drag him closer. “Don’t just stare,” she breathed, her voice cracking open with need.
Lewis grinned, the edge of it wicked and tender at once. “Bossy, are we?” But he obeyed, his hand sliding between her legs, fingers parting her, teasing, stroking through slick heat. She moaned, hips bucking, her head falling back against the cushions.
He leaned in to kiss her neck, his voice barely more than a rumble. “Always so wet for me,” he said, a possessive note there, the rough edge of pride. He pressed a finger inside her, slow, savouring the way she clenched around him, then added another, curling them just right until she was writhing, desperate for more.
Sena tried to pull him closer, her nails biting into his shoulders, but he just laughed softly against her skin, tormenting her with slow, deep strokes, his thumb circling her clit in lazy, maddening spirals. “I could do this all night,” he said, half a threat, half a promise. “Just watch you fall apart for me.”
Her breath came in ragged little gasps, her thighs trembling as he worked her higher. “Please—Lewis, I—”
“Shh,” he soothed, pressing his mouth to her ear, his free hand pushing the dress higher, baring the whole length of her back. He kissed every inch he could reach—her shoulder, the dip of her spine, the fluttering pulse at the base of her neck. “Let go for me, love. Want to feel you come on my fingers before I fuck you. Let me see my Sena.”
His words broke her open, she tensed, hips stuttering, pleasure cresting through her in a rush, her cry muffled by his mouth as he swallowed the sound. He didn’t let up, fingers coaxing every last wave from her until she was shuddering, boneless beneath him.
He withdrew his hand slowly, licking his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving hers. “God, I could live off you,” he whispered, almost reverent, and then he was unbuckling his belt with one hand, shoving his trousers down just far enough. His cock was already hard, flushed, leaking—he stroked himself once, twice, just to see her watch him, then lined up at her entrance, teasing her with the thick head.
“Ready for me?” he asked, his voice rough, nearly undone.
She nodded, unable to form words, her whole body aching for him. He pushed in slowly, stretching her inch by inch, both of them groaning at the feeling, at the impossibility of it. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like he could never get enough.
“You’re mine,” he said, not a question this time, but a statement—a truth as solid as the walls around them. “Only mine.”
“Yes,” she whispered, her hands sliding up to cradle his face, her thumb brushing his cheek as he began to move, slow at first, every thrust purposeful, claiming. He worshipped her with his mouth, trailing kisses along her cheek, her lips, her collarbone, each one a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.
He fucked her with a steady, relentless rhythm, rough enough to leave her marked, gentle enough to make her feel cherished. His hands found her wrists, pinning them above her head, his gaze locked to hers. “Look at me,” he commanded, low and desperate. “Want to see you. Want to see everything you feel.”
She held his gaze, letting him see it all her pleasure, her need, her utter surrender. He groaned, hips snapping harder, deeper, the sound of skin on skin loud in the hazy half-light. Every thrust pushed her higher, every word from his lips—filthy, loving, pleading—sent her spinning.
“You’re everything,” he gasped, voice cracking.
Sena arched up to meet him, her ankles locking around his waist, her body giving in to him completely. The world faded to nothing but the slick slide of their bodies, the sound of his name on her lips, the heady scent of sex and champagne and sweat.
He let one hand drop to her throat, not squeezing, just holding her, grounding them both in the moment. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispered, a challenge and a promise. “You like knowing you’re the only one who gets me like this.”
She whimpered, nodding, her voice gone. He smiled, soft and savage all at once, and bent to kiss her—slow, deep, like he was tasting forever.
It built slowly, inexorably, every thrust winding her tighter, the coil of pleasure ready to snap. Lewis reached down, thumb rubbing desperate circles over her clit, and she shattered body shaking, pleasure so intense she saw stars, her cry swallowed by his mouth as he claimed her again and again.
He followed her over the edge, his body tensing, cock pulsing deep inside her, his breath coming in ragged, broken sobs. He stayed there, shuddering, until the aftershocks faded, then slumped against her, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to her shoulder, her collarbone, her cheeks.
For a while, they just breathed together, tangled and quiet, the world outside forgotten. Lewis shifted, easing out of her gently, then gathered her up in his arms, pulling her into his lap so her legs draped over his thighs.
He held her like something precious, one hand stroking her hair, the other tracing slow, lazy patterns along her back. “You’re something special, you know that?” he whispered into her hair. “All this time, didn’t know I could feel like this.”
Sena hummed, nuzzling into his neck, letting herself feel soft and wanted, cherished in a way that still scared her. “You’re soppy,” she teased, but her voice was all affection, her arms holding him tight.
He laughed, low and content, nipping at her ear. “.I meant what I said you earned everything. Let me spoil you a bit.” He pulled back to look at her, fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Happy championship.”
She snorted, pressing a kiss to the line of his jaw. “If this is what spoiling feels like, I could get used to it.”
Lewis grinned, and for a moment, the weight of the world fell away, leaving only them raw, tangled, alive.
Liked by lewishamilton, taylorswift, and others
senafox The only thing I like more than champagne is trouble. Had both last night. 🥂🦋
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faith.cartier: The only thing more dangerous than the back of that dress is the person wearing it. 🦋 I’m still finding sequins in my hair.
livysmith: I blacked out after photo 2, but sure it was a banger.
centralcee: Now you’re just showing off…
lilymhe: Obsessed with this dress, obsessed with you
carmenmmundt: Are we sure this wasn’t just a ploy to get everyone obsessed with your back? Because it worked.
It had been a week since the party, but Sena was still riding the high, the electric buzz of happiness fizzing somewhere beneath her skin. Her London flat was littered with flowers and half-opened cards—remnants of a life that finally, gloriously, felt as though it belonged to her. She ought to have been suspicious, wary of good fortune piling up like this, but she was too drunk on it all to care. For the first time in a long while, she felt… lucky.
She was sprawled out on her rug, one socked foot idly nudging Beans, who was doing her best to gnaw the ear off a battered plush toy. The late afternoon sunlight slanted in through the windows, painting the floor golden, and Sena found herself grinning at nothing in particular. That was when her phone started buzzing, Lewis’s name flashing across the screen. Without thinking, she swiped to answer. It was so natural now—calls and messages bouncing between them, sometimes all day, sometimes just a quick check-in. The way things slipped into normalcy when you weren’t watching.
“Hello, sir,” she said, her tone mock-formal, but warm as ever.
“What are you up to?” he replied, voice already edged with that familiar fondness.
“Not much, just losing to Beans in a very serious wrestling match,” she said, watching the puppy’s tail thump in agreement. “What about you?”
There was a pause, the sound of him shifting. “Well, then you’d better change, because I’m downstairs waiting for you.”
She blinked, the words not quite computing at first. “What?” Her voice leapt an octave, breathless with surprise. She pushed herself up from the floor, Beans scrambling after her, and hurried to the window, yanking the curtain aside to peek down at the street. Sure enough, there was Lewis’s car parked below, gleaming even in the dull winter light.
“What are you doing here?” she called, her heart stuttering somewhere between nerves and excitement.
He laughed, the sound so easy it made her want to laugh too. “ Do you still want your gift?”
“Of course I do!” she shot back, a little too eager.
“Then hurry up,” he said. He hung up before she could get another word in.
Sena stood frozen for a second, phone pressed to her ear, and then the panic set in. She called him back immediately. “What do I wear?” she demanded.
“Just something comfortable. Come on, I’m waiting and so is your gift,” he repeated, his tone gentle but teasing. But she cut the call before he could say anything else, refusing to give him the satisfaction of making her more flustered.
What followed was a flurry, she dashed to her room, throwing on black leggings and a fuzzy, oversized light brown jumper, barely stopping to check her reflection before grabbing her keys. Beans looked mournful at being left behind, but Sena paused to ruffle her ears. “I’ll bring you back a treat,” she promised, blowing the puppy a kiss before she ran out.
When she reached the car, Lewis was already out of the driver’s seat, leaning against the bonnet with that maddeningly calm smile, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He looked so at home, here on her street, like he belonged in all the corners of her life she’d tried to keep private. For half a second, she let herself imagine it always being like this, easy, domestic, ordinary.
He met her halfway, pressing a kiss to her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. She tried to steal another, already giddy, but he shook his head.
“Alright,” she said, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “Where is it? Where’s my gift?”
He just grinned, eyes flicking over her in a way that made her stomach swoop. “Not so fast. We have to go to it.”
She frowned, playful suspicion blooming. “Lewis, you didn’t buy me a house, did you?”
He laughed, full and real, a sound that made her want to laugh too. “No house.”
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms, but couldn’t stop her smile. “You’re annoying you know that.”
He stepped closer, catching her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “And you’re impatient. I told you, it’s a surprise. Trust me?”
She hesitated, only for a breath, then nodded. “I suppose I have to.”
“Good. Now, get in,” he said, brushing his hand over her hip as he guided her toward the passenger seat. “And no peeking when we get close.”
She snorted, sinking into the passenger seat. “What, are you going to blindfold me?”
He shot her a wicked look, shutting the door behind him before moving around to slide into the driver’s seat. “Tempting, but not today,” he replied, glancing over at her with a lopsided grin—already wearing that maddeningly smug smile that told her she was absolutely not getting another clue.
As he started the engine, the city blurred past the windows, Sena tried to keep her composure, fiddling absently with her rings, bouncing her knee. But she couldn’t help the way she kept glancing sideways at him, catching the light in his eyes, the warmth in his smile.
He looked at her now. “You look really happy, you know.”
She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity, the unexpected tenderness. “I am,” she admitted, voice so soft she almost didn’t recognise it.
Lewis paused, as if committing the moment to memory, a strange look flickering in his eyes. For a heartbeat, something tense hovered between them something fragile and aching, like hope. He reached over, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw. “I like seeing you like this,” he murmured. “Wish I could keep you this happy. Always.”
He felt it then a protective urge so fierce it was almost physical. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms, shield her from the cold edges of the world, tuck her away somewhere safe where nothing ugly or sharp could ever touch her again. For one wild second, he imagined pressing pause on this day, stretching it out so the bubble of happiness she carried couldn’t ever burst.
And then, just as quickly, the feeling twisted in his chest, sharp and unsettling. The tiniest whisper of dread. He knew too well how life had a way of souring joy, of punishing people for loving anything too much. As he watched her—so alive, so hopeful—he felt that flicker of fear, the sense that maybe all this happiness was borrowed, precarious. Danger bells, silent but unmistakable, rang somewhere deep inside. If he could, he would have found a way to keep her safe not just from the world, but from fate itself.
But she was looking at him with such open anticipation, her trust shining right through all her doubts, and he couldn’t let the shadows in. Not yet. He smiled back, letting the fear recede into the background, determined—if only for today—to make her believe that sometimes, good things really could last.
The city fell away behind them, streetlights dwindling, urban edges replaced by hedgerows and ancient oaks, the kind of English countryside that seemed to breathe differently—slower, steadier, as if the rest of the world couldn’t touch it. Sena pressed her forehead to the window, watching the fields blur past, still peppering Lewis with half-serious, half-teasing protests about kidnappings and secret houses in the woods. He let her talk, answering with the odd dry quip, but mostly just listening, basking in the lilt of her voice, the easy way she let herself be excited for once. It was rare for her, this lightness. He felt it in his chest, fragile and precious.
When he finally pulled the car onto a gravel drive lined with old chestnut trees, she sat bolt upright, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “We’re not actually about to be murdered, are we?” she said, but the grin tugging at her lips gave her away.
He let out a real, unguarded laugh. “You’ve been watching too many documentaries. Don’t worry, you’re safe.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a flush on her cheeks now, bright with anticipation. “So dramatic,” she muttered, but her leg was bouncing, foot tapping out a restless, happy rhythm against the floor mat.
He loved her like this—unguarded, hopeful, letting herself believe in surprises. He killed the engine, silence falling around them, broken only by the soft nickering of horses from somewhere nearby.
She peered out into the gloom, then shot him a look, suspicious but undeniably thrilled. “You didn’t—”
He was already out of the car, rounding the bonnet to open her door for her. She tumbled out, impatient, scanning the scene—a cluster of stables, a long white fence, the air thick with the earthy, sweet scent of hay and winter mud.
Lewis took her hand without thinking, warm and steady. “Come on,” he said, tugging her gently towards the stables.
She broke free after a few steps, suddenly breaking into a half-run, boots thudding on the gravel, laughing breathlessly as she reached the barn ahead of him. He trailed after, taking in the way she glowed, how utterly alive she looked. It undid him, the depth of affection twisting in his chest so fast and sharp it was almost painful.
Sena paused in front of the stable door, turning back to him, breathless. “You got me a horse.”
He grinned, couldn’t help it. “Go on then, see for yourself.”
She slipped inside, the barn warm and dimly lit. There, in the first stall, stood a chestnut mare—sleek, eyes wide and gentle, a tiny blaze of white on her brow. The horse snorted softly, shifting her weight, and Sena just… stood there, stunned, for a heartbeat. Then she moved, crossing the straw-strewn floor in a few quick steps, hands already reaching out.
“She’s beautiful,” Sena whispered, voice wobbly with disbelief as she stroked the horse’s neck. “What’s her name?”
“Star,” Lewis said, voice low. “She’s yours. All yours.”
Sena let out a shaky laugh, glancing back at him over her shoulder, eyes shining with something he recognised as wonder. “You literally got me a horse. Like—who does that?”
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as his heart thundered. “Well, you told me once—when you were little, your dad’s girlfriend had horses. You said you loved them, but after they broke up, you never saw them again. I thought maybe… you deserved to have that again. Something just for you.”
She blinked, and for a moment he thought she might cry, but then she laughed again, quick and bright. She spun away from the horse, launching herself at him, arms flung around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance.
He caught her, held her tight. It was instinct, the need to anchor her joy, to hold onto this piece of happiness for both of them. He felt her fingers twist into his jacket, the warmth of her face pressed against his shoulder. He let himself close his eyes for a moment, breathing her in, letting the world fall away.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she murmured into his neck, each word soft and disbelieving, as if saying it might break the spell. “This is… I don’t even know what to say.”
Lewis found himself smiling, his own voice thick. “You don’t have to say anything. Just—let yourself have it, alright? Let yourself be happy.”
She pulled back a little, arms still draped around his neck. “You’re an idiot,” she said, but she was grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners. “A really, really lovely idiot.”
He grinned right back, hands sliding down her back to settle at her waist. “So… am I finally invited to your birthday, or what?”
She laughed, swatting his shoulder. “Yeah, alright, you’re invited. I don’t know what you are gonna do for my birthday, though. This is gonna be hard to top.”
For a moment, they just stood there, pressed close in the warm, dusty light of the stable, the horse nosing Sena’s hair as if sensing she was part of the story now. Lewis looked at her—her wild hair, flushed cheeks, the stubborn hope in her eyes—and felt, just for a heartbeat, that maybe he could keep her safe from anything. That maybe this happiness could last.
But even as he held her, a flicker of dread threaded through the joy—the memory of how easily the world could turn, how public things could sour, how rumours and ugly words could creep in and rot even the best moments. He didn’t let it show. He wouldn’t let himself ruin it, not now, not when she was so incandescently happy.
senafox posted on her story
The pub smelled like old wood and spilled beer and something fried that had soaked into the walls years ago and never quite left. Faith’s uncle had strung up fairy lights along the low beams, warm and uneven, the kind that made everything feel softer around the edges. Someone had dragged a speaker into the corner for karaoke, and there was a cake on the bar that leaned slightly to one side, already missing a slice. It was loud in the way only familiar places could be—voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, glasses clinking without ceremony.
This was where she always celebrated. Not Sena Fox, not the World Champion, not the girl whose name trended every other week. Just Sena. Just birthdays and bad singing and people who knew her before everything else.
She should have been perfectly happy. In many ways, she was. Faith had an arm slung around her shoulders for most of the night, Olivia kept refilling her glass whether she asked for it or not, and Tommy, another friend she knew since pre-school had already been banned from choosing karaoke songs after a particularly offensive rendition of something from the early 2000s. Sena laughed, genuinely laughed, her head tipped back, her cheeks warm from alcohol and affection and the safety of being unseen.
And yet—every few minutes—her eyes drifted to the door.
Not obviously. She was careful about that. Just a flicker of attention, a half-second too long whenever it opened. Habit, she told herself. Nothing more. He’d said he’d be there. He’d said, be ready for your surprise. Two days ago, casual and confident, as if it were a certainty rather than a promise.
She didn’t check her phone obsessively. That would’ve felt desperate. She let it sit on the table beside her drink, screen dark, face up. Every now and then it lit up with a message—from Faith’s cousin, from someone she’d raced with years ago, from a team group chat exploding with birthday emojis—and every time it wasn’t him, she swallowed the small, irrational pinch of disappointment and kept smiling.
The rumours had already been circulating for over a week.
She’d seen them, of course. It was impossible not to. One anonymous account had kicked it off, a screenshot of text with the word rumour slapped across the top like a flimsy shield.
Friend of mine was at Sena Fox’s championship party. Her and Lewis Hamilton were basically attached at the hip all night. Very touchy. Apparently disappeared together at one point.
That was all it took.
By morning, it had thousands of likes, threads splintering off in every direction. Some people dismissed it instantly—oh please, they say this about her with every driver—others leaned in hard, dissecting body language from grainy videos, replaying moments that had never been meant to matter.
Then came the uglier parts. The ones she scrolled past without slowing down, because she’d learned that pausing only gave them power.
Age gap’s disgusting.
Power dynamic’s insane.
Funny how she “comes back” to the paddock and suddenly she’s close with him.
Wouldn’t be shocked if that’s how she got the McLaren seat.
If she’s sleeping with him, who else is she sleeping with? Zak? Half the grid?
It was vile. Predictable. Exhausting.
And still—she hadn’t cared. Not really. Not in the way people expected her to. She knew the truth. She always had. She’d been doing this long enough to understand that the internet didn’t want facts; it wanted a story, preferably one that punished women for existing too confidently in public spaces.
They’d done this to her before. When she’d debuted. When she’d won. When she’d crashed. When she’d come back. Every milestone came with a cost, and she’d learned early on that letting it touch her would only hollow her out.
So she’d shrugged it off. Let Lewis shrug it off too, at least as far as she could see. In her mind, if it didn’t matter to her, why should it matter to him?
That belief sat comfortably—until it didn’t.
By eleven, he still hadn’t shown.
She hadn’t called again after the first attempt went unanswered. Pride, maybe. Or instinct. She refused to chase something that had promised to arrive on its own. Instead, she sang badly with Olivia, clapped along to Faith’s dramatic ballad, let someone smear icing across her cheek in a moment of chaos she would’ve normally shut down but didn’t tonight.
It was during a lull—when the music dipped, when people were catching their breath—that she picked up her phone again.
She didn’t mean to open Twitter. It was muscle memory more than curiosity, a reflex she’d built and never quite dismantled. The app loaded, the feed refreshed.
And there it was.
A photo. Clear. Cruel in its timing.
Lewis, unmistakable even in bad lighting, seated at a candlelit table somewhere warm and impossibly far away. A woman beside him—beautiful, model-beautiful, hand resting casually near his arm. The caption underneath didn’t speculate. It didn’t need to.
Lewis Hamilton spotted in Barbados tonight.
Tonight.
The photo loaded before she could think to stop it.
For a split second, her mind refused to make sense of it — Lewis’s face, unmistakable even in bad lighting, the warm glow of a restaurant, a woman’s hand resting too easily near his arm. Barbados. Tonight.
Something in her chest gave way all at once. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a clean, internal crack — like glass struck dead centre.
The noise of the pub fell away so abruptly it left a ringing behind. Laughter kept moving around her, someone shouted her name, a glass clinked against another — all of it happening at a distance, as if she’d stepped back from her own life without meaning to.
She didn’t scroll. She didn’t read the replies. She didn’t need to.
Lewis wasn’t coming.
People were already making comments on it.
So much for those rumours.
Guess that clears that up.
Y’all really dragged them both for nothing.
Knew it. No way he’d miss his girlfriend’s birthday if it were real.
Girlfriend.
The word landed wrong. Sharp. Uninvited.
She locked her phone and set it face down on the table with deliberate care, as though placing it gently might somehow soften what it had shown her. Her chest felt tight, but her face—her face stayed calm. Neutral. Practiced.
Faith slid into the seat beside her, watching her with that too-perceptive look she reserved for moments like this. “You alright?” she asked, softly enough that no one else could hear. “You’ve been checking the door all night.”
Sena shook her head quickly, the motion almost too fast. “No,” she said. “I’m good. Just—got distracted.”
“Are we expecting someone?” Olivia asked from across the table, eyebrows raised, half-teasing, half-serious.
Sena didn’t look up. “No,” she repeated, firmer this time. “No one.”
They exchanged a glance but didn’t push. They never did—not when it mattered.
Karaoke started up again, louder than before. Someone grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet, and she went. She sang. She laughed. She let herself be hugged and spun and celebrated like nothing had shifted beneath her ribs.
But inside, something quiet and awful settled.
I should have known, she thought, the sentence looping with brutal simplicity. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just… tired. Tired of believing things could be simple. Tired of letting herself hope without a contingency plan.
She didn’t cry. Not there. Not then.
She just smiled through the rest of the night, filed the feeling away where it couldn’t embarrass her, where it couldn’t leak out in front of people who loved her. She’d deal with it later. Alone. Like she always did.
After all, this was her birthday.
And she’d learned a long time ago not to expect too much from days meant to belong to her.
The hotel room was too quiet.
Lewis sat on the edge of the bed with the balcony doors cracked open, the warm Barbadian air drifting in, heavy with salt and music from somewhere far below. Laughter carried up in bursts, muffled by distance, the kind of carefree noise that belonged to other people’s nights. The lights of the coastline glittered like something unreal, beautiful in a way that felt almost mocking.
He hadn’t gone out.
Carmen, the model he came here with had insisted on it, all bright energy and expectation, heels already in hand, talking about parties and friends-of-friends and how it would be a shame to waste a night like this indoors. He’d smiled, kissed her cheek, told her to have fun. Said he wasn’t feeling it. That he’d catch up later.
He hadn’t lied. He just hadn’t told the whole truth.
Now he sat there alone, phone loose in his hand, screen lighting his face in the dark. He hadn’t meant to open Twitter again. He’d told himself he wouldn’t. But habits were hard to break, especially when they were fed by something sharp and restless inside his chest.
The tweet was already there when he refreshed.
Lewis Hamilton spotted in Barbados.
A photo beneath it. Clear enough. Too clear.
He stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse thudding somewhere high in his throat. He didn’t need to scroll. He knew what the replies would look like. He knew how fast it would travel, how quickly it would land where it was always going to land.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
He’d known this would happen.
That was the worst part not the picture, not the speculation, not even the lie of it all. It was the fact that he’d anticipated it. Calculated it. Let it happen anyway.
The rumours about them had been everywhere for days now, metastasising in the way gossip always did. He’d tried not to read them at first. Tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, that it would burn out like it always did. But he’d seen the way her name was being dragged through it, twisted and cheapened, reduced to something ugly and transactional.
She slept her way back.
Power move.
Disgusting.
Predictable.
It hadn’t mattered whether the rumours were true or not. That was the thing that lodged under his skin and wouldn’t leave. The damage didn’t require proof—just proximity. Just the suggestion of him.
Sena could shrug it off. He knew that. She always had. She carried herself like someone who had learned early how to armour her softest parts, how to keep walking even when the ground under her feet turned hostile. She told him—more than once—that people would always talk, that she didn’t care, that she refused to live her life according to anonymous opinions.
He admired that about her.
But he couldn’t do it.
Not when it came to her.
Every comment felt like a personal failure, every insinuation like something he’d allowed by existing too close to her. He’d spent years learning how to deflect scrutiny, how to let it roll off him, how to take the hits meant for him alone. But seeing it land on her—seeing her reduced to a narrative that only existed because of him—had been unbearable.
He’d wanted to protect her. That instinct had flared so fiercely it had scared him.
And protection, to him, had always meant distance.
That was the truth he hadn’t wanted to admit until it was already too late. He knew himself. Knew that if he stayed near her, if he let this continue unchecked, the world would keep finding ways to punish her for it. He couldn’t stop that—not completely. But he could redirect it.
He could make it look like nothing.
He could make it end.
So he’d come here. He’d been photographed. He’d let the implication bloom.
A clean break, he’d told himself. A sharp cut was better than a slow bleed.
He pushed to his feet and crossed the room, stepping out onto the balcony. The railing was cool under his palms as he leaned into it, staring down at the lights, the movement, the life happening without him. Somewhere in London, she was celebrating her birthday. Somewhere warm and familiar and full of people who loved her.
And he wasn’t there.
The thought tightened something vicious in his chest.
She’ll be fine, he tried to tell himself. She always is.
But the lie rang hollow.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
He looked down.
Her name.
For a second—a reckless, stupid second—hope flared. Irrational and bright. Maybe she was calling. Maybe she’d laugh it off. Maybe she’d tell him he was an idiot and demand an explanation and they’d talk like they always did.
But it wasn’t a call.
It was a text.
He opened it.
It really was an unforgettable birthday. Thank you, Hamilton.
His breath left him in a sharp, involuntary pull, like his body had reacted before his mind could catch up. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t even feel the weight of the phone in his hand.
Hamilton.
Not his name. Not the one she used when she was soft, or laughing, or undone beneath him. This was distance, precise and intentional — a door closed without a sound.
He stared at the screen until it dimmed, the words burned into the dark like an afterimage. There was no anger in the message. No accusation. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had reached the end of something and wasn’t going to beg it back.
There it was. The moment he’d engineered, the consequence he’d chosen. The thing he’d told himself was necessary.
And suddenly, it felt nothing like protection and everything like destruction.
His chest tightened with something that bordered on panic. He’d wanted to keep her safe. He’d wanted to make it easier for her, quieter, cleaner. Instead, he’d done the one thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t—he’d hurt her.
Intentionally.
The irony tasted bitter.
He could already imagine what came next. The distance. The walls she’d put up without drama or accusation. The way she would go still and polite and unreachable, how she would fold this into herself and never give him another chance to see it bleed.
He’d underestimated that part—the part where she survived things by locking them away.
A humourless laugh slipped out of him, swallowed immediately by the night air.
“Well done,” he muttered to no one. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”
The danger bells he’d ignored days ago were screaming now, loud and relentless. But it was too late to quiet them. The damage had already been done, the line already crossed.
He stared back at the dark screen of his phone, her words burned into his mind, and finally let himself acknowledge the truth he’d been avoiding since the beginning.
He hadn’t just ruined her birthday.
He’d shattered something fragile and rare.
And no amount of intention was going to make that hurt any less.
"I've been the archer, I've been the prey, Screaming: Who could ever leave me, darling?, But who could stay."
『⩇⩇:⩇⩇』 • masterlist • The Archer Playlist
✩ smau / real life
✩ lewis hamilton x driver oc
⬅previous • next➡
SUMMARY: Say hi to Beans guys. This is actually just a cute one where they both are now aware this is more then just casual but just going with the flow. Can't wait for you guys to see Lewis's surprise for her.
Warnings: mentions of sex, avoidance of relationship talk, self-doubt, language, domestic fluff
Word count: 3.2k
Author’s Note: My finals are oveerrr for a second I legit thought this semester was never gonna end. Anyways love you all let me know what you think <3
Just a quick heads-up: this story is 100% fictional. I’ve twisted timelines, switched up careers, and added some characters to tell the story I want to tell. It’s all vibes, emotions, and a whole lot of imagination.
✧ Chapter 10 ✧
Liked by lewishamilton, roscoelovescoco, and others
senafox everyone meet beans. my babbyyyy 🫘🤎 (we are open to playdates)
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albon_pets: we cant wait to have play dates with her 🐶🥹
⤷ senafox: Beans says yes, ASAP!! She’s ready for the chaos 🐾
livysmith: okay but you know she’s coming to stay at mine next time you travel x
carmenmmundt: Already obsessed. Next girl’s brunch at mine and Beans is on the invite list 🥰
⤷ georgerussell63: Noted. Will bring biscuits.
⤷ senafox: Who said you’re invited? Beans will accept biscuits at the door, thanks x
alexandrasaintmleux: I volunteer for bean babysitting duties 🐾
lilymhe: adorable!!! tell beans she has so many aunties now 😭💖
Brazil had gone Sena’s way. The win was the sort that left her almost giddy, the kind that made the championship look less like a dream and more like something already written. She felt it humming beneath her skin, the way her luck had shifted into inevitability, the way people spoke about her now with a certainty she’d never quite trusted before. Yet that quiet confidence—the glow of victory—was something she never brought up around Lewis. Not out of guilt, and certainly not because she thought he couldn’t handle it; he was the last person who would begrudge her any triumph. But she knew he was enduring a rougher season, and although he would always be supportive, the words still caught in her throat. She always changed the subject before it could sound like gloating. Maybe she was shielding him, or maybe she was protecting herself from seeing something in his eyes she did not want to see.
Now, she watched Beans and Roscoe, both asleep on the rug in Lewis’s flat. It had been Lewis’s idea to set up the play date, ever since she’d brought Beans home, though Sena was starting to wonder whether he’d been quite so selfless about it after all. Especially given that he was currently preoccupied with pressing slow, wet kisses along her neck, his breath warming her skin.
She turned to him at last, meeting his gaze. There was something quietly startling about how much had shifted since Texas. Nothing overt, no declarations, no late-night confessions, just a subtle, irrepressible change. They stayed over now, almost by default. They woke up together, her hair tousled, his stubble roughening her cheek, neither in any rush to get up. She had started to learn the shape of his mornings: the way he moved around his kitchen in only joggers, making breakfast for them both as though it was simply what he did, not some gesture or favour. It unsettled her in ways she tried not to examine too closely.
His lips found hers, a kiss slow and unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world. In truth, neither of them had anywhere they truly needed to be, but Sena was still not used to this side of Lewis. Everything between them—especially the physical—had always been a collision, frantic and greedy, all hands and teeth, like they were trying to outrun something. Now it was different. His touch was deliberate, reverent almost, tracing the line of her jaw, the delicate dip at her collarbone, the soft skin at her waist, taking his time as if memorising her. The tenderness of it was almost unnerving.
They made their way to the couch without breaking the kiss. Sena settled herself onto his lap as if she’d always belonged there, her knees bracketing his thighs. His hands came to rest on her hips—steady, confident, the press of his thumbs sending sparks of heat through her. She slid closer, letting her lips wander from his mouth to his neck. He let out a quiet sound when she nipped at his skin, his grip tightening on her hips as though testing how far she’d let him go.
She drew back just enough for their mouths to brush when she spoke.
“I thought this was supposed to be a chance for the dogs to bond. I distinctly remember you saying Beans needed to socialise,” she said, her grin sly, teasing.
Lewis let out a huff, half-laugh, half-breath, his focus very much not on the rug. With her weight in his lap, so close, it was nearly impossible to focus on anything else, on words, logic, whatever excuse he was meant to offer. His hands slid up her waist, thumbs tracing the curve beneath her shirt, distracting and bold.
“Did I?” he muttered, voice dark, unfocused. “Funny, I don’t remember saying that part.”
She looked smug, her eyes dancing with mischief as she leaned in to kiss him again. The rhythm between them was easy, dangerously addictive. His hands crept beneath her shirt, his thumbs stroking over bare skin at her waist, palms flattening against her ribs, heat blooming wherever he touched. She arched towards him, hips grinding down with an ease that felt more instinct than intention, friction growing as she pressed a slow trail of kisses along his jaw. The sound he made was low, helpless, as if she’d stolen the last of his composure.
He didn’t try to hide it. He let his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she nipped him, her hands running down from his shoulders to his chest, her nails dragging lightly over his skin, making him tense and shudder beneath her.
“You’re keen,” she whispered, teasing, lips brushing his ear. She rocked against him again, not as a performance, but simply because it felt good—the solid weight of him beneath her, his hands everywhere, never settling for long.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” he managed, his voice tight, one hand slipping lower to cup her arse and pull her closer, his breath coming harder now.
“Am I?” she countered, shifting her hips again, slow, deliberate. “Doesn’t seem to bother you much.”
He exhaled a short laugh, exasperated and utterly defeated, before catching her mouth with his again. She pressed down into his lap, the friction growing desperate, his hips pushing up to meet hers, both of them gasping, their voices tangled with each shift and press.
She eased back, letting him guide her down until her back met the cushions, her legs falling open around his hips. He covered her, his weight anchoring her, the kind of steady pressure that made her body relax even as every nerve seemed to spark. His mouth trailed down her jaw, over her throat, then back to her lips, slow and languid, as if he had nowhere else to be.
Her fingers curled into the back of his t-shirt, dragging him closer, greedy for his weight, his heat, the hard length pressed against her through her sweats. She rolled her hips up, and his breath caught in his chest, a shudder running through him.
His hand slid down, pushing beneath the loose waistband of her sweats, fingertips skating over bare skin, hot and deliberate. He took his time, tracing along her knickers, the lightest touch at first, maddening, until Sena’s head tipped back, her eyes fluttering closed as his mouth moved along her throat, his breath searing against her skin.
His fingers finally slipped between her legs, thumb grazing over the damp cotton, slow and possessive. “You’re always so ready for me,” he murmured against her neck, his voice rough and thick with need. The words vibrated against her skin, and for a moment he simply held her there, thumb moving in teasing circles, his mouth brushing her ear, possessiveness humming through every motion.
He dipped his hand further, fingers just beneath the edge of her underwear now, his grip on her hip tightening. His mouth ghosted her ear, his words quiet, thick with hunger but edged with playful arrogance: “Only ever like this for me, aren’t you?” It was a challenge and a comfort, a dare to admit what they both already knew. The words were barely more than a breath, gone almost as soon as they landed, but the meaning curled hot in her belly.
She arched into him, all sharp want and no patience, needing him with an urgency that never felt like surrender—only inevitability. Her hand fisted in his shirt, dragging him down for a kiss, their mouths clashing, all teeth and breath and want.
Just as he hooked his finger under the waistband of her knickers, ready to give her what they both wanted, a sharp bark cut through the haze. Beans, from her spot on the rug, let out a piercing yelp—high and insistent, puppyish and unforgiving.
Sena froze, a laugh escaping her, bright and helpless, as her head dropped back against the cushion. Lewis groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hand still caught inside her sweats.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, his voice muffled against her skin. He didn’t move, his forehead pressed to her shoulder as if weighing whether to wait it out or admit defeat.
Sena’s laughter bubbled up, uncontrollable, her fingers finding the back of his neck as she tried to catch her breath. She glanced over Lewis’s shoulder, towards the rug, where Beans was now sitting up, ears alert, eyes wide and insistent. “She’s dramatic,” Sena said, her voice thick with amusement, fingertips stroking along Lewis’s hairline. “Don’t take it personally, she’s still just a baby.”
Lewis propped himself up on his elbows, shooting the puppy a look of theatrical despair. “No, she just doesn’t like me,” he said, the words half-joking, half-genuine, his gaze flicking between Beans and Sena. “She does this every single time I get close to you.” The accusation hung in the air, more a gentle complaint than anything else, as if Beans was a tiny chaperone determined to make his life difficult.
Sena snorted, shaking her head, her fingers curling a little tighter in his shirt, refusing to let the moment slip entirely. “You’re being ridiculous,” she teased, her voice dry but undeniably fond. It was ridiculous, the two of them brought up short by a three-month-old puppy, and yet she couldn’t help but find something sweet in his pettiness, a softness she never expected to want so much.
“I’m not,” he protested, quick and certain, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to prove it. He kissed her again, slow and persuasive, daring the universe—or Beans—to try interrupting them once more.
The universe, unfortunately, obliged. Beans barked again, even louder, voice sharp with outrage. Lewis broke away with a groan that was part exasperation, part resignation, and looked over his shoulder at the dog. “See?” he said, somewhere between a plea and a moan, his smile rueful and defeated. It was almost absurd, how a moment so intimate could be interrupted by something so small and silly.
Sena’s laughter rang out, bright and unguarded. “Maybe she just doesn’t want to share me,” she offered, the words tossed lightly between them, meant to tease, but carrying an edge of honesty she did not bother to examine. She watched his face as she spoke, curious to see if the words would land or just float away as another joke in their endless dance.
Lewis’s expression flickered, something soft and open flickering in his eyes before he tucked it away behind a familiar grin. “Neither do I,” he replied, too quickly for it to be nothing, too easily for it to be a joke. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in, letting the silence settle for a long moment as if, just maybe, he meant every word.
She rolled her eyes at him because it was easier than letting herself acknowledge what had just passed between them. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, her tone light as she kissed him again, gentler, lazier, trying to fill the silence that felt suddenly too heavy. But even as she lost herself in the warmth of his kiss, she could feel the echo of that careless sentence settle deep in her chest, humming there like an aftershock.
Beans, mercifully, grew quiet once more, and the living room folded back in around them, a safe, private bubble. Yet as Lewis’s hand found her waist again, not pushing, not demanding, just resting there, Sena felt a new kind of tension take hold. It was not the impatient, desperate hunger that usually lived between them, but something gentler, more dangerous—something that might, if she allowed herself to stare at it too long, look suspiciously like hope.
She told herself not to read into it. Yet as she let herself be drawn back into the warmth of his arms, his kiss slow and consuming, she knew the meaning would linger, impossible to ignore.
📍 Las Vegas Strip, Nevada, USA.
Liked by lewishamilton, centralcee and others
senafox a perfect weekend really
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livysmith: Winning in style, as always
faith.cartier: The luck of Vegas or just you being that good?
lewishamilton: 💪
centralcee: Vegas suits you, you know 🔥
selenagomez: So proud of you 🤍 this is insane
taylorswift: Watching this season has been unreal. Go get it 🫶🏻
⤷ senafox: You’re my soundtrack. Manifesting a win with a little Taylor energy 💖
mclaren: Locked in. One final push.
⤷ senafox: Let’s finish what we started 🧡
zakbrown: Special performance. Eyes forward.
The jet moved steadily through the night, the low thrum of the engines settling into something almost soothing, a constant beneath everything else. Sena was stretched out on one of the wide cream leather seats, knees drawn up comfortably, one hand absently tugging at the cuff of her hoodie while the other was already buried in the packet of snacks Lewis had lobbed at her earlier. Every now and then she glanced out at the inky black sky beyond the window, the lights far below like something unreal, but her attention kept drifting back to him without her quite meaning it to. The corners of her mouth refused to settle into anything neutral, her whole body humming with that post‑race exhilaration she never fully managed to contain. The joy wasn’t something she tried to hide tonight. It sat plainly in her flushed cheeks, in the way her foot tapped out a restless, happy rhythm against the seat, in how she looked almost weightless with it. She looked young like this, untouchable, a little unmoored by how good life could suddenly feel when everything aligned just right.
Lewis watched her from his own seat, half‑turned towards her, one elbow propped along the backrest as if he’d been there a while and planned on staying. He’d always been good at reading her moods; he’d seen her furious and sharp‑edged, reckless in that dangerous way she carried sometimes, quiet with grief when the world hit too hard. But this was different. This was some bright, unguarded version of her that surfaced only in rare moments, when the pressure lifted just enough for her to breathe. He could feel himself softening under the weight of it, the way it made him want to keep her laughing, keep the night exactly as it was, just to see how far that light might go before reality inevitably crept back in.
Sena tore open the packet properly, shaking a handful of crisps into her palm before flicking a look over her shoulder at him, eyes bright with mischief. “Admit it,” she said lightly, chewing as she spoke, “you wish you were this brilliant, but instead you’re just… old. Actually, that’s it. You’re old and you have to watch me win everything.” She tried for mockery, but it never quite landed, not when she was practically glowing with it, not when the teasing was softened by the warmth underneath.
“Old?” Lewis repeated, shaking his head, though the smile never left his face, soft around the edges in a way that gave him away. “That’s all you’ve got? I fly you halfway across the world, keep you supplied with snacks, and this is the thanks I get.”
She grinned, half‑hidden behind the sleeve of her hoodie, her voice easy and warm. “I never asked you to keep me in snacks. But I do appreciate it.” She tossed a crisp at him without much aim. It missed entirely, bouncing once and landing on the floor between them.
He smirked, shaking his head at her, but didn’t comment on it, letting it lie where it had fallen. For a while, the jet was quiet except for the gentle rustle of the snack packet and the distant whine of the engines cutting through the sky. Sena shifted in her seat, pulling her knees up under her chin, her gaze flicking back to Lewis in that way it did when a thought had been sitting with her for a while and finally decided to surface.
“You know,” she said, voice softer now, the words slipping out in that unguarded way they sometimes did when she felt just happy enough to be honest, “if everything goes right, I’m bringing the championship into my birthday month.” She tried to sound casual about it, like it wasn’t something she’d been turning over in her mind for days, but the shine in her eyes betrayed her. “I mean, imagine it. The title celebrations, my birthday, Christmas. All packed into a few weeks. December’s already my favourite. This would just… make it magic.”
He didn’t answer straight away. For a moment his expression went thoughtful, the teasing fading as he watched her in the dim cabin light, weighing his words carefully. “Well,” he said eventually, quietly, “maybe this year you’ll let me in on the secret. Actually invite me to your real birthday party.”
She rolled her eyes, though there was no real bite to it. “You, unfortunately, are not on the invite list yet.”
“Oh,” he said, brows lifting, amused, “so I have to earn my spot?” He leaned back slightly, considering. “That’s pressure. Especially since now I’m apparently on the hook for two gifts. Championship and birthday. That’s double the stress.”
She nudged him with her foot, deliberately annoying, a familiar little gesture. “Double the presents, double the fun,” she said.
She didn’t look at him directly when she spoke next, but her smile softened all the same, something almost wistful flickering through it. “You never asked to come,” she added. “And you were always busy. It’s not like I thought you’d want to sit in a pub with Faith and Olivia while everyone sang out of tune at midnight.”
“Well,” he replied, nudging her foot back with his own, mirroring her without thinking, “maybe this year you’ll let me in on it. Let me try a proper present, not just another bottle of wine or something shiny you could’ve bought yourself.”
She shrugged, that familiar non‑committal movement that said more than she ever would out loud, and tilted her head. “We’ll have to wait and see then. You do well for my championship gift, and maybe I’ll consider adding you to the list for my birthday.”
He grinned at that, quick and a little sheepish, like the challenge pleased him more than he’d expected. “Alright then. You want surprises? Fine. You win the championship, I’ll find a way to make your birthday unforgettable. Properly. No generic presents this year. No jewellery, no handbags, nothing you could guess.”
Sena laughed, head falling back against the seat, hair spilling loose over the leather as she let the sound out freely. “That sounds dangerously like you’re promising something,” she said.
Lewis leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I could always ask Faith or Olivia what to get you. Maybe they’ll save me from completely messing it up.”
She smirked, shaking her head. “They’d never tell you. Especially if I told them not to. You’re on your own, Hamilton. May the odds be ever in your favour.”
He watched her for a moment after that, the teasing easing just enough to let something softer slip through. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I like a challenge.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet inside the jet felt gentler somehow, stretched tight with something neither of them were ready to name. Outside, the night kept moving, city lights falling away as they headed closer to Monaco. Sena let herself sink into it, daring to believe that, just this once, things really could stay exactly this good.
But as she lay there, eyes half closed, she almost wanted to warn him, to tell him to be careful, to keep his promises quieter, to tuck all this happiness away. Instead, she just watched him from beneath her lashes, holding the moment close, telling herself not to read into it, not to give the universe any reason to change its mind.
Summary: Harry and Alina meet for coffee, where he finally explains his disappearance, but the question remains whether any explanation can truly bridge ten years of silence.
Author's note: I haven’t uploaded anything for this story in almost three months now because school completely took over my life, but my finals just ended and I finally had the space to come back to this. This chapter is a short one and very much a bridge between the last chapter and the next, but I wanted to share it anyway. I hope you guys like it. <3
Monday came quicker than she expected. By the time Alina stepped off the curb, the London sky had settled into its usual pale grey, and the chill in the air made her tug her coat tighter around her shoulders. It was just past 1 PM.
She told herself it was just coffee. Just closure, just a conversation.
But she wasn't sure anymore why she had said yes. She could've walked away. But instead, here she was, spine straight against the wind, heart doing laps in her chest.
The bell above the café door chimed softly as she stepped inside. Instantly, warmth wrapped around her—coffee beans, cinnamon, distant chatter. She scanned the room, fingers clenched around her bag strap.
Then she saw him.
Back corner table. He sat with his elbows braced on the edge, phone in his hand, one leg bouncing nervously beneath the table. His hair was messy, flopping over his forehead like it always did when he didn't bother to fix it. He was chewing at his lower lip, a habit she remembered all too well.
For a beat, she didn't move. Let herself watch him. Let the familiarity sting.
When she finally approached, he looked up. He straightened slightly, slipping his phone into his coat pocket. His knee still bounced.
"Hey," he said, quiet, almost sheepish.
"Hi." Her reply came clipped, cooler than she meant. She saw it hit him—his mouth pressed into a thin line, his shoulders tensing slightly. But he didn't flinch or pull back. He just nodded and gestured toward the seat across from him.
She slid into the chair, setting her bag on the ground beside her. The silence stretched. The last time they sat across from each other like this, they had been different people.
They ordered drinks. She stirred hers slowly, watching the milk swirl into gold. He didn't touch his right away.
Harry kept glancing at her, then looking away when she caught him. The back-and-forth flicker of guilt and nerves. He wasn't used to this version of her—quiet, distant, unreadable. She'd been daylight once. Laughter tucked behind every word. Now she was cold, and he didn't quite know how to reach her.
She didn't offer small talk. She didn't ask how he'd been.
She waited.
He cleared his throat and leaned in slightly, resting his arms on the table.
"Look, Alina," he began, voice soft. "I meant what I said."
She didn't react. Just watched him. Let him speak.
"I know this probably won't change anything," he continued. "And I'm not here to give you excuses. I just... I think you deserve to hear it from me. All of it."
She kept her face still, but the breath caught behind her ribs. She had spent so long trying not to want this, trying not to wonder why. Now, here he was.
The café blurred around her. The sounds, the warmth, the clink of mugs all faded as her mind slipped back to the last time that day at the park.
Guernsey, 2014
They sat beneath the old willow tree in the park they'd known since they were kids, the one with the rusted swings and half-faded hopscotch lines still etched into the concrete. The autumn air and the quiet hum of the wind played like a lullaby around them.
Harry leaned back against the tree trunk, arms loosely draped over his knees, watching the light shift through the branches. His hair fell into his eyes, catching the last of the light. He hadn't said much since they arrived. Just small things. Comments about how the tree was still leaning too far left. How the slide had always squeaked like that. How weird it was that the benches looked smaller now.
Alina was lying beside him in the grass, arms folded beneath her head, staring up at the sky like it had answers. Alina let him talk. She listened to every word. But she knew what he wasn't saying.
"So..." she finally said, voice too light to be casual, "You're leaving tomorrow."
Harry didn't look at her. His fingers toyed with a blade of grass, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. "Yeah."
The word hung between them like smoke.
"You weren't gonna say goodbye ?"
He let out a breath, sheepish. "Was thinking about it."
She turned her head toward him, one brow raised. "Coward."
A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Silence.
"I wasn't avoiding it," he said, voice quiet. "I just didn't know how to say it without feeling like it was... goodbye."
Alina sat up slowly, brushing grass from her arms, her knees drawn to her chest.
He turned to look at her, and she met his eyes—steady, clear, unwavering. There was something in her expression, soft around the edges but sharpened by steel. She wasn't going to cry, not now.
"I'm not saying it is goodbye," he said, suddenly desperate. "We'll talk. I'll text. You'll visit."
"Sure." She said it easily. Too easily. And smiled.
That smile wrecked him more than any tears would have.
He shifted toward her, his hand reaching out before he could stop himself, fingers curling beneath her chin. He tilted her face to his.
"I mean it," he murmured.
"Good," she said. Her voice was calm, even.
Then, softly, with a tilt of her head and a hint of mischief, she added, "Because I'm really bad at chasing people. I've got terrible cardio."
That made him laugh—quiet, shaky, but real. And she smiled too, but this time it didn't quite reach her eyes.
He leaned in and kissed her—slow, reverent. Like they had all the time in the world.
And for a moment, it almost felt like they did.
They didn't say anything else after that. They sat there beneath the willow tree, pressed together in the hush of the night, holding onto something that wasn't ready to be broken.
And when she walked home later, alone, she didn't look back.
Because if she did—if she let herself believe it was goodbye—she might've crumbled.
London, 2025
"It wasn't because I didn't care," Harry began, his voice low, eyes fixed on the coffee cooling between his hands. "It wasn't because I didn't love you anymore."
Alina didn't blink, didn't fidget. Her hands rested around her cup, unmoving, though the caramel steam rose steadily, warming the space between them like a breath held too long.
"It was... everything," he said, voice unsteady. "I don't even know how to explain it. When I left, it felt like I stepped into another world. One where I didn't recognize myself anymore."
He looked up briefly, his gaze searching her face, but she gave him nothing—just silence, steady and patient.
"I chased what I thought I wanted, fame, money, attention. And I got it. But I got lost in it, too. The parties, the people, the pressure... It all moved so fast. I didn't know how to slow down. I was so far from who I used to be... from the person I was when I was with you."
Harry paused, his shoulders sagging. He rubbed the back of his neck, restless now.
"And you... I couldn't let you see that. I didn't want you to watch me spiral. You were always... good. Real. The one good thing I had. And I couldn't bring you into that mess. I thought I was protecting you."
His words hovered, fragile in the quiet. Alina didn't speak, but something in her chest softened. She hadn't expected this version of him—the raw, stripped-down truth.
Harry exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, then leaned forward, arms folded on the table.
"I thought if I just stopped calling, if I disappeared completely, it would be easier for you. I convinced myself that was the kind thing to do."
Alina took a breath—quiet, measured. She still hadn't touched her drink. Her shoulders, once tight, lowered slightly Her voice, was even, but laced with years of hurt.
"I used to think about you," she said. "Wonder if you were happy. If you ever thought about me. I tried to hate you, for how easily you let go, how I felt like I didn't matter anymore. Like I was just... gone from your life. Replaced."
Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, eyes dropping to it as if it held the words she couldn't say out loud.
"But I couldn't hate you. Not really. Because I didn't understand. I didn't get why you did it."
"I didn't mean to hurt you," Harry said quickly, guilt flooding his face. "I know that doesn't fix anything. I know I don't deserve forgiveness. But it was never about you, Alina. Not once."
She swallowed hard, trying to keep her emotions in check.
"It's been a decade, Harry," she said. "Ten years of silence. Ten years where I had to build a life from scratch. Alone."
He dropped his gaze again, nodding slowly. "I know. And I'm proud of you. I probably don't have the right to say that, but I am."
A silence fell, thick with everything they hadn't said for ten years. It wasn't uncomfortable—just heavy. Earned.
Then, her voice came again, quieter this time.
"You said you needed time. That, things were too complicated to be in a relationship. And I believed you." She lifted her gaze. "I thought maybe we'd still talk. Maybe you'd come back when you were ready. But then... a month later, there you were. With someone else."
She didn't look at him as she said it, but she didn't need to.
"That felt personal," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like it wasn't about timing. It was about me."
Harry closed his eyes, pain flickering across his face. "I was scared," he admitted. "I'd already broken so much, and I thought if I came back, I'd break you too. So I did what cowards do—I ran. I filled the silence with things that didn't matter. With people who didn't matter."
Alina let out a dry breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. "You think that didn't hurt? That people didn't ask what happened between us like I had the answers?" She shook her head. "The pity... the looks... I didn't know what to say. Because I didn't even know why."
He looked up again, eyes meeting hers directly this time.
"I know," he said. "And I was selfish. Blind. For not realizing sooner. For making you carry the silence alone." He leaned in, voice softer now. "But I'm here now. And I want to make it up to you. I miss you, Alina. I really do."
They stayed that way for a moment, not speaking—just sitting across from each other, surrounded by everything they used to be.
Then Alina sat up a little straighter, her eyes steady but not cold.
"You know I can't just forget. I can't just forgive you because you're sorry. That's not how this works."
"I know," Harry said, quiet but certain. "I'm not asking to go back. I'm not asking for anything... except a chance not to be strangers again."
She studied him, and for once, there was no mask. No flash of charm. Just Harry. Tired, older, but honest.
Finally, she gave a slow nod. "Okay. One day at a time."
His shoulders eased a little, lips curling into a small, cautious smile. "One day at a time."
And for the first time in years, something fragile flickered between them. Not resolution. Not reconciliation. But maybe something like hope.
"I've been the archer, I've been the prey, Screaming: Who could ever leave me, darling?, But who could stay."
『⩇⩇:⩇⩇』 • masterlist • The Archer Playlist
✩ smau / real life
✩ lewis hamilton x driver oc
⬅previous • next➡
SUMMARY: The line between friends and something more blurs further, shaped by Lewis’s actions and Sena not stopping him when she could. Neither names what is happening, but neither walks away either.
Warnings: alcohol use and drinking to cope, slight implied sexual content, emotional avoidance, intimacy tension, language.
Word count: 4.1 k
Author’s Note: I know I’ve been gone for a while, and getting back into writing after two months away felt a little rusty, but I really missed this. I’m hoping the break didn’t raise expectations too much, because I just tried to do my best and find my rhythm again. We’re slowly reaching the part of the story I’ve been most excited to write, so thank you for being patient. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, let me know what you think.
Just a quick heads-up: this story is 100% fictional. I’ve twisted timelines, switched up careers, and added some characters to tell the story I want to tell. It’s all vibes, emotions, and a whole lot of imagination.
✧ Chapter 9 ✧
It was around eleven when Sena heard the knock on her hotel door. At first, she barely registered it. She had lost track of how many times she had refilled the glass in her hand, only that a third of the bottle was gone and somehow it still did not feel like nearly enough.
McLaren had boxed her into a six-second standstill that felt like a lifetime, then dumped her into traffic. She had clawed back what she could and still taken P2. On paper it was fine, a great recovery, but to her it was seven points gone to Max and the quiet anger of knowing it did not need to happen.
By the third knock, the sound finally drew her up with reluctant annoyance. She blinked at the door, unhurried and briefly tempted to pretend she was not there. Then she guessed who it would be, and if she was right, ignoring the door was not going to help her.
Lewis stood in the hallway, his hand still hovering after the last knock, his shoulders drawn slightly forward as if he was not sure whether he was crossing a line. He had not seen her since the interviews. He had told himself to leave it, that she needed space, but the thought of her alone in her room with a blank face had followed him until he found himself at her door without even truly deciding to go.
When she opened it, the first thing that hit him was the smell of whiskey, followed by the quiet. She stood in striped trousers and a fitted white top, her hair tied up carelessly with a few loose strands brushing her neck. Her eyes were slightly glassy but still sharp beneath, still Sena.
She blinked at him slowly, appearing unbothered. "You are persistent."
He exhaled, relief and worry tangled together. "You were not answering your phone."
"Did not feel like talking."
"I gathered," he replied, his tone light. "Can I come in?"
She hesitated for a moment, then moved aside without replying. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. The television flickered on mute. The bottle sat on the table beside a half-full glass, its surface catching the lamplight.
He nodded toward it. "You have been busy."
"Occupying myself." She sank back onto the sofa, her voice soft and distant.
Lewis lingered by the table, studying the bottle. He had seen her drink before, just not like this. The bottle was nearly half empty, yet she was upright, clear in her words, and not slurring. It surprised him that she could handle that much and still sound composed. He did not think too deeply about why it unsettled him, or the fact that he had not seen her without a drink in her hand for a long time. The same girl who used to giggle after a few glasses of champagne was now half a bottle deep and perfectly steady.
He sat beside her, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the heat of her skin. She reached for the glass and emptied it in one motion. She was about to refill it when Lewis reached for the bottle first.
"I think you have had enough, do you not?" His tone was not judgmental or irritated. It was calm, as if stating a fact, which made it worse because it sounded like he cared when he should not. He had no reason to.
He got to his feet. "Come on. Let us wash your face. You will feel better."
He reached out and pulled her gently to her feet.
"I am not drunk, Hamilton. No need to play babysitter." She tugged her arm free, trying to put distance between them. Now that she was standing, they were practically chest to chest, close enough that refusing anything he asked felt impossible. She almost sobered at the way he was looking at her. His eyes could convince anyone of anything, and she could stare into them until morning without becoming bored.
She closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself who stood in front of her and that the way he was looking at her was not anything special, nothing more than friendly concern. When she opened them again, her expression carried a cool distance.
"Look, I know what you want, Lewis, but I am not in the mood tonight. Maybe call another friend to keep you company."
She brushed past him and headed for the door as if silently asking him to leave.
For a moment neither of them moved. Lewis stared at her back, stunned by how quickly she had built a wall between them, while she stood at the hallway. The silence grew heavy, not comfortable nor hostile, just weighted, until one of them finally had no choice but to break it.
"That is not why I am here."
He turned and looked at her fully.
She leaned against the wall, staring at the painting as if she could disappear into it if she tried hard enough. "Sure," she muttered, still refusing to look at him.
Anger tightened beneath his chest. It was not loud or explosive, but clean and sharp. Why was it so impossible for her to believe someone might care without wanting something in return? Yet the posture of her shoulders, the crossed arms, and the stubborn tilt of her chin told him exactly what she wanted. A fight.
He stepped toward her, stopping right in front of her and blocking her view of anything except him. Tilting his head slightly, he asked in a low, steady voice, "Why is it so hard for you to accept that people care about you? Not everything is a transaction, Sen."
The words settled between them, quiet but unavoidable, and her breath shifted as if she had walked into a truth she would rather avoid. It was not surrender, nor was it denial, just a small change in her posture that told him she had heard him.
She rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at her mouth, reluctant but real. "God, you are dramatic. Fine. Will you stop lecturing me if I wash my face?"
Lewis’s expression softened into a mirrored smile. "We will see."
She walked into the bathroom, and he followed. First she moved to the sink, then stopped, catching his reflection in the mirror as if a new thought had sparked. His eyes met hers in the glass, and by now he knew that look too well to expect anything helpful from it.
Her hands hovered over the faucet but never touched it. The idea of rinsing her face, doing something as ordinary as splashing cold water to ground herself, suddenly felt small and almost childish. What use was clarity when she did not even want to be alone with her thoughts? She would rather burn the space between them than sit quietly in it.
She turned and stepped toward him, closing the space between them.
"You know what is better than washing my face?" she murmured, her breath brushing his lips.
He could smell the alcohol, which he suddenly appreciated. It reminded him why he was here, why she was doing this, why he had to be the sane one. She lifted her shirt over her head without breaking eye contact, followed by her trousers and then her underwear. Each piece of clothing fell to the floor with quiet precision. She walked past him and into the shower, bare skin catching the light.
"You are not joining?" she asked as she turned the water on.
For a heartbeat he almost moved, instinct before intention, but his fingers curled uselessly at his sides. The rising steam felt like both an invitation and a warning.
Lewis closed his eyes, reminding himself why he was here and what she was trying to prove. She was trying to show that he had come for sex and nothing else. A few months ago he would have been in the shower before she finished asking. That was no longer him, and he was not about to let her rewrite his intentions.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to turn toward her. He should not have. He knew he should not have, because the moment he did, the sight hit him with a slow, deliberate cruelty that only she could manage without trying.
Her hair was slicked back now, heavy with water and clinging to her cheekbones. Droplets slid down her face and over the sharp line of her jaw before breaking against the curve of her throat. The water traced every angle of her body with reverence, following the lines of her collarbones, slipping down the hollow of her stomach, and catching against her hips. Her lips were wet and parted slightly as she exhaled, and he hated that his pulse reacted before his mind did.
He almost wished he had not turned around. Almost. There was a part of him, the part she always managed to drag out of hiding, that wanted to look, to memorize, to give in. She knew that. Of course she knew that.
He took a long, steadying breath, the kind that pinned desire beneath logic. "As inviting as you look, I think I will pass this time."
The decision cost him more than he let her see, but once spoken, it rooted itself. Walking away was harder than giving in, yet somehow it felt right.
For a moment he thought she might be disappointed. It was tiny and sharp, but the glint in her eyes was not disappointment. It was satisfaction, confirmation that she had gotten the reaction she wanted even if it was not the reaction she had hoped for. "Okay," she said simply. "As you wish."
She turned away and let the water wash the exhaustion and the day from her shoulders.
He lingered for another second, just long enough to catch the shape of her silhouette behind the glass and remind himself not to look again. Then he forced himself to lower his gaze and reach for the handle.
Lewis closed the bathroom door softly behind him and settled onto the couch to wait for her. The hum of the shower filled the room, steady and distant, and for the first time that night he let himself breathe.
When Sena got out of the shower, Lewis was sitting on the couch with his phone in hand, the bottle and glass gone from the table. She moved quietly; he had not yet noticed she was out, and she used the moment to watch him, to take in the line of his shoulders and the way his jaw softened when he was not holding himself together for the world. She felt better now. Perhaps it was the shower, or perhaps it was him. For the first time that night she looked at him fully. He had also had a terrible race, just as bruising as hers, yet he was spending the night making sure she was okay instead of resting.
"You did not have to wait," she said, breaking the silence.
He turned his head immediately, his eyes running over her as if pulled by gravity. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair held up by a claw clip, dark strands still wet against her neck.
"Did not want to miss the view," he said, chuckling, though his eyes were softer than his tone. "I also wanted to make sure you were okay before leaving."
"Well, you have seen it," she said with a shrug, trying not to look at his eyes because she knew what she would find there. "I am going to change."
She turned around too quickly to give him a chance to reply, grabbed a few things from her suitcase, and disappeared back into the bathroom. It was ridiculous. He had seen her naked multiple times, yet she had never felt more exposed in front of him than she did now, wrapped in cotton and silence.
She expected him to be gone when she stepped out again. He had made it clear he had not come for sex, and now that she was steady on her feet, he had no reason to stay. She paused in the doorway, torn between relief that she had composed herself and the sting of imagining the room empty. Then she saw him exactly where she had left him, and only then did she feel the warmth of relief settle low in her chest. It was not rational, but it was real.
"You did not have to go to the bathroom to change, you know. I am not opposed to a show," he said, grinning as he leaned back with his legs spread comfortably and one arm resting along the back of the couch. He looked so inviting she had half a mind to drop into his lap, but she did not.
"You had your chance, Hamilton," she said instead, arching a brow as she walked toward the couch and perched on the arm of it.
"I was doing the right thing, Fox," he protested, though his voice held no tension. He was teasing her now, the warmth between them restored.
"Well, you have to live with it now," she replied, smiling as the last sharp edge of the night faded between them.
He looked at her for a moment, his eyes steady on her face, then slowly reached for her arm and pulled her down beside him on the couch.
"You make it really hard, you know, to do the right thing."
Her skin burned beneath his hand, his touch too careful and too controlled. She felt her resolve slip toward something she was not ready to name. Before the warmth could settle into something dangerous, she pulled back.
"Well, I am going to bed, and unless you are going to sleep over, the door is that way," she said, slipping out of his grasp and getting to her feet as she crossed the room toward the bed.
She heard Lewis rise from the couch a few seconds later. She was pulling the covers up when she fully expected to hear the soft click of the door after he turned off the lights on his way out. She expected the night to end cleanly now that she had steadied.
Instead she heard footsteps draw closer. The mattress dipped behind her, and before she could turn, an arm wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her back into him as if staying was the only right thing left for him to do.
Lewis settled behind her, his chest pressed against her back. He breathed slowly through his nose, as if he needed to convince himself he belonged in the space he had taken. He rested his forehead lightly against the back of her shoulder, careful not to trap her.
His hand eased against her waist, his fingers flexing once, as if he needed to remind himself she was real. He wondered if she felt it too. He wondered whether she knew she made him want things he had not let himself want in a long time.
He did not say anything. He did not need to, because she did not pull away. Not tonight.
The sun was what woke Sena, first as a thin glow, then as a dull ache behind her eyes that painted the room in weak gold. The headache was already there, hovering at her temples, worsened by the remnants of last night’s whiskey. For a minute she lay still, her eyes half open and her pulse steady in her throat. Warmth wrapped around her, cotton sheets tangled against her bare legs and Lewis’s arm draped over her waist, his breath slow and even against the back of her neck. He was awake. She knew it before she turned, before she felt the faint squeeze of his hand or heard the way he subtly shifted, giving her space if she wanted to roll over.
She swallowed, her throat dry. Her mouth tasted faintly of old whiskey and sleep, and part of her wanted to sink deeper under the covers and pretend the day had not begun. But Lewis’s fingers brushed gently against her hip, a wordless check-in, and when she finally shifted to face him, he was already watching her.
He looked good in the morning light, quiet strength and easy patience combined, something that made her want to confess things just to see how his expression would change. His eyes searched hers.
Sena tried for a wry smile, her voice scratchy. "You did not have to stay."
Lewis shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I wanted to."
He watched her for a moment longer, then asked in a low voice, "How is your head?"
She pressed her palm lightly to her forehead and let her hand fall back to the sheets with a soft sigh. "Better than I expected. Had worse ones. I think the shower helped."
Lewis’s grin flickered, mischief warming his eyes. "See? You should listen to me more often."
Sena rolled her eyes but could not hide the genuine smile tugging at her lips. "Do not get used to it."
He pretended to consider that seriously, then nudged her foot with his under the sheets. The contact was light, but enough to make her breathe out a small laugh. "You hungry? I could order something up."
She hesitated, weighing the comfort of the sheets against hunger, then nodded and spoke softly. "Yes. Maybe coffee too."
Lewis shifted as if to get up but lingered, his eyes tracing her face as if he wanted to memorize the way her hair fell against her cheek and the faint curve of her smile. He did not want to break the spell yet. Her body was still warm against his and the light between them felt soft and unhurried.
Sena let herself breathe, her guard lowered by a fraction. She did not want to think about what last night meant or where it might lead. For now this was good. The teasing, the quiet, the comfort of not having to explain herself. She watched him reach for the phone on the bedside table, muscles shifting under his skin as he stretched, and felt something like peace settle in her chest. Fragile, fleeting, but real.
"Room service?" he asked while dialing.
Lewis placed the call, ordered for both of them, then flopped back onto his pillow with his hands behind his head, stretching out as if he had already claimed half the bed. His arm hooked around her waist a moment later and he dragged her closer without asking or waiting, moving like it was instinct.
She shifted, pushing a knee forward in an attempt to reclaim some space, but he did not let go. Instead, he pressed his face into the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin, as if distance was something he had completely forgotten how to observe.
Sena froze for half a beat, her pulse jumping where his mouth hovered.
"What are you doing?" she muttered, her voice caught between whisper and warning.
"Shut up," he murmured against her skin. His voice was low, not rough yet not gentle either, more like he had no prepared line and refused to admit it.
She stayed where she was, letting herself settle into the moment. She told herself it was not a big deal, only a cuddle. They had done much more than cuddling before; they had done it last night, so she reminded herself again that it meant nothing and was only comfort. The knock at the door was what broke it.
Lewis did not move right away. His hand remained on her waist for one heartbeat too long before he finally let go.
Sena watched him with quiet amusement, then slid off the mattress. Her feet touched the cool carpet as she pulled on the hotel robe and wrapped it loosely around herself. She did not bother tying it tightly while she padded toward the door. She muttered a quick thank you and eased the door shut with her hip, then balanced the tray carefully in her hands.
When she turned back toward the room, Lewis was already watching her with a grin. His eyes swept over her legs beneath the loosely tied robe, his gaze appreciative in a way that would have irritated her coming from anyone else.
She raised an eyebrow as she nudged the door fully shut with her foot and carried the tray toward the small table by the window. "Take a picture, Hamilton. It will last longer."
Lewis shrugged, entirely unbothered, and pushed himself upright so he could rest on one elbow. His gaze never left her. "I am simply admiring the view. I did not get to last night, did I?"
She shot him a flat look as she set the tray down, the plates and cutlery clinking softly. "You know, for someone who claimed he was not here for sex, you are putting in a lot of effort this morning."
He sat up fully, the blanket settling around his waist as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His smile shifted into something sly.
"I never said anything about this morning. I am a man of many talents, Fox. I can multitask."
Sena snorted and poured herself coffee with deliberate focus, though her smirk betrayed her. "You do realize you are only still here because I don't have the strength to kick you out, right?"
Lewis stood and stretched his arms over his head while crossing the room toward her. "Please. If you wanted me gone, you would have."
She sipped her coffee and met his eyes, her expression balanced between warning and dare. "Do not test me."
He reached her in a few long strides and slid his hands around her waist, gently pulling her back against his chest. His mouth traced a slow line from her shoulder to the side of her neck, his kisses unhurried, claiming and comforting at the same time. His lips lingered where her pulse fluttered and he felt the subtle shiver that ran through her, the mug trembling just slightly in her hand.
He turned her carefully and waited for her to place the mug on the table. His thumb skimmed beneath her jaw before he kissed her and stole the taste of coffee from her lips before she could protest.
Her breath caught as his hands slipped into her hair. The robe loosened but did not fall as he kissed her harder, pulling her flush against him. One palm slid down the curve of her hip and lower, grounding and greedy in equal measure, while the other threaded through her hair. She melted against him for a breathless moment, her legs pressed to his, her fingers digging into his shoulders. She tasted sleep and coffee and something unmistakably Lewis.
Sena was nothing if not stubborn, especially when she realized how easily he could undo her. She pulled back, her breath warm against his mouth and her smirk sharp. "If you think you are getting anything out of me before I eat, you are dreaming, Hamilton."
Lewis let out a sound that was half laugh and half groan as she slipped out of his arms with practiced ease. She tugged the robe back up over her shoulders and tied it properly before settling into a chair at the breakfast table with the casual poise of a queen who knew she had won the first round.
He stared at her, his jaw tight with frustration and reluctant amusement, his hands braced on the edge of the table as he leaned forward, still shirtless and the blanket forgotten behind him. "You are evil. You know that?"
Sena picked up a piece of toast and bit into it with exaggerated calm, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. "Not evil. Just hungry."
Lewis shook his head and exhaled through a laugh, then crossed to the chair opposite hers and sat down. He watched her butter another piece of toast with slow, deliberate movements, never breaking eye contact. A challenge lingered in the way she ate, taunting him to try again, to push further, but he leaned back and folded his arms as if he was willing to let her have this round entirely.
They ate in companionable silence, the tension softening into domestic ease while the morning sun cast gold across the room. For the moment, the world outside could wait.
The way I abandoned here completely almost for the past 2 months but I have been so busy with school, I am constantly in the lab and I also had my midterms I feel like barely had time to breathe. Also to be honest couldn’t find it in my self to finish the chapters for “The Archer” and “Let it Happen” I probably will post them at some point next week probably. I also have been going back to my roots which is angsty Turkish tv which makes me wanna write angsty ones but I’m not sure. Anyways love you guys, just thought I’d let you guys know.
helloo, could i request some lh angst :( BUT this time readers the one that fucked up (it could be anything you think of, most of the times i read the character fucking things up but i think it could be a different kind of story to see the character going thru the worst hurt and heartbreak of their life (drunk calling and texting type of heartbreak from reader could be good too but it’s up to you really) and reader is desperately trying to get him to listen to them cuz turns out the rumors were fake!!! but he didn’t give them the opportunity to explain 😌 and it’s up to you if u wanna end it happy or sad
you’re so good at writing sad stuff and i figured this would be fire to read with your style 🩷
(if it’s complete nonsense pleaaase ignore this thank youuuu)
-🍄
E V E R Y T H I N G T O L O S E - LH44
masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
author’s note: this one’s a request! thank you to 🍄 for enabling my obsession with writing lewis at his absolute lowest lmao you ruined me with this prompt. this is sad af and somehow still tender. it’s messy, it’s public, it’s painful. lewis hamilton vs his own pride, basically. lewis cries, you cry, i cry, everyone cries. ty for the request angel, hope u enjoy x
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader
wc: 6.3k!! (one-shot)
summary: When a scandal erupts online, Lewis is faced with the one thing he’s never been able to handle — the thought of losing you. With the whole world watching, pride, humiliation, and heartbreak tear him apart before the truth comes out.
warnings: ANGST, strong language, panic/vomiting, public humiliation/tabloid rumours, drunk reader, drunk calling, crying lewis (lots), pride, toxic? communication, hurt/comfort, emotional collapse, heartbreak, tender reconciliation.
Your legs are tangled over his lap, skin warm against the thin cotton of his joggers, cheek pressed into his chest like you were always meant to be attached to him. His hand tucked under the hem of the hoodie you stole, fingertips tracing idle lines up your spine. You hum something soft, a little off-key, and it still sounds better to him than anything else in the world.
For the first time in weeks, he feels still. No track, no noise, no cameras, only your heartbeat under his palm. Home.
He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, then another to your temple, then lower still, catching the curve of your cheek. You giggle, swat at his chest, but he only grins and noses at your jawline like he can’t get enough. Because he can’t. He never can.
“Someone’s clingy tonight, hm?” you mumble, but your hand slides into his braids anyway, gently tugging him closer.
“Mm,” he hums against your skin. “Obsessed with you.”
It’s true in ways he can’t even explain. You’re not just beside him…you’re in him, carved into every quiet space in his chest. He studies the shape of your face like he’ll never be able to memorise it enough, commits the sound of your laugh to muscle memory, kisses your nose just to feel the way your face scrunches up in mock annoyance.
You’re his safest place. The soft landing after a brutal race, the one person who doesn’t want anything from him except him. He’d give you every part of himself if you asked. He thinks that maybe he already has.
“You’re staring again,” you murmur against his collarbone, a soft smile on your lips.
“Can’t help it. Love looking at you babygirl. Love you.” he says simply. He’s not embarrassed about it anymore. Not about the way he watches you like you’re a miracle he still hasn’t figured out how he earned.
You sigh contentedly, shifting until you’re even closer, practically plastered to him. His heart aches with how much he loves you, with how heavy and soft you feel against him, with how right it all is. He kisses your forehead this time, lips lingering like he’s praying something wordless into your skin.
“I love you too, baby.” You kiss his jaw softly, and his eyes soften impossibly more as he kisses your forehead again.
He doesn’t want this night to end. Not ever. He’d be content to sit here forever until his last breath.
Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Once, twice, then a flood of notifications lighting up the dark. He ignores it at first, nosing into your hair, breathing you in. But it doesn’t stop. The vibration rattles the glass of water beside it, insistent, intrusive.
With a quiet curse, he reaches for it. A flurry of messages stacked on top of each other, names he trusts, his boys blowing up his screen. His eyebrows furrow as he sees names that aren’t normally ever lighting up his phone at this time messaging him too. Anxiety surges when he reads the names of other drivers. What the fuck? Charles? Isack?
Miles (9:13 PM): Bro r u seeing this?
Miles (9:13 PM): call me rn
Jonny (9:14PM): yo wtf man??
Daniel (9:14PM): Bruv is that ur girl?
Charles (9:14 PM): LH mate are you okay? Have you seen this?
Isack (9:14PM): Lewis have you seen twitter? Maybe don't.
The link is waiting. He opens it before he can think.
Tabloid headline. Your face. Another man’s hand pressed to the small of your back, his mouth at your ear obscuring his face, your smile frozen mid-laugh. His eyes flickered over the man’s jaw, curls, earring. He knew exactly who he was. Handsome, charming, successful. Lewis wasn’t an insecure man. But this was hard to ignore.
His eyes scan the article.
After being pictured wrapped around Hamilton at last weekend’s Grand Prix and fuelling rumours of a secret engagement, the driver’s girlfriend was spotted laughing and leaning close to another man described by witnesses as a “star athlete” and one of European football’s most recognisable midfielders. Multiple onlookers claimed the two were “inseparable” throughout the night, sharing whispered conversations, with one source insisting they kissed more than once. The pair were later seen leaving together in the early hours, reportedly returning to his London flat, all while Hamilton was in Italy.
“She didn’t seem to care who saw,” one insider told the outlet. “It was brazen, like she wanted people to talk.” The images have already ignited a storm online, with hashtags linking her name and the footballer’s trending within minutes. Tweets ranged from sympathy to ridicule, with one viral post reading: ‘Imagine thinking you’re marrying Lewis Hamilton, then running off with another athlete while he’s out there training. Disgusting.’ Another simply said: ‘Hamilton got played.’
No comments have yet been made from Hamilton or his team, but fans were quick to note the absence of his girlfriend at events he attended this week. The story has exploded across social media within hours, with tabloids branding it “the shock betrayal nobody saw coming”.
The floor drops out from under him. All air sucked out of his lungs. His face burns with embarrassment, humiliation, disbelief. Lewis’s vision blurred as the words carved themselves deeper into him, every line of the article louder than the last. It wasn’t just the photos…it was the humiliation, the way the world already knew. His phone buzzed nonstop with notifications, each vibration another knife in his gut. Group chats were lighting up. Even other drivers sending links with pitying little “you see this, mate?” as if he hadn’t already seen enough in the last thirty seconds.
He realised that by the time the story reached him, with you curled up on his lap like this, the headlines had circled the globe. Everyone knew. Everyone believed it. And he was the last to find out.
His pride shrivelled under the weight of it. Seven-time world champion, reduced to a punchline. The fool who got played while he was thousands of miles away, pouring his blood into his sport. He could already imagine the whispers in the paddock, the mocking headlines, the looks.
The burn in his chest twisted lower, rolling into his stomach until he thought he’d be sick right there in the bed. His hands trembled, grip tightening around his phone, jaw locked so hard it ached. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just the same looping nightmare: You and that prick. His hands on you. His baby. His girl. His safe space.
The room tilted. His pulse hammered in his ears, uneven and frantic, like his own body couldn’t keep up with the weight of what he’d just read.
“Baby?” you mumble, half-asleep, shifting against him when his body goes rigid. He doesn’t answer. Just stares at his phone, chest rising too fast beneath your cheek.
“Lew? what is it?”
He shoves the screen at you, eyes glassy. There it is. The headline screaming betrayal, the photos cropped and cruel.
Your stomach drops, but not for the reason he thinks. You remember that moment vividly. How you’d laughed politely at something harmless, already aching to get back to Lewis, wondering why this man had the audacity to get that close, wishing you had a ring on your finger to brand in his face. The whole world knew you were Lewis’s, so why did this man have the confidence to even talk to you? It had been nothing. Less than nothing. But the pictures make it look like everything. You blink and look at Lewis’s face. He looked wrecked.
“Lewis, it’s not—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks against his will. He pushes you off his lap, so sudden you stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the bed.
His hand grips around the phone until his knuckles ache, but he can’t tear his eyes from the screen. Your smile…his smile, the one he’d earned in the quiet hours when the world wasn’t watching, splashed across headlines, but aimed at someone else. A stranger’s hand low on your back, too low. His mouth pressed to your ear. And you laughing.
Every nerve in his body screams.
He swallows hard, but bile surges higher. His mind spins: You were too good to be true. Should’ve known. Should’ve never believed…
The phone slips from his grip, clattering onto the floor. He stumbles toward the bathroom like a man shot in the chest, lungs burning for air that won’t come.
The second the lock clicks, he’s on his knees, gagging into porcelain. Acid scorches his throat. His hands shake so violently he nearly misses the rim of the sink, fingertips smacking wet tile. The sound he makes isn’t human.
It hurts everywhere. His chest, his throat, his stomach, like the world is splitting him in two. His eyes burn, and the sob that breaks free is raw and violent, the kind he hasn’t let himself feel since he was a kid.
This is worse than losing a championship on the last lap. Worse than the nights he sat alone with headlines ripping him apart. This is you. The only place he thought he was safe.
And now it’s gone.
You laughed. You let him touch you. You looked happy.
He gags again, empty, nothing left to bring up, but his body keeps revolting, keeps punishing him. The ache won’t stop.
Because this isn’t just about a picture. It’s about trust. The one thing he couldn’t afford to hand over and the only thing he’d given you anyway. And now it’s being shoved back in his face, splintered into a thousand pieces by flashbulbs and headlines.
Your voice comes muffled through the door. “Lewis, please…listen to me, it’s not what you think—”
His chest caves in tighter. He wants to believe you. He wants to tear the lock open and bury himself in your arms and hear you tell him it’s all a lie. But the images keep replaying, burning themselves into his eyelids every time he blinks
“I can’t—” His voice cracks, strangled, barely his own. He braces a trembling hand against the wall, dragging himself upright, but the room tilts and spins.
“Lewis, please—”
“Get out.”
It doesn’t even sound like anger. It sounds like defeat. Like something inside him has snapped so violently it will never fit back together.
You freeze outside the door, forehead pressed against the wood. The words don’t sound like him. They sound hollow, gutted.
“Lewis—”
“I can’t even look at you.” His voice is ruined, shaking, like he’s choking.
Your breath catches.
“Lewis, I love you. Let me in…I could never do that to you, I–” your voice cuts off with a helpless sob.
He curls against the cold cabinet, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold the pieces in. His whole body shakes, sweat chilling his skin, but he can’t stop. He can’t breathe without the images flooding back.
The sound of your laugh just minutes ago, when you’d been curled against him, humming, safe… it clashes violently against the memory of that photo. Same laugh. Different man. Different meaning. His brain refuses to let him separate them.
His heart lurches so hard it feels like a physical wound. He presses the heel of his hand against his chest like he can stop the splitting, like he can stitch himself back together with sheer force. But it doesn’t work. It only makes the pressure sharper.
Why did he ever think he deserved something this good? Why did he let himself believe that someone like you could actually love him the way he loved you?
Because he did. More than anything. More than racing, more than winning, more than the parts of himself he never let anyone see. He loved you so much it terrified him. And now it feels like it's killing him.
He can still feel you on his lap. Your legs tangled over him, your weight pressed into him, the warmth of your cheek against his chest. It’s burned into his skin, cruel reminders of the safety he thought he’d finally found. A cruel before-and-after that plays on loop: the girl in his arms, the girl in the photo.
His vision blurs again, tears forcing their way past clenched eyes. The sob that claws its way out of his chest is ugly, broken, animal. His throat burns, voice shredded to pieces. He bites down hard enough on his lip to taste blood, but even that doesn’t distract him.
And all the while, your voice filters weakly through the door. You’re pleading, promising, begging him to listen, your words breaking on his name. That makes everything hurt worse. Because he wants to so badly. He wants to believe you more than anything.
But the photos won’t stop burning. His friends’ messages won’t stop buzzing. And he can’t risk it. He can’t risk giving his whole heart to you, only for the world to prove him wrong.
The bathroom spins. He presses his forehead to the cold porcelain of the sink, sweat dripping down his temples, chest heaving. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the picture. His baby with someone else. It makes him gag again. His fingers tremble against the basin. He feels small, hollowed out, like he’s back to being a boy again, broken open by a world too sharp, too cruel.
“Why?” The word falls out of him, ragged, ruined, meant for you but maybe only for himself. “Why would you do this to me?”
Silence answers. Then your voice again, weak and desperate: “I didn’t, Lewis, I swear. Please, it’s not what it looks like—”
He squeezes his eyes tighter, rocking forward with his arms wrapped tight around his ribs, desperately trying to hold himself together. He doesn’t believe you. He can’t. Because if he lets himself even hope, and it turns out to be true…if you really have betrayed him, it’ll destroy what little is left of him.
He tips his head back against the cabinet with a hollow thud, throat raw, lungs straining for air. The sound of your voice through the door is salt in an open wound. Every syllable carves him deeper, every plea twisting the knife.
He drags his palms over his face, nails scraping skin, and chokes on another sob. He’s unraveling. He knows it. And he hates that you’re the one who can hear it.
“Get out. Please,” he rasps, the words mangled by tears. “Just get out. I can’t do this.”
It doesn’t stop the grief. Doesn’t stop the avalanche crushing his chest. It only makes it worse, because even as he pushes you away, even as he tells you to leave, he knows a part of him will always, always want you to stay.
“Baby…” you sob, hands pressed flat against the door.
That ruins him, his stomach lurches once more as he dry heaves between sobs. He doesn't want to hear anymore. He can’t even hear your voice without feeling a sharp stab to his chest.
“Get the fuck out!” he screams desperately through the closed door.
The sound jolts your entire body. Your Lewis had never even raised his voice at you. Not once. Not until now.
You slide down to the floor outside the door, curling into yourself. Tears blur everything, but you can still hear him inside, sobbing like his body is splitting apart, like your name itself has become poison in his throat. But the longer you sit there, the more the truth sinks in like ice water over your head: he doesn’t want you. Not here. Not now. Your voice only hurts him more.
Every muffled sob from behind that door cuts into you, sharp and merciless. He sounds destroyed. Ruined. And all you can think is that staying will only make it worse.
Your legs feel weak when you push yourself upright, like you’re moving underwater. You grab your bag with shaking hands, the apartment a blur through your tears. For a moment you hesitate in the doorway, praying he’ll open the bathroom door, call your name, beg you not to go. But all you hear is the broken sound of him falling apart.
So you leave. Not because you’re guilty, not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because the man you love is too shattered to hear the truth.
The door shuts, and the echo feels like a gunshot. His cries seep through the walls, each one shattering another piece of you, until you don’t know which of you is more broken. You leave him behind not because you want to, but because he begged you to. You walk down the hall on shaking legs, knowing the man you love is crumbling a few feet away, and you can’t touch him, can’t fix him. He doesn’t want you to. That hurts more than anything else ever could.
You don’t remember getting home. Only the blur of the Uber ride, your phone heavy in your hand, eyes swollen and raw. The city outside the window looks crueler than ever, every streetlight stabbing at your temples. You can still hear him, broken behind that bathroom door.
Your thumb hovers over his name in your contacts for hours. And then you cave.
1:13 a.m. Lew, please, I need you to listen.
1:26 a.m. It wasn’t like that. I would never.
1:42 a.m. I’m begging you. Answer me. I can’t breathe without you.
You call. Once. Twice. Ten times. His voicemail picks up every time. The robotic “leave your message after the tone” slices through the quiet of your apartment until you’re pacing, glass in your hand, words spilling out until you don’t even remember what you said.
By the fifth call, your throat is raw. By the tenth, your hands are shaking so badly you spill vodka down the front of your shirt. By the fifteenth, you’re sobbing into the receiver, voice broken, pleading for him to pick up.
You don’t stop. Not until the sun starts rising, painting the walls of your empty apartment gold.
The apartment door closes behind you, and he doesn’t move. He stays curled on the cold tile until his muscles ache, until his tears dry in sticky tracks against his face. The silence is deafening, but he can’t bring himself to leave the bathroom. Because if he steps into the bedroom, if he looks at the bed where you’d been tangled up with him only hours earlier, he thinks it might kill him.
When he finally stumbles out, dawn is bleeding through the curtains. Your bag is gone. So are you. The place smells faintly like your perfume, the hoodie you wore crumpled on the bed like proof he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. He sinks to the floor beside it, clutching it to his face, rocking like a man trying to wake himself from a nightmare.
His phone won’t stop buzzing. Notifications stacking, texts lighting up his screen. He ignores them until he can’t anymore. He sees your name first. Dozens of messages. Missed calls. Voicemails.
He swipes through the list with trembling fingers before pressing play.
“Lewis, baby, it’s me… please, please don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. You know me. You know I’d never—”
Your voice is fractured, soft, breaking on his name. He doubles over, pressing a fist to his stomach, hoping it’ll stop the twisting ache.
Another voicemail.
“You’re the only one I want. The only one I’ve ever wanted. Please call me back.”
He presses the phone against his ear until it hurts. The sound of you sobbing on the other end makes bile rise in his throat again. His hand shakes so badly he nearly drops it.
By the fourth message, your words are slurred.
“I can’t—fuck, I can’t lose you. Do you hear me? You’re it, Lew. You’re everything. I swear on my life, it’s not true. Just… answer me. Please.”
His breath shudders out of him, harsh and uneven. The words stab through his chest, cruel because they’re exactly what he wants to hear, but exactly what he can’t believe. His pride, his humiliation, the image of those photos plastered across every screen in the world, they all press against your voice, crushing him until he can barely breathe.
Another one. Another. Each worse than the last.
You sound destroyed.
He can’t stop listening.
By the tenth, he’s curled on the floor, hoodie clutched in his fist, tears soaking the fabric. Every voicemail feels like someone hammering nails into him, one after the other, until he’s pinned to the floor by his own grief.
He can’t do this here. Not in the apartment that still smells like you, not surrounded by your shoes by the door, your charger tangled on the nightstand, your laugh echoing in his skull like a ghost.
So he runs.
The drive is endless and yet a blur. The motorway lights streak past in pale yellow smears, his grip white-knuckled on the wheel, vision clouded by tears that keep threatening to spill over again. He doesn’t pack properly, just throws a duffel into the car, hoodie over his head, glasses pulled low. Not even a toothbrush. He just needs to run.
He doesn’t put music on. He can’t. The silence is punishment enough, filled only by the occasional buzz of his phone in the passenger seat, lighting up with your name again and again. He can’t look at it. He grips the wheel tighter, chest aching every time it vibrates. He knows it’s you. He knows you’re still trying.
But the voices of his friends, of the other drivers, of strangers on the internet drown you out. Hamilton got played. Did you see this, mate? She didn’t even care who saw.
By the time he turns into the town he grew up in, the sun is rising, painting the sky a thin, bleak grey. His stomach churns as he pulls into the driveway. The house hasn’t changed since he was last here. Same bricks, same flowers in the front garden his mum tends every spring. For a moment he just sits there with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel, breathing like each inhale hurts.
The door opens before he can knock. His mother stands there, cardigan pulled tight around her, concern carved into every line of her face.
“Lewis?” she says softly, and that’s all it takes.
His lips press together in a trembling line before they break completely. His eyes squeeze shut and the tears spill fast and hot, shoulders shaking as he drops the duffel on the step. She rushes forward and pulls him into her arms, no questions asked, no demands for explanation. Just warmth, steady and certain.
He collapses against her like he’s seventeen again, not forty, not a champion, not a man the world sees as unbreakable. His body racks with sobs, face buried in her shoulder, the sound of him crying raw and desperate, like the child she used to rock to sleep after nightmares.
“Shh, sweetheart,” she whispers, stroking the back of his head, swaying gently. “It’s okay. You’re home now. It’s okay.”
But it isn’t. It isn’t okay. And the worst part is, he doesn’t even know if it ever will be again.
That night, he lies awake in his bedroom at their house. Posters on the walls, shelves lined with trophies from before the world knew his name. The space feels foreign and familiar all at once, like a version of himself he can’t reach anymore. He’d distracted himself by spending time with his niece and nephew, and it had worked, helping him feel a little more human. Until now.
He wants to call you. God, he wants to so fucking bad. He clutches his phone to his chest. Your name stares back at him in endless missed calls, endless messages stacked one after the other. His thumb hovers over the screen. He could call you. He could end this spiral in a second, let you explain, let you fix it.
But then he hears it all again: his friends’ texts, the mocking headlines, the whispers in the paddock, the pitying messages from the people who were supposed to respect him, the images of your smile aimed at someone else. And his pride won’t let him. His heartbreak won’t let him.
So he does the only thing he knows how to do: he presses play on another voicemail.
“Lew, please answer. Please. I don’t know what to do without you.”
The sound of your voice cracks through the quiet of his room like a blade. He turns onto his side, curling into himself, face pressed to the pillow. His body trembles with silent sobs, the kind that leave him gasping, chest aching like it’s caving in. He clutches the duvet in his fists, pulling it over his head, trying to block it all out. But your voice slips through anyway.
He thinks of you on his lap, humming gently, pressing soft kisses to his jaw. He thinks of your smile. The smell of your hair. Your warmth in his arms. And then he sees the photos again. The article. The “sources.” The hashtags trending with your name and someone else’s. The whole world believing you’d betrayed him while he was too blind, too in love, to see it.
It’s breaking him in half.
He presses the pillow harder to his face and cries into it until his throat is raw, until his body is exhausted from grief. He’s Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion. But here, in his family’s home, he’s just a broken boy who can’t understand how love turned into this much pain. Pain that felt like it was ripping him open from the inside out. He’d never felt like this. Never wanted to feel like this again
It was then that he decided he couldn't let himself go back. Couldn’t bear to go through anything like this again.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Three days pass in a haze. Lewis barely eats. He can’t train. He can’t even leave the house. He spends hours in his room, curtains drawn, scrolling and scrolling through the same photos, as if staring at them might change what they show. Each time his chest tightens all over again.
Lewis doesn’t mean to open Twitter, but he can’t sleep, can’t breathe. Every scroll is torture, every photo a reminder. But then he sees it.
[BREAKING] Star midfielder DENIES rumours of alleged affair with Hamilton’s girlfriend
His thumb freezes. The headline stares back at him like it’s in another language.
He taps the article. The footballer’s face fills the screen, jaw tight, eyes blazing at a press conference.
In a shocking twist, the scandal that dominated headlines this week has now been branded a fabrication. The football star at the centre of the alleged affair has spoken out publicly, slamming the story as “absolute bullshit.”
“She’s barely even my friend,” he told reporters at a press conference earlier today. “We spoke briefly about a youth program, and that’s it. There was no kiss, no relationship, no ‘late-night flat.’ I’m furious the media twisted something so harmless into a scandal. And I’m especially angry for her, because this nonsense disrespects her and her relationship. She loves Lewis. Everyone knows that.”
The statement has sent shockwaves through social media, with fans now demanding apologies for Hamilton’s girlfriend. The photos have since been confirmed to be cropped and misleading, and the alleged ‘flat sighting’ traced back to recycled paparazzi shots from months ago. What began as “the shock betrayal nobody saw coming” has instead become another high-profile case of tabloid sensationalism.
Lewis stares at the words until they blur. His chest constricts, nausea climbing his throat.
It wasn’t true. None of it.
The phone slips from his hand and hits the floor with a dull thud. He sinks onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, pressing his hands into his face. His body trembles violently, breaths coming shallow and fast.
He doesn’t know if it’s relief or devastation. Both, maybe. Because the story was fake, yes, but his reaction wasn’t. His reaction was real. And it feels like he's destroyed the one person who ever made him feel safe.
Across the city, you’re staring at the same headline, tears spilling over your cheeks. For the first time in days, you exhale without your chest crushing in. Relief and exhaustion war inside you, but the ache doesn’t vanish. The damage is done. He didn’t believe you. He didn’t even give you the chance to explain. You don’t know if things can ever be the same again.
You curl onto the sofa, phone pressed to your chest, whispering into the empty room. “Thank you.” Not to him, not the footballer, but to whatever higher power finally, finally cleared your name.
Meanwhile, Lewis rocks back and forth on his mattress, hearing the midfielder’s words on repeat. She loves Lewis. Everyone knows that.
He wants to believe it. He knows he should believe it. But the truth is louder: he didn’t know. He didn’t trust. He threw it all away before the world corrected him.
He’s not relieved. He’s in shock. Then he’s drowning in guilt.
When the knock comes, you almost don’t answer. It’s late, and you’re the most drained you’ve ever been. Three days of sobbing into pillows, clutching your phone until your fingers cramped. You’d spent all day rereading the denial article like it might erase the damage already done. You’ve just about convinced yourself it’s someone else. A neighbour. Delivery. Anyone but him.
But then you hear it. His voice, muffled, desperate.
“Baby, please. Please open the door.”
Your breath stutters. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then your legs carry you forward before your brain can catch up. You unlock the door.
Lewis stands there, hood soaked with rain, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the night you left. The moment he sees you, his chest heaves, and the first sob rips free.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re in shock, gripping the edge of the doorframe so hard to hold you upright. He ignored you for three days. Left you alone with your own heartbreak while the world tore you apart. Now he’s here, crying like a child on your doorstep.
“I didn’t believe you,” he says, voice shaking, words tumbling out. “I didn’t even let you explain. I pushed you away, I screamed at you, I—” His voice cracks. “I broke us. I broke you. And it was all a lie.”
Tears sting your eyes again, hot and relentless. “Lewis—”
“I wanted to marry you,” he blurts, chest heaving. “Do you understand that? I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve never loved like this. Never been this obsessed with anyone. You’re my safe place, my home, my everything… a-and I ruined it because my pride couldn’t take it. Because the whole world saw those photos and I—” His hands drag through his braids, frantic. “I thought I was a fool. I thought everyone was laughing at me. I couldn’t—fuck, I couldn’t breathe knowing people thought you were his. Thinking he'd touched you”
Your knees feel weak. The sight of him so raw, so shattered, is almost incomprehensible in your current state. You understand. Of course you get it. If it had been him in those photos, you’d have lost your mind too. You’d have burned the world down. But the pain he put you through is still there, lodged deep in your chest, throbbing with every beat of your heart.
“Do you know what it did to me?” you whisper, voice breaking. “Three days, Lewis. Three days of calling, begging, screaming into voicemails, and you didn’t answer. You left me to drown.”
He flinches like you struck him, tears spilling freely now. “I listened,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I listened to every single one. Over and over. I couldn’t stop. Your voice—” He shakes his head, choking. “It killed me. But I didn’t have the strength to call back. I was so fucking broken. I couldn’t face you thinking that you didn't...didn't want me”
He cuts himself off by gasping for air through sobs.
The silence between you is jagged, broken only by his sobs and the rain dripping from his hood onto your floor. You want to collapse into him, to let him hold you, to believe this can be stitched back together. But the wound is still raw.
“Lewis,” you whisper, and his name tastes like salt on your tongue. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. But something between us broke that night. You shut down, Lew. Shut me out.”
“I know,” he says instantly, desperate. “I know, baby. And I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life fixing it, if you let me. I’ll fight for us harder than I’ve ever fought for anything. Because I can’t lose you. I can’t. I won’t.”
He takes a shuddering breath, trying to force more words out between tears. “I was so scared, baby. You have to understand. I’ve dealt with the world doubting me, mocking me, tearing me apart, but this… this was different. It wasn’t just headlines. It was you. It was them all looking at me like I was pathetic, like the whole world had proof I wasn’t enough for the woman I love. I felt stripped bare. I didn’t know how to come back from that. And it killed me, because all I’ve ever wanted was you.”
His hands twitch helplessly at his sides, as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or hide his face. “I’ve never been that vulnerable. I’ve never given anyone this much of me. And when it looked like you’d thrown it away, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know how to keep standing.”
His hands drag down his face, and when he looks at you again his eyes are wild, wrecked. "I’ve never cared about anyone like this, never loved anyone this hard. You’re in every part of me. And when it looked like you’d given that to someone else—” his words shatter, his hand clenching over his chest, “—I lost it. It felt like my heart was being ripped out in front of everyone. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, because if I lost you, then what’s left of me?”
His voice softens, almost ashamed. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you speak. I should’ve, but I panicked. All I saw was you with someone else, and it felt like the whole world was laughing at me. I told myself you were gone before I even gave you the chance to tell me otherwise.”
Your chest aches. You can see it in his eyes, the boy who never believed he was worthy of being loved like this, who let fear and pride turn him into his own enemy. And you can feel it in your own heart too, the ache of betrayal, the scar of abandonment, but also the love that hasn’t dimmed, not for a second.
Slowly, you step aside, leaving the door open. “Come in,” you whisper.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days, stumbling inside, shutting the door behind him. And when you finally collapse into his arms, both of you sobbing, both of you clinging like you might disappear, the mess doesn’t vanish. The pain doesn’t vanish. The pressures, the headlines, the public eye, they’re all still there.
But so is the love. It always was.
The chaos still hums in the air long after the tears dry, but neither of you speaks as you move together through the motions of something mundane, something grounding. A shower to wash away the rain and the grief, his hands trembling when he helps rinse the shampoo from your hair, your fingers brushing gently over the bruises left on his pride, his heart. Neither of you says much. You don’t need to.
Later, in your bed, after the rain and the tears and the silence of the shower, you lie tangled together. His head rests on your chest, his arm locked firmly around your waist. His breath warms your skin, uneven, like he’s still coming down from the storm inside him.
“I was fucking horrified,” he whispers suddenly, voice raw against your skin. “The thought of you with someone else… it—it killed me. And the whole world saw it, believed it. They thought my baby wasn’t mine anymore. I thought I’d lost you, that you wanted someone else, and I couldn’t stand the thought of that.”
Your throat tightens, tears stinging again. You slide your fingers gently through his damp braids, soothing. “I know,” you whisper. “I know, Lew. I get it. With all that pressure, with the cameras, the headlines… God, if it was me, I don’t think I’d have survived it either.”
He shifts, lifting his face just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and glassy in the dim light. “I was serious about wanting to marry you,” he breathes. “Still do. Even after all this. Especially after all this. If you’ll still have me.”
Your chest aches at the broken hope in his voice. You press a trembling kiss to his forehead, your arm wrapping tighter around him. “I’m here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
Something inside him gives way. He buries his face against your chest again, the sob that escapes is muffled but heavy.
“I love you more than anything,” he sniffles into your neck.
“I love you too baby, more than anything.” Your voice is barely above a whisper as you kiss his temple again.
As you drift into sleep, you both let yourself believe that if you can get through this, then you can get through anything.
summary : After leaving Australia to chase his Formula One dream, Oscar returns not as the boy that used to be you olde brother’s best friend, but as a man who you can’t stop staring at, and who can’t stop staring at you. What’s supposed to be a normal weekend in Singapore leaves you both tired of pretending you don’t want each other.
wc : 7.9k
warnings : SMUT ! p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, dom!oscar, oral sex (fem receiving) +18 [minors dni]
a/n : hi hi hi!! this is already posted on my patreon! it’s basically a fic exploring this texts that i made that was veeery requested, so i delivered! I’ll probably post it in here sometime next month, at the start of january, but until then it’s in the other app! here’s the link
Race day comes with the usual heavy Singaporean heat and the same amount of cameras in your face as always.
Luckily, you've already gotten yourself an iced coffee, so you don't depend on Oscar this time.
Not like you've seen him since yesterday anyway.
After Qualifying, Theo told you he had to stay longer so you two headed to the hotel before him. And when you went down for breakfast this morning, he wasn't there either, which to be honestly help calm you down a bit.
Not like you should be nervous, should you? Yeah, he had called you cute, asked you what you thought of his abs after you saw him fresh out of a shower, and looked at you in a way he never had before. But that wasn't a big deal, he was just messing with you.
Right?
Yeah, he definitely was.
When you finally see him again, it's in the hospitality. You're scrolling mindlessly on your phone, not really doing anything, and then some voices make you look up. Actually, it was just a certain voice.
And there he is, walking next to some guy from his PR team you've seen before.
When he locks eyes you, his usual resting face changes to the slightest smile, as one of his hands waves once at you.
You imitate his gesture, your lips pressing together in an awkward manner before you force yourself to look away.
"I've been the archer, I've been the prey, Screaming: Who could ever leave me, darling?, But who could stay."
『⩇⩇:⩇⩇』 • masterlist • The Archer Playlist
✩ smau / real life
✩ lewis hamilton x driver oc
⬅previous • next➡
SUMMARY: The sun was nice. The quiet was nicer. But peace gets boring fast when Sena starts wondering who’s really in control her or Lewis the same man she swore didn’t matter.
Warnings: mentions of sex (explicit), casual sexual relationship, alcohol use, mild jealousy themes, emotionally complex/ambiguous relationship dynamic, language
Word count: 4.6k
Author’s Note: I felt a bit stuck on this chapter, I wanted to show that both of them are idiots who think the other one is the one drawing that line in the sand, in a loving way. I also have a paper to finish, which I’m beginning to think will never end, but anyway, I hope you guys like it sorry if there are some mistakes<3
Just a quick heads-up: this story is 100% fictional. I’ve twisted timelines, switched up careers, and added some characters to tell the story I want to tell. It’s all vibes, emotions, and a whole lot of imagination.
✧ Chapter 8 ✧
📍 Aphrodite’s Rock, Paphos, Cyprus
Liked by lewishamilton, taylorswift, and others
senafox Salt in my hair, sun on my skin, peace for once 🌊☀️
it’s a cruel summer
View All comments
livysmith: i have a bruise from that jump and i want compensation
faith.cartier: i’ve decided i’m never coming home. tell my manager i drowned beautifully.
⤷ livysmith: your manager liked the post, so i think he knows.
lilymhe: i can literally hear the peace through these
carmenmundt: my favourite mermaid 🐚
georgerussell63: aesthetic but unsafe. wear a life jacket.
⤷ senafox: booo you’re no fun live a little.
alexandrasaintmleux: so this is why my calls went to voicemail
⤷ senafox: i was busy trying not to get eaten by a fish 💋 i’ll bring you something shiny to make up for it.
⤷ charles_leclerc: stop flirting with my girlfriend @senafox gift her less, she’s already spoiled.
⤷ senafox: impossible.
user1: how is she real.
user2: if “main character energy” was a person.
user3: the vibe is sunburn and serenity.
user4: petition to keep her on vacation forever.
user5: all this fun but not one man was seen all holiday what is going on in the house of commons. 👀
Her dad’s house smelled like lemons, freshly picked from the garden that stretched behind the kitchen windows. The scent clung to everything, soft and clean. Her father was already at the stove, sleeves rolled up, whistling off-key to a radio tune that crackled with static. The smell of the roast filled the whole house, rich and familiar, the buttery warmth of roasted potatoes, tomatoes blistering in their skins, sausages that sizzled whenever Jon turned them in the pan. There was something grounding about it, something that pulled her back into the shape of a daughter rather than a driver everyone saw her as. She missed this. Missed him. Missed being around him, the way his presence rewired her nerves until they stopped humming with the tension of racing, the chaos of travel, the noise of her own mind. She felt small here, not diminished, but protected. This house was a fortress, one that smelled like roast and lemon soap, one that made her believe nothing could touch her.
Faith and Olivia had slept over again. They’d been doing that since they were eleven, long before Sena became Sena Fox. Back then it had been sleepovers filled with sugar and secrets, giggling under duvets until Jon knocked on the door pretending to be strict. Now, it was a familiar comfort, one that stretched across years without ever losing its shape. That morning, they were all still in matching pajamas — cotton shorts, oversized tees, hair tied up in half-hearted buns — sitting cross-legged in the living room more on the carpet than the couch. Last night had been one of those nights that didn’t need to be remarkable to feel special. They’d stayed up late talking about everything and nothing, the kind of conversations that drifted from deep to ridiculous in the space of a breath.
For a moment, it had felt like they were kids again, lying on the floor, whispering about which boys they liked, arguing over which bands were overrated, playing snog, marry, avoid like it held the meaning of life. Only now, the conversations had grown up with them. Faith was talking about some YouTube drama she was too invested in and a brand deal she wasn’t excited about but couldn’t say no to because the money was good. Olivia was ranting about her term paper, convinced it was going to be terrible even though Sena knew it would turn out brilliant like everything else she did.
And Sena, she talked too, but not about what mattered. She talked about how she’d missed them, about Monaco and how it was too sunny, too still, too golden for someone raised under British skies. She talked about the championship and how much she’d had to fight, how everything had shifted. She talked about everything except the one thing sitting heavy at the back of her throat. Lewis.
She hadn’t told them about the Silverstone party, about how she’d disappeared into the night. When Faith and Olivia had shown up at her door the next morning demanding where she disappeared to, she blamed it on the shots, on feeling unwell. It wasn’t shame that stopped her from telling them the truth; her friends would never judge her. If anything, they’d be thrilled. They’d tease her mercilessly, brag about how they’d called it from a mile away. What held her back was the fear that they wouldn’t understand, that they’d think it meant something it didn’t.
Because it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. That night, him showing up to her party with another girl and still ending up in her bed, didn’t unsettle her. It thrilled her, in a way she didn’t want to analyze or explain. And she didn’t want to see her friends’ faces twist with their opinions about it.
She didn’t want to dissect it. Didn’t want to hold it up to the light and name what it was or wasn’t. What good would it do? It wasn’t love, it wasn’t belonging, it wasn’t even possession, though he played at it sometimes, like she was something he could touch and claim and then leave behind. It didn’t fit into the tidy categories of heartbreak or casual fun. It existed in that strange middle ground she knew too well, the one that thrummed like the moment before a race start, dangerous, thrilling, electric.
The holiday had been good. Good in the way quiet days sometimes are, sun, sea, and no schedule. Just Sena, Faith, and Olivia adrift in the middle of the Mediterranean, spending their mornings swimming until their skin pruned and their nights dancing barefoot along the coast, hair salty, laughter spilling into the warm air. The world had slowed down for once, and Sena had let it.
She’d spoken to Lewis maybe twice since Belgium. He’d been seen everywhere, on yachts off the Italian coast, surrounded by friends and pretty women. Sometimes more than one. Paparazzi photos of tan legs and champagne bottles and sunsets that looked suspiciously expensive. She scrolled past them every time. Told herself she didn’t care. Why would she? They were casual. That was the point. No strings, no promises, no consequences, no jealousy.
That was the deal.
He didn’t owe her anything. He never said he would. And she wasn’t naïve enough to expect otherwise. If she kept letting him into her bed — or found herself in his — even after nights she knew he’d been out with someone else, that was her problem, not his.
But what she didn’t admit, even to herself, was that while he seemed to move freely, she didn’t. Ever since their arrangement began, Sena realized that other men had stopped being interesting. It was almost sad, how dull they’d become. The ones who once made her laugh or blush now barely earned a second glance. The kind of men she used to think were her type couldn’t even hold her attention for a full minute.
The most exciting thing that had happened all holiday was spotting a Caretta caretta sea turtle while swimming off the coast. But when it came to people — to anything resembling interest — nothing sparked. Not a single man had caught her eye, and she told herself that it had nothing to do with Lewis.
And yet, somewhere deep down, she knew it did.
Dinner had a rhythm of its own in the Fox house, a kind of organized chaos that had always existed whenever Jon cooked. The kitchen looked like it had survived a small storm, pans stacked by the sink, plates piled high with roast potatoes that gleamed under melted butter, the last of the gravy simmering low on the stove. The smell was unreal: salt and thyme, charred tomatoes, black pepper, and the faintest sweetness of caramelized onions.
They ate like people who hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks, seconds and thirds, conversation jumping from one thing to another. Jon kept shaking his head, smiling quietly at the chaos he’d built and loved so fiercely. For a man who had spent most of his life around engines, grease, and noise, this was the kind of sound that kept him alive. The girls had always filled his house with it. Even now, adults by every technical definition, they still fell back into the same rhythm whenever they were here, teasing, bickering, reaching across the table like they were still fifteen.
Sena, between bites, caught herself watching him. The way he leaned over the table to refill Faith’s glass before she asked. The way he listened to Olivia ramble about some academic crisis like it was the most important thing in the world. The way his eyes softened when she looked at him. When the plates were cleared, Jon leaned back in his chair and exhaled like a man finally satisfied. He collected his tea and retreated toward the study, muttering something about needing to check on emails.
Left alone, the girls drifted into the living room like migrating birds, still half-talking over one another. Faith collapsed onto the couch first, dramatically, limbs sprawled, sighing like she’d run a marathon. Olivia followed, curling up beside her with a blanket and a glass of wine she’d stolen from the table.
Sena lingered in the kitchen for a moment, rinsing plates, wiping down the counter out of habit more than need. The last plate clinked softly against the rack as Sena rinsed it clean. The window above the sink was cracked open, letting in the early evening air, warm, lazy, still touched by the smell of roast that lingered through the house. She reached for the towel to dry her hands when her phone buzzed across the counter. One look at the name on the screen and her stomach did that stupid flip she hated admitting still happened. Lewis.
For a moment, she just stared at it, the tiny grey bubble pulsing for half a second before vanishing. No follow-up. No explanation. No emoji. Just “come outside” that same maddening tone of his that always sounded like an order disguised as a suggestion.
She turned, glancing toward the living room. Faith was half-asleep on the couch, a blanket tangled around her legs. Olivia was still scrolling through her phone, humming under her breath.
“I’m just gonna go get some air,” Sena said casually, grabbing her phone off the counter.
Olivia made a sleepy noise of agreement.
Sena rolled her eyes, slipping into her shoes by the door. She didn’t bother changing, not that she’d thought it through. Her pajamas were thin, soft cotton: pale blue shorts and a loose top that hung just right off one shoulder. She looked down at herself, sighed, then shrugged. If he wanted her outside, he could take her as she was.
The air outside was cool, the kind that still smelled faintly of sun on brick. She stepped off the porch, phone in hand, and then she saw it.
Parked at the edge of the driveway, headlights off, was a vintage Ferrari, cherry red, the kind of shine that made the streetlights bow to it. Its curves gleamed under the soft glow of dusk, every inch immaculate. And leaning against it, hands in his pockets, looking annoyingly pleased with himself, was Lewis.
She stopped halfway down the path. “You’re joking.”
He smiled, that slow, crooked thing he did when he knew he’d already won the argument. “Miss me?”
She blinked, taking in the car again. “When the hell did you even get this?”
He turned. “Bought it this morning.”
“Of course you did.” She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “Let me guess. You drove it all the way here just to show off?”
He looked at her properly then — from her messy hair to her pajama shorts — and chuckled. “Didn’t think you’d come out dressed for the occasion.”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t think you would show up uninvited.”
“Guess we both like surprises,” he said, and opened the passenger door with a flourish. “Come on. Let’s take her out.”
She hesitated for a second, glancing toward the house. Everything about the scene looked still, safe, the kind of domestic calm that never seemed to belong to her for long.
She turned back to Lewis, the Ferrari gleaming like some decadent challenge under the streetlights. “Fine,” she said, feigning annoyance but sliding into the passenger seat without hesitation. The engine came to life with a purr that rolled through her chest. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, the city lights flashing soft gold across his profile. They didn’t talk much at first. The wind tangled her hair, the world outside slipping by in a blur of late-summer dusk. Somewhere past the city edge, the streets opened up, wide, quiet, the kind of roads that felt like they were made for secrets.
They stopped eventually, somewhere high above the city, a secluded overlook, where the skyline blinked in the distance and the air smelled faintly of cut grass and rain.
Sena stepped out, her bare legs goosebumping instantly against the night air. Lewis leaned against the car again, watching her.
“So,” she said, tugging at the hem of her top. “You really drove across the city just to take me out for a spin?”
He shrugged, smirking. “That. And maybe to see if I could get you to leave the house in pajamas.”
She snorted. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe.” He tilted his head, studying her. “But you’re here.”
She folded her arms, feigning indifference. “You could’ve called, you know.”
“I could’ve,” he said easily. “But where is the fun in that?”
Her mouth twitched, caught between a smile and a sigh. “You’re ridiculous.” She looked away, over the skyline, pretending she hadn’t heard him. The city below looked small, toy-like, the glow of it pulsing like a heartbeat. Then, softly, she teased, “So, how many of the girls from your yacht trip did you impress with this car before me?”
He laughed, low and genuine. “None. They weren’t really the vintage type.”
“Good,” she said, raising a brow. “Would’ve been awkward if one of them popped out of the trunk.”
He smirked. “Jealous?”
She scoffed. “Only in your dreams.”
He leaned in slightly, the distance between them tightening. “You’d make a convincing liar, if your voice didn’t shake when you said that.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered.
“Not flattery,” he murmured. “Just observation.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t move away. The night pressed close the hum of the engine still faint in the air, the warmth of his body a whisper away.
“Did you really come all this way,” she said finally, “just to show off your new toy?”
His smile turned slower, sharper. “That. And one more thing.”
“And what’s that?”
He tilted his head, voice dropping low enough to make her pulse stumble. “Wanted to ask if you’ve ever had sex on a vintage Ferrari.”
She stared at him, unamused, raising a brow. “No. Why? Planning on changing that?”
His grin was lazy, deliberate. “Absolutely.”
The sound she made was half a scoff, half a laugh, but when he reached for her, she didn’t pull away. The Ferrari was a ridiculous place for it. That was half the point. The paint glowed deep red in the failing light, the bonnet still radiating the engine’s warmth. Sena perched on it awkwardly at first, arms folded across her chest, her pajamas shining with every tiny movement. She was painfully aware of the street, the sky, the open space. She was not the type to blush, but there was something about the possibility of being seen, about the reality of this car, this stupid, expensive car.
Lewis stood close, the silhouette of him tall and sharp with the skyline behind his back. For a second, he just looked at her. The tension felt exposed, not just physical but emotional, the kind of energy that dared the night to interrupt. When he touched her, it was gentle at first—fingers tracing the band of her pajama shorts, pausing like he needed to memorize the moment before he ruined it.
“These are cute,” he said, voice low, already shifting, already aiming for nonchalance.
She tried to roll her eyes, but her mouth quirked at the corner. “Don’t act like you haven’t seen me in less.”
He didn’t bother with a comeback, just let his gaze drag over her, hands settling on her knees, nudging them apart. He stepped in, crowding her back against the bonnet, leaning one hand beside her hip. “Maybe if you spent as much time on track as you do buying new toys, you’d have something else to brag about,” she said, tone sharp but teasing.
He smirked, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the inside of her thigh, possessive and slow. “Keep talking, sweetheart. I like it when you act like you’re not desperate for me.”
She huffed, breath catching when his touch drifted higher, silk sliding up her legs, her own hands bracing behind her. “You’re obsessed with yourself, you know that?” She tilted her chin up, defiant, but her body was already betraying her, legs parting, heartbeat quickening, heat coiling low.
He bent closer, breath warm at her jaw, voice low and rough. “Not obsessed with myself. Obsessed with you. Don’t get it twisted.” His fingers slipped under her waistband, dragging the elastic slow, like he wanted her to feel every second of it. He lowered himself between her legs. She shivered as he pressed a kiss to her thigh, beard scraping her skin, his hand sliding between her legs and finding her wet already. He paused, his thumb ghosting over her. “You’re soaked,” he murmured, accusation and worship tangled in his tone.
She let out a shaky breath, eyes fixed on his face. “Yeah, well, maybe I missed you.”
The confession slipped out too easily. He looked at her like he was trying to memorize the sound. It wasn’t about the truth in them, it was about how much it mattered, how badly he wanted to believe it was for him.
He pressed two fingers inside, the movement slow, deliberate. He watched her face change, the way she bit her lip to keep quiet. She stared at the stars overhead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan, but he could feel her clench around his hand, her body betraying what her mouth never would.
“I thought about you all summer,” he said, voice pitched low, rawer than he meant it to be. “Didn’t matter where I was, had half a mind to cut my trip short. I wanted to ruin you everywhere.”
Sena felt a rush of pride, of power, that nearly undid her. She could have let him keep talking, but the words burned. She dragged him up by the collar, kissed him hard, biting down until he hissed.
“Prove it,” she said. It was a dare, and he took it.
He worked her until her thighs were shaking, until the only thing holding her up was the hood beneath her back. When she came, she didn’t hide it. Her head dropped back, hair sticking to the paint, a cry half-caught behind her teeth. She tasted the sky, the night, and him—her body arching into his hands, trusting, open.
He didn’t wait. Spun her around, bent her over the hood. She felt the bite of metal under her cheek, the chill at her back. He fumbled with his belt, a mess of impatience and nerves, the façade slipping just a little. His hands found her hips, thumbs digging in like he was afraid she might run.
“You ever think about this?” he said, lining up behind her, breath ragged against her ear. “About me? About how it feels when I fuck you like this?”
She tried to sound unaffected. She failed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He thrust into her all at once, brutal and deep, and for a second everything vanished, the street, the sky, the car. There was just the way he filled her, the way he groaned when her body clenched around him. He sounded close to undone already, and she loved it, loved how easily she could unravel all that control.
He fucked her hard, not cruel but desperate, the sound of skin on skin swallowed by the night. She gripped the edge of the car, nails digging into red paint, head spinning with sensation and adrenaline. The risk of being seen was intoxicating, but it was nothing compared to the risk of letting him in like this, letting him have her, own her, just for tonight.
“Mine,” he said, the word a prayer, a curse. “All fucking mine. My girl.”
Sena shuddered, a bolt of pleasure snapping through her. She wondered if he’d even remember this tomorrow, or if he’d pretend it was just sex, just another win in their game.
He came with a gasp, her name on his lips, and she felt the weight of him, all heat and promise and something that scared her if she let herself look too closely. When it was over, he stayed close, breathing heavy against her back, hands gentle now as he helped her up.
She was the first to laugh, soft and mean. “Congrats. You just ruined a Ferrari.”
He smiled, small and real, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. “Worth it.”
She looked up at the city lights, the night still young, and let herself believe for a second that maybe it was.
Afterwards, they slid back into the car as if they’d just taken a pleasant drive up the coast, the kind of silence between them that crackled with the effort of pretending. Lewis ran a hand through his hair, looking over at her in the passenger seat, Sena, still in her pajamas, legs folded up, face turned out to the window like nothing in the world had shifted. Her cheeks were flushed, but she looked cool, almost bored.
Lewis, for his part, was almost annoyed by how quickly she could reset, like they hadn’t just had sex on the hood of a car that cost more than most people’s mortgages. He toyed with the keys, glancing over as he started the engine, searching for something, some leftover intimacy, a reason to stretch this out longer.
He cleared his throat, voice pitched light, “You know, I could take you back to mine. Or we could just drive for a bit. I don’t really feel like going back yet.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, eyes sharp, smile lazy. “Tempting. But I told the girls I was just getting some air. If I disappear for hours, they’ll have a search party out before you get me through your door.”
He tried again, casual, but a little hopeful. “So lie to them. Say you ran into someone, stayed for dessert.”
Sena just laughed, rolling her eyes, but the edge in her voice made it clear the subject was closed. “They’d FaceTime me every five minutes. No one wants that.”
He grinned, accepting defeat, but the look he shot her lingered a kind of unspoken protest, a dare she refused to answer. They drove back in companionable silence, the city rolling past outside, headlights flickering over her bare knees.
When he pulled up outside the house, she was already reaching for the door. “I’ll see you around, Hamilton.”
He leaned over, meaning to kiss her goodbye, but she dodged, lips brushing his cheek instead. “Don’t get any ideas,” she teased softly. “This was just air, remember?”
She was gone before he could say anything else, melting back into the soft yellow glow of the porch light, leaving him alone in the car, hands gripping the wheel, heart thumping out a rhythm he’d never quite manage to control around her.
Lewis watched her until she disappeared inside, that invisible line drawn fresh in the air between them close enough to touch, never close enough to keep.
Liked by lewishamilton, taylorswift, and others
senafox p2, no thoughts, and turn 3 trauma 🧡
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livysmith: at least you finished 😘
faith.cartier: the stress she’s talking about is those people 😭
⤷ livysmith: and yet you caused half of it, congrats.
mclaren: orange never looked better 🔥
⤷ senafox thank u admin ur the only stable relationship i have atm
The club pulsed with too much heat and not enough air. Zandvoort was behind them, but the energy of the weekend still clung to everyone, shouting over the bass, chasing attention they didn’t really want, pretending celebration and relief were the same thing. Sena sat at the edge of it all, drink untouched, the condensation slipping down her fingers. The beat hit like an echo of the track.
She was just here to unwind, to be seen, to exist among people who weren’t trying to time her heartbeat in split-seconds. But the noise around her felt hollow, like laughter caught in a tin can.
And then she saw him.
Lewis stood near the bar, framed in soft gold light, talking to one of the reporters, dark hair, a black dress, the kind of woman who knew how to hold a man’s attention without asking for it. They were close. Closer than necessary. He smiled at something she said, head dipping slightly, his hand brushing the counter near hers. The sight caught her off guard, not with jealousy, but with recognition. He looked exactly the way he used to when he was trying not to be seen. Relaxed. Dangerous in the quiet way he always was when he wanted to forget something.
Sena turned back to her glass. The ice had melted to nothing. Her reflection in the rim looked foreign, someone pretending to be at ease.
She knew this game. But there were nights when that truth felt heavier than it should’ve. When she caught herself remembering the exact sound of his voice in the dark, or the weight of his hand on her back, and hated how easily her body still responded to the thought.
A man brushed past her shoulder, said something smooth that didn’t matter. She smiled anyway, polite, distant. He lingered, bought her a drink she didn’t ask for. She let it sit there between them, a prop in a play she wasn’t sure she was still in.
Lewis laughed again across the room. That low sound, familiar, unhurried, genuine, curled through the noise and found her without permission. Sena exhaled, slow and deliberate.
She wanted to prove something, not to him, but to herself. That she could still want. That she wasn’t caught in some quiet orbit she never agreed to enter. That she could choose to step out of it, just once, and feel something uncomplicated.
So when the man leaned in and asked if she wanted to go somewhere quieter, she nodded.
Not to make a point. Not to be cruel. Just to see if she could.
Outside, the night smelled like wet asphalt and salt air. The street was slick from the earlier rain, lights reflecting in fractured gold. She pulled her jacket tighter and let him walk beside her. His hand brushed hers once, tentative, and she didn’t move away.
From inside, Lewis noticed the motion first, the shift near the door, her shape cutting briefly through the light before disappearing into the street. For a moment, his body reacted before his mind caught up, shoulders tensing, conversation fading to static.
The reporter was still talking, unaware. He smiled automatically, nodded, even laughed on cue. But his eyes had gone to the door again, where the night had already swallowed her.
He didn’t know why it bothered him. He shouldn’t have cared. He’d been careful not to. But the image of her leaving, calm, deliberate, her posture sharp with finality, lodged somewhere under his ribs.
And for the first time all night, the noise of the club didn’t sound like distraction. It just sounded empty.
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GridGossip 📸 | Spotted: McLaren’s Sena Fox leaving the Zandvoort afterparty late last night with an unidentified guest.
Witnesses say the pair were “close all evening” — dancing, laughing, and eventually slipping out through a side exit around 2AM. The man, described as “tall, dark-haired, not from the paddock,” was seen with his arm around her waist as they left the venue.
Fans are already speculating whether it’s a new romance or just post-race fun after another strong weekend for Fox.
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user1: mystery man better start running when he finds out who she is
user2: if i looked like that, i’d leave with whoever i wanted too
user3: he better pray she doesn’t ghost him before breakfast.
user4: idk if it’s true but my friend was there and said sena and lewis kept looking at each other all night before she left w that guy??
⤷ user5: yeah sure, because two people can’t exist in the same room without everyone writing a fanfic about it.
Summary: Both Alina and Harry have become different people now, but sometimes seeing it hurts in unexpected ways and while she’s learned to let go, he’s finally ready to beg for a chance to make things right.
Author's note: this chapter nearly killed me (and probably them too). Thank you for reading, or simply sitting in the quiet with them. <3
𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆
𝗂'𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾
Two days later, the air around her still hadn’t cleared. It followed her through the hospital halls, invisible but heavy—the kind of silence people walked around without naming.
Alina moved like clockwork: dark hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck, olive skin brushed by the sterile light, eyes sharp and steady beneath the tired fluorescent glow. She was the image of composure, the kind of woman people trusted instantly, even when she didn’t trust herself. Every movement was deliberate. Every breath measured. She was all control and no chaos, and that made her dangerous—to herself most of all.
Her hands were precise, her tone clipped, her posture straight. She didn’t think about him. Or at least, she tried not to.
But memory is a cruel, insistent thing. Sometimes, in the brief seconds between patients, her mind betrayed her—back to that voice, that name. Nina. Said like a secret. Like it still belonged to him. She hated that it made her chest tighten. So she did what she did best: pushed the thought away, buried it under routine, stitched herself back into the rhythm of the day.
Her friends noticed, of course, they lingered around her, Edward was the worst of them, he kept bringing her cups of tea she never drank, lingering just long enough for Victoria to notice, and for Joan to roll her eyes at both of them.
No one asked outright what was wrong. And somehow, that silence felt heavier than questions ever could.
Alina told herself she didn’t care. But she did.
Harry wasn’t doing much better. He sat slouched in the Sidemen studio, his tall frame folded into the chair like he was trying to disappear inside it. The soft hum of the recording equipment filled the air while a pen spun endlessly between his fingers, a small, restless rhythm that betrayed the stillness in his face. Around him, the rest of the boys were alive and loud, laughter bouncing off the walls. JJ and Ethan were mid-argument about something trivial, Josh was making half-serious jokes to keep the energy high, and Simon was trying to rein them all in. The cameras were rolling, the set lights were harsh, and Harry was somewhere else entirely.
He threw in a few empty responses here and there—an automatic “yeah”, a half-laugh, a reflexive nod—but none of it meant anything. His words were hollow, his smile delayed by a second too long, the telltale sign of a man pretending to be present. His eyes, unfocused, stayed fixed on the middle distance, on something—or someone—far from the bright, noisy world he’d built for himself.
When filming finally ended, Josh elbowed him lightly in the ribs, his tone easy but his gaze sharper than usual. “You’ve been quiet, mate. What’s going on with you?”
Harry sighed, dragging a hand down his face, the sound caught somewhere between exhaustion and frustration. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just tired.”
Ethan, sprawled on the couch and scrolling through his phone, didn’t even look up when he said, “It’s that doctor, isn’t it? What was her name again?”
Harry paused, the pen slipping from between his fingers and clattering onto the desk. “Alina,” he said finally, so softly it was almost a confession.
Josh’s brows rose. He leaned forward, voice lighter now but edged with curiosity. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna talk to her, or just keep sulking like a man who’s lost a war?”
Harry almost smiled at that. Almost. “And what am I supposed to say, Josh? Hey, sorry I disappeared for a decade, broke your heart, and pretended you didn’t exist—but let’s grab a coffee sometime?” The words came sharp, bitter around the edges, as if saying them out loud made the past more real.
Ethan laughed from the couch. “Send flowers. Works on Faith when she’s mad.”
Harry shook his head, but there was something like longing in the movement. This wasn’t a fight to fix with flowers. It wasn’t a missed text or a careless mistake. He hadn’t just left—he’d vanished. He’d made her absence a habit and called it ambition.
“I don’t have her address,” he said quietly, eyes lowering to the pen on the table.
Ethan didn’t look up from his phone. “Send them to the hospital. Problem solved.”
Harry didn’t answer. But the thought stayed with him.
Later that night, long after the others had gone, he sat in the dim light of his living room, scrolling through his phone with the hollow determination of someone searching for redemption in pixels. Dozens of florists. Hundreds of options. He scrolled past roses—too heavy. Lilies—too formal. Tulips—too easy. And then he saw them. Daisies. Simple, bright, forgiving. Her favorite. Or at least, they used to be.
He filled out the order form slowly, rewriting the message twice before stopping. In the end, he chose honesty.
I’m sorry.
I’m leaving my number. Please call. I really want to talk.
—Harry
(+ his number, scrawled at the bottom)
His finger hovered over the “Confirm Order” button longer than he wanted to admit. Then he pressed it, the soft click of his phone echoing louder than it should have.
And then he waited.
Morning blurred into afternoon, and afternoon into night. He checked his phone too often, convincing himself he wasn’t. Every vibration made his pulse jump, only to drop again when it wasn’t her. The studio called. Filming continued. Life, as it always did, moved forward.
But she didn’t call.
And by the time the second night rolled around, the only sound in Harry’s flat was the quiet hum of regret—a noise he’d gotten far too used to living with.
Saturday night settled over London, thick and heavy, the kind of darkness that clings to your skin like humidity. It was the kind of night that made the city feel too alive, every sound too sharp, every light too bright. Harry sat on his sofa, phone in hand, the screen dimmed and still showing no new messages. His thumb hovered uselessly over the last text he’d sent—a number, a name, a simple plea that hadn’t earned him an answer.
Josh’s voice cut through the quiet, crackling down the line like a command. “You’re coming.”
Harry sighed, running a hand over his face, eyes closing against the sound. “I’m not in the mood.”
“That’s exactly why you’re coming,” Josh shot back, all cheer and zero sympathy.
Harry let out another sigh, heavier this time, the kind that carried the weight of things he couldn’t explain. But he didn’t argue. A night out had to be better than sitting in silence, waiting for a reply that wasn’t coming. Maybe if he moved fast enough, drank enough, stood in a crowd loud enough, he could drown the ache for a few hours.
The club was a blur of sound and color, tucked deep into the heart of central London. The bass thudded through the floorboards, lights flickering like electric veins slicing the dark. Perfume and sweat mingled in the air; voices rose and vanished beneath the music’s pulse. Bodies swayed shoulder to shoulder, strangers pressed close enough to share breath. It was the kind of chaos designed to make you forget.
Josh led the way, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. A bouncer unclipped a velvet rope, and they slipped through into the inner circle—a low table already surrounded by familiar faces. JJ was halfway through a story that had Vik doubled over with laughter, Tobi lifted two fingers in greeting, and Ethan waved them over with his drink.
Faith, seated next to Ethan, was the first to notice Harry’s expression. “You look miserable,” she called over the music, her smile bright enough to belong somewhere sunnier. She shoved a drink into his hand before he could refuse.
Harry took it, offering a ghost of a smile that didn’t quite land. “Thanks,” he said, voice dry enough to evaporate in the noise. He brought the glass to his lips, but the taste barely registered.
He leaned back against the leather seat, letting the music try to fill the empty spaces in his head. Lights blurred against his vision—red, blue, gold—but none of it reached him. He could hear the laughter, feel the rhythm beneath his feet, smell the familiar haze of alcohol and perfume. And still, none of it touched the part of him that had been hollow since the moment he’d seen her again.
Everywhere he looked, there was motion. The kind of life that once used to thrill him. Now, it only reminded him of how still he felt inside. He could almost hear her voice in the back of his mind—steady, measured, quiet. He’d left her behind, but somehow she’d taken everything that mattered with her.
And sitting there, surrounded by noise and light and people who cared enough not to ask, Harry realized he could drown in a room full of sound and still hear her name echoing like the only thing that mattered.
Alina stood before her mirror, eyeliner steady in her hand, the dark line drawn with a surgeon’s precision. The apartment buzzed around her, full of noise and perfume and laughter—the rare kind of chaos that only happened when all five of them had the next day off. It felt like a small miracle, a cosmic alignment too good to waste.
The idea had been Joan’s, obviously. She was already half-ready before anyone else had even said yes, her dirty-blonde hair falling in smooth, deliberate waves that caught the light each time she moved. “We’re going out,” she’d declared, one heel on, the other dangling from her hand. “Proper fun. Bad decisions. Worse dancing. Non-negotiable.”
Victoria was the soft chaos that followed. Her warm brown skin glowed against the dim light as she drifted between rooms with her usual, unhurried grace, curls bouncing freely around her face. She appeared behind Alina and caught a small strand of her dark hair, twisting it into a loose braid. “This gives club energy,” she said with a grin that made her eyes sparkle. “Lipstick, ID, low expectations. You’re ready.” She handed Alina a glittery clutch, as if it were a prescription.
Matilda arrived next, red hair gleaming in the mirror as she rummaged through the mess on the dresser for earrings. Her freckles dusted her skin like punctuation marks on a sentence that never ended, and her grin was so wide it was practically contagious. “We’re going to regret this tomorrow,” she said, voice lilting with delight.
“Then it’s worth doing,” Joan replied, snapping her compact shut.
Edward appeared in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, blond hair still damp from the shower. He tugged at the cuff of his shirt, already looking uncomfortable in clothes that actually fit. “This feels like a date,” he muttered, frowning at his reflection in the hall mirror.
“With yourself,” Joan quipped, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her tone was flat, but her smirk gave her away.
By the time the Uber arrived, the apartment was a whirlwind of perfume, laughter, and last-minute touch-ups. Victoria ended up sprawled across their laps in the back seat, her laughter melting into Matilda’s as the car hit a bump. Joan scrolled on her phone, pretending not to smile, while Edward tried to keep his drink from spilling as he passed it between them. Alina sat in the middle, surrounded by warmth and noise and life, and for the first time in weeks, she felt her chest ease.
A real smile found her lips—unforced, unpolished, real. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad.
The club wasn’t special, which made it perfect. The floor was sticky, the lights flashed like lightning caught in a loop, and the music was a little too loud. It was the kind of place designed for forgetting—faces blurred by movement, hours melting together in sound and color.
They claimed a booth near the dance floor, coats tossed into a heap, heels tapping against the edge of the seat. The air smelled like rum and something floral; the bass pressed against their ribs.
“To bad ideas!” Matilda shouted, raising her shot glass high.
“To bad ideas!” the rest of them echoed, laughter spilling over the music.
The liquor burned easy, the warmth spreading faster than any logic could stop it. Joan’s sharp eyes softened under the light, her usual composure traded for a rare, teasing smile. Victoria’s curls bounced as she swayed to the beat, soft laughter slipping out between verses of the song. Edward leaned into the table, that bright, boyish grin tugging at his mouth as he watched them all.
Alina threw her head back and laughed—bright, sudden, real. The sound cut through the noise for just a moment, catching in her throat like a spark. It startled her, how easy it felt. How light. For the first time in weeks, she felt something crack open inside her chest—small, but real.
Just enough for something honest to slip through. Just enough to believe, for one night, that she could forget.
Harry knocked back his drink, the burn trailing down his throat like something he deserved. Regret always tasted better with whiskey—it lingered longer, too. The low buzz under his skin was beginning to hum, soft and useless, doing nothing to quiet the noise in his head.
Across the table, Faith, Freya, and Talia were a blur of light and movement, caught in the pulse of the music. Their laughter slipped easily into the air, all warmth and noise and life. JJ and Ethan were halfway through an argument—football, from the sounds of it—voices loud, hands slicing through the air with exaggerated fury. Somewhere in the corner, Vik was recording it all on his phone, probably already drafting a caption in his head.
Freya returned first, hair sticking to her temples, cheeks flushed with effort and champagne. She took one look at Harry—slouched deep into the booth, glass dangling from his fingers—and arched a brow. “You look like someone dragged you out of your coffin.”
“I feel like it,” he muttered, not lifting his eyes.
She rolled hers and disappeared back into the crowd. He didn’t notice her go. His gaze had already slipped past her, skimming the edges of the dance floor where the lights stuttered and changed like the beat itself was gasping for air.
And then—he saw her.
It was instant, involuntary. The noise around him fell away, muffled by the sudden static in his chest. Blue eyes, dark hair, skin that caught the light like something he remembered touching once in another life. She stood at the edge of the crowd, a drink in her hand, head tilted toward the blonde beside her. She was laughing—open, unguarded—and it hit him like a collision.
Harry went still.
The club’s haze wrapped around her like smoke. The green of her dress gleamed under the strobe, short enough to make his chest tighten, dipping low enough to remind him of things he’d sworn he’d forgotten. Her hair fell in soft, deliberate waves, brushing her shoulders when she turned. Her body moved with that quiet kind of confidence he’d never seen in her before—no hesitance, no apology. She’d become someone he didn’t recognize and couldn’t stop staring at.
He blinked, half expecting the image to dissolve. It didn’t.
He couldn’t look away.
Alina hadn’t seen him. She didn’t know that, somewhere across the room, the ghost of her past was drinking her in like penance. She wasn’t thinking about the flowers he’d sent, the folded card tucked quietly into her desk drawer, or the number written at the bottom in his unmistakable scrawl. Tonight, she wasn’t fighting the urge to call. Tonight, she was someone else.
Her friends had pulled her to the dance floor, arms looped around shoulders, drinks pressed into waiting hands. The music swallowed them whole, a single heartbeat shared between five different lives. Victoria and Edward were lost in their own orbit, faces close, their easy teasing having finally tipped into something softer, more dangerous. Joan and Matilda were shouting over the bass, hair sticking to their skin, eyeliner smudged in the best possible way.
Alina was at the center of it—hips moving to the rhythm, laughter spilling from her lips, tequila burning bright on her tongue. The world around her blurred into light and sound and heat. For once, there was no before, no after, no ache waiting at the door.
But then—something shifted. A prickle at the back of her neck. The faintest shiver crawling up her spine. It was subtle, but she felt it. That pull, that instinct that had never lied to her. She paused mid-step, heartbeat stuttering against the music’s pulse, and glanced over her shoulder.
Nothing.
Just the chaos of strangers, all movement and light. The air was thick with perfume and sweat. No one was looking at her. Not really.
She turned back, exhaled, and forced herself to believe it.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder, raised her glass, and let the lights hit her just right. The bass rolled through her, the kind of rhythm that made it impossible to think. Her body moved easily, fluid, surrendering to the sound. And for the first time in months, maybe years, Alina laughed—truly laughed—without calculation, without caution.
Tonight, she was here. She was electric. She was alive. And she was free.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
But somewhere, tucked between the pulse of the music and the beat of her own heart, a quiet voice whispered in the dark:
It won’t be this easy forever.
The night still trembled with the bass bleeding through the walls, the sound muffled but alive, like a heart refusing to die. Outside, London’s air bit at Alina’s bare skin—a cold, clean kind of ache that she welcomed. It grounded her, stripped away the remnants of heat and noise clinging to her from the club. She stepped into the alley behind the building, exhaling a breath that turned white in the dark. Her fingers dug through her bag until they found the soft crinkle of cigarette paper. The lighter flared once, a sharp spark against the night, and for a second, the amber glow painted her face in soft light. The smoke curled up into the sky, twisting toward the faint outline of stars barely visible beyond the haze. The first drag stung her throat, but she took it anyway—the burn was honest, and she could live with honest things. She leaned back against the wall, the brick cool against her spine, and stared somewhere between the rooftops and the sky, caught in the quiet that only ever came when she was alone.
She didn’t hear the door open.
“Since when do you smoke?”
The voice came like an old echo—too familiar to be shocking, too sharp to ignore. Harry. He was always where she didn’t want him, always showing up at the worst possible time.
“It wasn’t a habit you liked,” he said, stepping closer, hands buried in his pockets as if to keep them from shaking. His voice was softer than the night, but it still found her.
She said nothing.
“You used to gag at the smell,” he added. “Wouldn’t even walk near someone smoking. You said it made your eyes sting.”
She turned toward him, a flicker of defiance in her gaze. The corner of her mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so sharp. “Changed my mind,” she said, and took another drag, slow and deliberate, before exhaling smoke in his direction.
The words hit like a slap wrapped in silk.
Harry didn’t move. The thin orange glow of her cigarette illuminated the curve of her cheek, the shimmer of the dark green dress that clung to her like a secret. The girl he used to know—the one who laughed until she cried, who believed in forever—was still there somewhere, but she wasn’t the same. Her edges had sharpened. Her silence had learned to bite.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice low, measured. The smoke curled around her words before fading into the dark.
“I just…” His throat worked around the words. “I don’t know where to start.”
Alina didn’t move. The city’s hum filled the silence he couldn’t.
“Since the hospital,” he went on quietly, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. About what changed.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then took one last drag, eyes soft but unreadable. “A lot.”
The answer landed like the end of a conversation, but she didn’t look away. Her expression stayed calm, composed, but her pulse betrayed her, flickering beneath her skin like a live wire.
Harry stepped closer, his voice rough with hesitation. “I always thought I’d see you again one day. I hoped I would. Just not like this.”
Alina’s lips twitched into something tired and wry. “It’s been a decade. Sorry I didn’t live up to your fantasy.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I just—” He sighed, the sound brittle. “I missed you. You were my best friend. I know I messed up. I’m not asking you to forgive me. Just… maybe a chance to start over.” His voice cracked then, softer, stripped of everything he used to hide behind. “I’ll beg if I have to.”
She blinked, her breath catching. The words didn’t sound like his—they sounded too raw, too unguarded. “Do it then,” she said before she could stop herself, sharp, reckless, a defense dressed as cruelty. “You said you’d beg. Go on.”
She expected him to scoff, to throw it back in her face. But he didn’t. He stared at her for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, then looked up at the sky and laughed under his breath—quiet, broken, disbelieving. And then he did it.
He dropped to his knees.
The sight knocked the breath from her chest. “Harry—what the hell are you doing?”
“Begging,” he said simply. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, heavy and sincere.
A few people passing by slowed, their eyes flicking toward them. Alina’s stomach dropped. “Get off the bloody ground,” she hissed, stepping forward, her hands out as if she could pull the absurdity out of the air.
“No,” he said. “Not until you say yes.”
“Harry, people are watching.”
“I don’t care.”
“Jesus Christ. Fine!” Her voice snapped like a live wire. She grabbed his arms, tugging him up, and when he finally rose, their hands brushed—just barely, but enough to make her forget how to breathe.
They stood there, close enough to feel the ghost of warmth between them. Neither spoke. The sounds of the city—the hum of engines, laughter spilling from the club—folded around their silence like static.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said finally, her tone softening against her will. “But fine. Monday. One o’clock. Café next to the hospital. Don’t be late.”
She pointed at him, the gesture sharp, an anchor for the chaos she felt.
He smiled—a small, uneven thing that looked almost painful. “I won’t.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The world held still, suspended between what was gone and what might still be left.
And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like everything between them was ruined beyond repair.
Just cracked.
And cracks, if handled carefully enough, could still be mended.
"I've been the archer, I've been the prey, Screaming: Who could ever leave me, darling?, But who could stay."
『⩇⩇:⩇⩇』 • masterlist • The Archer Playlist
✩ smau / real life
✩ lewis hamilton x driver oc
⬅previous • next➡
SUMMARY: Sena just won Silverstone. But celebration means games, tequila bets, and Lewis watching her from across the room like he didn’t bring someone else.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, alcohol use, explicit language, mild degradation
Word count: 4.5k
Author’s Note: Might feel a little rushed in places, uni has been chewing through my time lately. I still wanted to get this out because I love where the story’s heading and didn’t want to lose the momentum. If there are any small inconsistencies, just pretend they’re Easter eggs. Hope you enjoy it <3
Just a quick heads-up: this story is 100% fictional. I’ve twisted timelines, switched up careers, and added some characters to tell the story I want to tell. It’s all vibes, emotions, and a whole lot of imagination.
✧ Chapter 7 ✧
Liked by mclaren, lewishamilton, taylorswift, and others
senafox Home soil. Home crowd. Last time i was here, things went… differently. Silverstone, thanks for the do-over 🧡
Also my dad got me cake!!!!!
View All comments
mclaren: a win at home for our favorite britt🧡
faith.cartier: My best friend just won the british grand prix what did yours do
⤷ livysmith: OMG mine did the same thing
livysmith: proud beyond words, tho not forgetting you didn't share the cake
⤷ senafox: it's MINEEE
maxverstappen1: Congrats, Fox 👏
lewishamiilton: Unreal drive 🖤
georgerussell63: 🙌
user1: She’s so casually iconic it’s annoying.
⤷ user2: The car did all the job 🙄be so fucking real
⤷ user1: STFU
user3: It’s so cute how they are hyping her up
Somewhere between the fifth and sixth shot, Sena could already feel the headache she was going to wake up with in the morning. It lingered somewhere behind her temples, dull and warning, but right now she didn’t care. She was too far gone into the bet she’d made with Olivia — or maybe it was Olivia who’d made it with her. At this point, she couldn’t even remember whose idea it was. Not only the bet, but the whole night.
It was supposed to be small. A quiet little celebration with her friends, that’s what she’d told her father when they’d left his house earlier that evening. He’d looked pleased, proud even, told her to go enjoy herself, that she deserved it after Silverstone. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that “small” and “Faith Carter” had never existed in the same sentence. Faith’s version of “a few people” usually meant “everyone who’s ever made eye contact with her.” And by the time midnight hit, Sena was certain at least one-third of London had found its way into the club.
The air was hot, perfumed with sweat, alcohol, and the kind of bass that pulsed straight through her ribcage. They’d taken over the lounge, half of the paddock scattered across the tables and couches. Charles dancing with Pierre, George was trying to reason with a very drunk Max, and somewhere in the chaos, Olivia had decided to challenge Sena to a shot contest.
Now, twenty minutes later, they were surrounded by empty glasses and bad decisions. Sena was winning, which was all that mattered. She leaned back on the velvet couch, legs crossed, chin high, vodka glass in hand.
“Jesus, I swear you don’t have a stomach,” Olivia said, slamming her empty glass down with dramatic flair before narrowing her eyes across the table.
“Tell me again how you’re not an alcoholic,” she added, grinning despite her flushed cheeks, her words only slightly slurred.
Sena licked a drop of vodka off her thumb, eyes glittering with that smug little spark she got when she knew she’d won. “Who knows?” She picked up another glass, twirling it lazily in her hand before locking eyes with Olivia across the table. “You tapping out?”
But Olivia didn’t answer.
Her eyes were no longer on Sena but somewhere over her shoulder, tracking something or someone. Her expression shifted, lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised.
“Liv?”
Olivia blinked, eyes snapping back like she’d just remembered where she was. She leaned in across the table.
“Guess who just walked in?”
Sena didn’t answer, she didn’t need to. The way Olivia was looking at her already said enough.
She turned slowly over her shoulder toward the entrance, and there he was.
Lewis.
Standing under a flickering downlight, dressed sharp as ever . His arm rested casually on the back of a girl she didn’t recognize, some long-limbed blonde in a slinky dress and too-red lipstick. She looked like she stepped out of an instagram post.
She took another shot. Let it burn all the way down.
By the time she caught his eye, he was already looking at her.
The night kept going.
She let Faith twirl her into a spin, grinning too wide as her heels skidded on the sticky floor. Let Max refill her glass, clinking it against his. Some guy—tall, decent face—pulled her into a lazy, off-beat sway, one hand finding her waist a little too comfortably. She didn’t stop him. She let him talk, nodded at whatever bland nonsense he was saying, and laughed louder than she needed to. She knew it would catch. She knew who was watching.
Lewis hadn’t moved from his corner. His hand rested on his date’s lower back, too neatly, too deliberately. Like it was placed there to be seen. Like everything about him tonight. He wasn’t looking at her, not really. Only when her back was turned. Only when he thought she wouldn’t catch it. But she always caught it. That flick of his gaze. The tightening at his jaw. The stiffness in his shoulders when she leaned too close to someone else.
She leaned closer. Let her fingers trail down the stranger’s arm, lips parted like she was actually listening.
They weren’t dating. They weren’t exclusive. They had no title, no promises, no rules. It was casual. Convenient.
So why did he keep pretending he wasn’t watching her? Why was her laughter suddenly louder, her dress shorter, her smile sharper than it needed to be?
Because he brought a date. Because she didn’t ask. Because he didn’t explain. Because neither of them would ever admit that they both wanted to win more than anything.
She was gone.
One second Lewis was watching her dance, letting some idiot in a leather jacket hold her like he knew her, like he could know her and the next, she was gone. Disappeared into the crowd like smoke.
The girl next to him was rambling again. Something about the music, or maybe the lighting, or her brand partnership. She was wearing a dress made for attention, heels so high they made her sway even when standing still.
Why the hell did he bring her?
It had been some post-race blur. She’d been at the paddock or near it, definitely near it. One of his boys said she asked about him. Said she’d be at this party. He remembered shrugging. Maybe nodding. Next thing he knew, she was in the car and now she was here, clinging to his side.
He deserved whatever headache this night turned into.
Because the second he saw Sena, the second she turned on that sticky, flickering floor in that barely-there dress, all soft skin and sharp edges and danger, the night rewrote itself in his head. One goal. One outcome.
And for the last hour, he’d been watching someone else put their hands on her.
That guy had been glued to her hip the whole night or for the better part of it. Kept dipping his hand lower, always testing, always just shy of disrespect. And she had let it happen, let him touch, let him talk. She laughed at his jokes. Leaned in when he whispered something. Touched his arm like she gave a damn.
It was a game. He knew it was a game. He also knew he was losing.
Then, finally, she disappeared.
He didn’t think. Just followed.
The model girl called his name, he ignored her. Someone clapped his shoulder, he didn’t turn. The music was vibrating under his ribs, some heavy, stupid remix of something too young for him, too loud for this moment.
He caught her shape just before she disappeared through the bathroom door.
His breath stuck. Just for a second.
She was pulling her hair back with one hand, her phone in the other. No hesitation in her walk. No uncertainty. And yet she had no idea he was behind her. No idea she’d just handed him the moment he’d been waiting for.
He stopped just outside. Leaned against the opposite wall. Arms folded. One leg bent at the knee like he was casually waiting, like he hadn’t practically chased her through the crowd like some idiot teen with a crush.
He stared down at his shoes. At the tile. At the black polish on his thumb that was already chipped.
And then, because apparently he hated himself, he let his mind spin.
He was Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion. Thirty-eight. A thousand lives lived. He’d been with supermodels and actresses, musicians, artists, women who had the world curled around their fingers. And yet—
Yet here he was, half-hard in a dark hallway, waiting outside a bathroom for a twenty-three-year-old who once told him he was the most arrogant person she’d ever met. Who used to roll her eyes when he spoke in briefings. Who fought with him over team strategy. Who, even after he fucked her, still didn’t soften.
And he liked it.
He let his head fall back against the wall. Eyes closed. Breathed deep.
The model girl was probably still out there, sipping on someone else's drink, wondering where he’d gone. He should’ve cared. Should’ve texted her, made some excuse. But he didn’t. He’d known, the second that party invite came in that this night wasn’t about anyone else.
Just Sena.
And the second she stepped out of that bathroom he moved.
The bathroom smelled like vodka, vanilla perfume, and something vaguely chemical. Sena stood in front of the mirror with her clutch on the marble. She reapplied her lip gloss with a steady hand, the kind of practiced touch that didn’t need precision. Her cheeks were still warm from the shots. Her mascara hadn’t smudged. She blinked at herself once, tugged the hem of her dress lower over her thighs even though it wouldn’t stay there long, and stepped back into the corridor, heels clicking against the tile.
She barely made it three steps before someone grabbed her by the wrist.
It wasn’t rough, but it was firm. She turned, ready to snap, ready to tell fuck off to whoever thought that was a good idea but she didn’t get the chance.
A door she hadn’t noticed opened to her right. She was pulled into the dark before she could catch her breath, the thud of it closing behind her cutting off the bass of the club in one clean snap.
Her back hit the wall. A body pressed in close. She tensed, arms halfway raised in protest, ready to shove him off until the scent hit her first.
Clean cologne, sharp and expensive, the one that lately clung to her pillows after he left.
Lewis.
She didn’t even have time to say his name before his mouth was on hers.
Hot, deliberate, greedy. His hand found her jaw, fingers curling under it, thumb sweeping across her cheek as he kissed her like he was starving. She gasped, and he used it, deepened the kiss, pressed his body closer until there was nowhere for her to go but into him.
By the time he pulled back, her lip gloss was ruined and her pulse was a thunderclap.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you properly all night,” he said, breath ghosting over her mouth.
She blinked up at him, heart still trying to claw its way out of her chest. “I’ve been busy.”
“You don’t have time for me anymore.” His voice was low and he almost sounded amused by her excuse.
“I didn’t want to steal your attention from your date.”
“She’s not my date.” Lewis said his voice tightened almost annoyed she brought her up
“You came here with her.”
His eyes flashed. “Doesn’t mean I’m leaving with her.” with a lopsided smile teasing.
That made her scoff, tilt her head like he’d told a bad joke. She tried to step around him, but he moved with her, blocking her exit with nothing more than the lean of his hips.
Then he kissed her again. Slower this time. Not softer, just meaner. Like he knew she’d try to fight it. Like he knew she wouldn’t.
His hand slid to her waist, fingers tightening. When he pulled away, he didn’t go far—just enough to drag his nose along hers, let his lips brush her jaw.
“Let me take you home,” he whispered.
She shook her head. “Not coming to your place.”
His mouth tilted, almost a smile, but not quite. His hand dipped lower, to the small of her back, dragging her closer by inches.
“Then we’ll go to yours.”
She should’ve said no. Should’ve pushed him off. Should’ve reminded him there was already a girl back there probably dying for him to take her home, one he brought here.
Instead, she reached for the door, eyes never leaving his, voice low and sharp.
“Out the back.”
He followed. No more words. Just that look. The one that said tonight didn’t belong to anyone else.
The car was barely rolling before Lewis’s hand slid up her thigh. He didn’t ask. Just dragged his palm over the smooth skin above her knee, like it was his by default. Sena’s head tipped back against the seat, her leg falling open in response. His other hand found her jaw, fingers curling possessively as he turned her to face him. His mouth was already on hers before she could throw the bite he knew was coming. She kissed him back, greedy and hot and sharp, no patience, no playfulness, just open-mouthed hunger. She licked into his mouth like she owned it, like she wanted to leave a mark somewhere he wouldn’t be able to hide.
She gasped when he cupped her between her legs, fingers pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. “You’re soaked,” he muttered against her mouth, voice thick, almost accusing. “And I barely touched you, love.”
“Keep talking,” she breathed, a warning dressed up like a dare. “And that won’t last long.”
He grinned and dragged his hand higher. Her moan was soft, involuntary, but it cracked something inside him. His grip on her hip tightened like he had to anchor himself, like the tension in his knuckles might be the only thing keeping him from dragging her onto his lap right there in the backseat.
By the time they reached her building, her gloss was gone, her hair slightly mussed, and her thighs sticky with the mess he’d made of her composure. She looked touched — properly, visibly touched — and the sight satisfied Lewis in a way he didn’t care to examine. It hit somewhere low in his gut, a kind of pride he didn’t know what to do with. He followed her up in silence, jaw locked, eyes fixed to the back of her neck like he was daring himself not to pin her to the elevator wall and finish what he started.
She pushed the door open, flicked the light on without looking at him. The flat was dim he didn’t care about the details, not really, but he saw them anyway. “It’s… cozy,” he said.
Sena turned, shut the door behind them, and looked him dead in the eye. Unimpressed. She didn’t need to say it, she thought the comment was bullshit, and so did he. She wasn’t here for small talk. Neither of them were. She looked at him like she could see straight through the performance.
“Shut up,” she said. One hand went to the back of his neck, the other down to the buttons of his shirt. Then she kissed him. Shoved him back against the wall, dragged her fingers down his chest as she worked him open. Her mouth was hard, hot, unapologetic. This was what they came for.
“Straight to business, huh?” he muttered between breaths, biting her bottom lip hard enough to make her flinch.
His hands slid up under her dress, rough palms against warm skin. He dragged her panties down just far enough to get his fingers in, he didn’t want them off yet. She was soaked. Soaked and tense and perfect. He liked having that effect on her, the way her body gave everything away even when her mouth never did. He’d bet he could get her off with words alone if he tried, but that was a test for another night. A night where he wasn’t already this close to losing control. Though honestly, he didn’t think that night would ever come not with her. She seemed to like him better like this. Pressed to the edge. Fractured under her thumb.
He caught her jaw in one hand. “You started it the second you let that guy touch you.”
“I let a lot of guys touch me,” she shot back. Her eyes were steel, electric. She said it on purpose, twisted the knife, because she knew who he was. Knew men like him didn’t like to be reminded that wanting someone didn’t make them yours. And Lewis, for all his control, for all the composure he wore like armor, still wanted her enough to hate the reminder.
He pushed her further into the house, past the foyer into the living room, his hand still on her waist, her panties half-on, her dress wrinkled. He shoved until her legs hit the dining table. Then he spun her around. Her hips hit the edge. Across the room, her reflection stared back from the wall-length mirror. Flushed cheeks. Glossy eyes. Swollen mouth. She looked fucked already, and he hadn’t even started.
His mouth found her neck. A slow, open-mouthed bite pressure more than pain, a claim more than a warning.
“Don’t leave a mark,” she snapped, breath catching mid-sentence.
“I won’t.” He kissed the spot, lower now. “Not there.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. She was still watching herself, the angle brutal, revealing. She looked like a scene, and she knew it. His hands slid down over her waist, over the curve of her ass, down to her hips, where he squeezed hard enough to draw a yelp.
She turned her head, glared at him over her shoulder. “You’re such a—”
“Shut up.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. “Watch yourself. Look how beautiful you look when I ruin you.”
She did.
He undressed her like he had all the time in the world. Dragged the strap of her dress down her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Of course she wasn’t. He didn’t touch her skin yet. Just looked. At her in the mirror. He leaned in, voice low at her ear. “You enjoyed that,” he said. “Making me watch.”
“You showed up late to my party,” she snapped back. “With someone else on your arm.”
And there it was, the checkmate.
She was right. He’d made the first move. She just returned it.
He had no comeback. So he shoved two fingers into her instead. No warning. No teasing. Just a rough push she was wet enough to take it. He felt her tighten around him instantly.
Her breath caught like she hadn’t expected the stretch. Her hands shot out to brace against the table. “That’s all you’ve got?” she hissed, even as her body started to shudder.
His fingers curled. Found the spot that made her knees buckle. “I’ve got plenty.”
He worked her slow, deep, brutal a rhythm that was more punishment than pleasure. The wet sounds filled the flat. Her moans were harsher now, every one a little more desperate. He wasn’t easing her toward anything. He was dragging her there. She could barely hold herself upright. Her head started to drop.
“You walk around like you don’t need anyone,” he muttered. “But look at you.” He grabbed her jaw, forcing her head up. “Fucked out on my fingers.”
She looked at herself in the mirror bare shoulders, lips parted, and then into his eyes. There was something in them she didn’t know what to do with. Something that should’ve scared her but didn’t
He pulled his fingers out. “Open your mouth.”
She looked at him in the mirror again, like maybe she was about to scoff. But there was nothing teasing in his stare. She opened her mouth. He pushed his fingers in, still slick with her, and watched as she licked them clean.
“Good girl.” His voice was lower now. Slower. Like he didn’t even hear himself say it.
The praise hit something raw in her. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words. but for the first time, she almost felt proud to hear them. And she hated how much she wanted to hear it again.
He turned her around. Sat her on top of the table. She must’ve been so gone in the moment she didn’t even realize he’d stripped off his pants, not until she felt the blunt pressure of his cock at her entrance. He didn’t say anything. Just met her eyes, held her there, and pushed in all at once. No warning. No teasing. Just one long, deep thrust that forced the air from her lungs. Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, her thighs bracketing his hips as she tried to keep herself from sliding back across the table from the force of it. Her jaw dropped open, but no sound came out at first. She just stared at him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, her entire body jolting with the sudden fullness. He felt it, the way she clenched, the way her legs trembled, the way she didn’t even try to fight it. He dragged back and drove in again, sharper this time. Rough. A punishment wrapped in a groan. The table creaked. She cursed. He kept going.
She wasn’t facing the mirror anymore, wasn’t watching herself come undone but she didn’t need the reflection to know what she looked like. Her head was tipped back, her neck exposed, her dress still bunched around her waist, her chest bare, flushed. She let it happen. Let him take. Let him grind her against the table over and over, every thrust brutal and messy and deep enough to make her eyes blur. He leaned forward, one hand catching her throat, not choking just holding her there like a threat. Like a reminder. His fingers curled around the column of her neck as his other hand locked on her hip, dragging her down to meet each slam of his hips like he couldn’t get deep enough. She moaned, sharp, desperate and he didn’t even flinch.
“Keep your eyes open,” he growled. “Feel what you fucking did to me.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She just nodded, or maybe she shook, he didn’t care. Her thighs were slick, trembling, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene. He didn’t slow. Didn’t stop. Just fucked her harder until she was gasping his name through gritted teeth.
At one point she ended up flat on her back, dress shoved to her ribs, legs hanging off the edge of the table, arms thrown out for balance, one heel still on, the other long gone. Lewis stood between her thighs, his hands gripping her so hard she knew she’d bruise. His palm was still around her throat, pressure just enough to keep her still, and his other hand dug into the top of her thigh, dragging her down, holding her open, fucking her so deep she almost couldn’t think.
“Lewis—” she choked, legs shaking. “God—fuck—”
Her body started to seize again, her walls fluttering around him, tighter and tighter, her hands clawing for purchase, breath coming in stuttering gasps. He felt her go — saw it, heard it, knew it — and didn’t stop. If anything, he lost whatever thread of control he had left. His rhythm broke, got messier, more desperate. He shoved into the hilt, one last time, and stayed there. Groaned something dark, low, teeth gritted, jaw clenched as he came hard inside her, buried deep.
He didn’t move right away. Didn’t say anything. Just stayed there, both of them breathing like they’d been running for miles, sweat slicking down their spines, her dress rucked up over her stomach, breasts exposed, one hand still limp across her chest. His own hand was still resting against the base of her throat like he didn’t even realize he hadn’t let go.
When he finally pulled out, she hissed, her whole body twitching from overstimulation. He left the room for a minute Sena was too gone to wonder where not that she had much time to dwell, he was already back with a wet towel in his hand. He cleaned her up in silence, the gesture quick, practiced, but careful wiped between her legs, caught the mess before it could trail down her thighs. She winced but didn’t say anything. Her eyes were glassy. She was still coming down.
She tried to push herself upright.
Tried.
Her arms shook. Her thighs quivered. The second she stood, she wobbled hard enough to have to brace herself against the table. He looked up. She saw the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smirk. His hand instinctively reached out towards her.
“I don’t need help,” she said, half-slurred. Voice hoarse from all the gasping.
“Sit down,” Lewis muttered, already stepping back toward her. “You can barely walk.”
She glared, but her legs weren’t listening. She collapsed into the nearest chair and let her head fall back, eyes half-lidded, chest still rising and falling too fast. He didn’t say anything. Just moved around the room in silence, picking up the mess — her underwear, her heel, his belt — then came back for her.
“Come on,” he said, reaching down. “Bed.”
“I can walk,” she said, voice lazy.
“Sure you can.”
She didn’t fight him when he lifted her. Just wrapped one arm around his neck, the other dangling at her side. She was light. Warm. Her skin sticky from sweat, lips parted, her lashes starting to flutter.
By the time he set her down on the bed, she was already half asleep. Her head hit the pillow and that was it. No protest. No posturing. Just out. Gone.
Lewis stood at the edge of the bed and looked at her for a long minute. Her chest was rising and falling slowly now, her arm curled under her head, her dress now back on, mascara smudged. She looked fucking wrecked. Like she'd been danced and kissed and fought and fucked and finally given out.
It wasn’t just the sex. It was the alcohol. The dancing. The adrenaline. The way she burned herself out like she didn’t believe in stopping until her body forced her to. That was her way of doing everything. He watched her breathe. Just for a second. Then he turned, stepped out, and pulled the door shut behind him.
Author’s Note: I’ve just been watching way too much TV where ex-lovers reunite years later, all that old love and hurt crashing back in—and honestly, the angst is pure gold. So I had to do it.
Warnings: angst, unresolved tension
The sound came sharp and persistent, cutting through sleep. It took Lewis a moment to understand it was his phone, not thunder outside.
For a while, he lay still, eyes closed, hoping whoever it was would give up. They didn’t. The ringing kept coming, stubborn and unrelenting, the kind of sound that demanded attention.
By the third call, he sighed and reached for it, the blue-white glow of the screen cutting through the dark. His voice was still rough when he answered.
“What?”
The reply came jagged, frayed at the edges. “Is she with you?”
He froze. The voice was the last person he expected to get a call from in the middle of the night, it was Nico’s. And there was something raw in it, splintered in a way he hadn’t heard in years. Rage, exhaustion, maybe panic. It took a moment for the question to sink in, for his mind to make sense of it, to understand who Nico was talking about.
“What?” His voice came out rougher now, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. “Who—what are you talking about?”
For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of Nico’s breathing on the line, uneven, harsh. Then again, more forcefully: “You know who I’m talking about, my sister. Is she with you?”
Lewis sat up, the last trace of sleep gone in an instant. His pulse thudded in his throat. “What? No. Why—why would she be with me?”
There was another pause, longer this time. Then Nico’s voice came again, quieter, stripped of emotion. “Never mind.” And the line went dead.
Lewis stared at the phone for several long seconds, the glow fading against his palm. The silence that followed was heavy, disorienting, like the air right before a storm. Eventually, a low, humorless laugh escaped him. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, pressing a hand over his face.
He swung his legs out of bed and crossed to the window. Rain streaked the glass in soft, silvery lines, the city below half-drowned in its own reflection. The sky was bruised and blue, the kind of early morning that blurred the edges of everything. He could see his reflection faintly in the glass—his eyes shadowed, hair mussed, expression unreadable.
Is she with you?
If Nico was calling him about his sister, of all people it had to be the last result. It had been three years since the last time he’d seen her, and yet somehow, with that one question, the clock wound backward. Everything he had carefully buried beneath routine and distance began to stir again.
He leaned his head against the cool windowpane, the phone still resting loosely in his hand. Outside, the rain whispered its steady rhythm, patient and endless. For the first time in years, he let himself think of her. Just the thought of her in his mind hurt in that quiet, familiar way, like pressing on an old bruise to make sure it’s still there.
The memory came rushing back, as though it had been waiting all this time for a single moment of weakness to come back to life.
Surrey, 2014
The house in Surrey smelled like rain and her perfume —the faint trace of something floral that clung to every cushion, every blanket, every corner of the place they’d built together.
He’d spent the entire day at the factory, brain fried from simulator work, sponsor meetings. It had been one of those days that left him hollow, the kind that made the silence after the noise felt like oxygen. All he’d wanted was quiet.
When he opened the door, the living room was dark except for the soft flicker of the TV. Uptown Girls was playing again. The sight almost made him laugh. She watched it 20 times, maybe more. She always cried at the same part, every single time, like clockwork.
She was curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, knees drawn to her chest, the sleeves too long, covering her hands. The glow from the television painted her in soft light, eyes red and watery, hair falling loose around her face.
“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning against the doorway.
She jumped a little, startled, then turned, swiping at her cheeks with the sleeve. “You’re home.”
“That’s usually how doors work,” he teased, voice still rough from exhaustion.
She tried to laugh, but it came out uneven. “Sorry. It’s stupid. I just—this film always gets me.”
He crossed the room, slow and steady, his steps soft against the rug. When he reached her, he dropped to his knees in front of the couch, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “You’ve seen it a hundred times, love.”
“I know.” She sniffed, a faint, guilty smile tugging at her mouth. “Still hits.”
He shook his head, smiling in spite of himself, and reached up to brush the tears from under her eyes with his thumb. His touch lingered, slow and careful, tracing the softness of her skin like he was reminding himself she was real.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured.
That was it.. He climbed up beside her on the couch, and eased down until half of him rested against her. She shifted, making space, the blanket sliding over them both. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin. The movie kept playing in the background, but neither of them paid attention anymore.
“Long day?” she asked softly after a while, fingers finding his hair and moving through it with a slow, absent rhythm.
He hummed into her skin, a sound that was almost a sigh. “Better now.”
She smiled against his temple, the kind of smile he could feel.
“You smell like my hoodie,” he murmured.
“So basically like you,” she said quietly, teasing without opening her eyes.
He chuckled against her neck, the vibration making her laugh too. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer until the space between them disappeared. “Exactly.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair, so light it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. She didn’t move, just sighed quietly and wrapped her arms around him tighter.
They stayed that way until the credits rolled, neither of them saying a word. He could feel her heartbeat under his cheek, steady and soft, the rhythm syncing with his own.
He’d never realized peace could be that simple—two people, one couch, the smell of rain outside, and a movie they’d seen too many times.
He’d never realized how easy it was to forget the rest of the world when she was within arm’s reach.
The memory slipped away as quickly as it had come, dissolving into the dim, cold light of his bedroom and the sound of rain needling against the glass. Lewis dragged a hand over his face, the motion heavy, mechanical. The last thing he’d heard about her was that she was engaged, set to marry some Swiss surgeon with a face fit for magazines. The kind of man parents adored, steady and soft-spoken.
He’d wondered, more than once, what it would’ve been like if things had gone differently. If she hadn’t left. If he hadn’t pushed so hard, if he’d found a way to make her choose him instead of her brother. Would it have been him standing at the end of an aisle, waiting? Would her eyes have still looked at him the same way?
But what-ifs were useless now. The past didn’t bend, and no amount of imagining could unmake the decision she made for both of them.
Sleep wasn’t coming back. He knew that before he even tried. The air in the room felt thick, and the silence pressed down like weight. Eventually, he gave up and turned to his laptop, answering emails. It was something to do, a distraction, a way to keep his mind from circling back to the same ache.
By the time the phone rang again, the clock read almost eight. He answered faster than he wanted to without checking he half-expected it to be Nico again. Or maybe, impossibly, her. The thought alone sent a strange jolt through his chest.
“Mr. Hamilton?” The voice was unfamiliar, formal. “This is Patrick—the maintenance for the Surrey property. I, uh… I think someone’s inside the house.”
Lewis’s spine straightened instantly. “What? Did the alarm go off?”
“No,” Patrick said quickly. “But there’s a car in the driveway. Were you expecting someone?”
For a moment, Lewis didn’t breathe. The alarm hadn’t gone off. That meant someone had entered the code. And only two people knew it, himself and her.
His pulse spiked, but his voice stayed steady. “Yes, Patrick. It’s fine. A friend of mine was going to stop by. Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“Ah—alright then, sir. Have a good day.” The call ended with a faint click.
He didn’t remember much after that. Not pulling on a shirt, not locking the door behind him, not even checking the traffic. Only the road. The long, empty stretch of motorway bleeding into horizonless grey. The sound of rain against the windscreen, his heartbeat matching the rhythm of the wipers.
When he reached Surrey, it was just past ten. The countryside was quiet, still damp from the night’s storm, the trees heavy with rain. The air smelled like wet earth and memory.
He pushed the front door open, slow and soundless. And then he stopped.
She was there.
Asleep on the couch, he watched small curve of her mouth, the soft rise and fall of her chest. An empty wine bottle stood on the table beside her, the glass tipped over but unbroken. Her hair was mussed, spilling across the cushion; her legs were tucked under her, one arm hanging loose over the edge of the couch.
She was wearing his hoodie.
The sight hit him like gravity, pulling him backward through time.
For a long moment, he couldn’t move. He just stood there, the air thick with disbelief, caught between the shock of now and the echo of what used to be. Every part of the scene looked wrong and painfully familiar all at once.
And just like that, the last time he’d walked into this house came flooding back, the night he’d found it empty, the night her absence had hollowed the walls.
He’d thought he’d buried that memory for good. But now, standing there, the ghost of it came roaring back, and the room felt smaller for it.
Surrey, 2016
It had been late, past midnight, when he’d come home. He’d flown straight in from Monaco after the race, restless from the moment the plane lifted off. The fight had followed him through the hum of the jet cabin, the endless shuffle from tarmac to car. He hadn’t even slept. He’d just needed to be home.
They’d fought earlier over the phone, about the race, about Nico. He’d called her just to vent, his voice sharp with exhaustion, looking for comfort. She’d done what she always did, tried to make sense of it, to calm him, to remind him to breathe. But somewhere in her voice had been that same quiet defense, that instinct to protect her brother.
And that was all it took. One wrong word. One flare of pride. He’d snapped, she’d gone silent, and before he could stop himself, he’d hung up.
By the time he landed in London, the anger had dissolved into regret. He’d spent the drive to Surrey rehearsing apologies in his head, soft ones, the kind she couldn’t resist. They always found their way back to each other. They always talked things through. Morning always made it better.
He unlocked the door, the house greeted him with nothing but stillness. No light in the hall. No sound from the television. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only thing alive. He left his keys on the counter, kicked his shoes off by habit, she was probably asleep by now.
He went upstairs. The bedroom door was half-closed, the sliver of darkness beyond it almost inviting. He pushed it open gently, whispering her name like it might break if he said it too loud.
The bed was untouched. Smooth. Not a wrinkle, not a dent.
A small frown tugged at him. Maybe she’d fallen asleep in the bath again, or drifted off at her desk in the study. He crossed the room, checked the ensuite bathroom first—empty. He turned to the study next—lights off, chair pushed neatly in. No mug, no pen left behind.
Now he was calling her name out loud. “Love?” His voice sounded wrong in the space—too big, too echoing. “Clara?”
Nothing.
He went back to their room, frustration starting to bloom into unease. He flicked on the light.
And froze.
The bedside table on his side wasn’t empty. The drawer open, and sitting on top of it, bathed in warm lamplight, was the small black velvet box.
The one she wasn’t supposed to know about.
His stomach dropped. He didn’t need to pick it up to recognize it. That box had followed him from hotel rooms to races, across seasons and years. It had lived quietly in that drawer, waiting for him to be ready. Waiting for the noise to die down, for the world to stop spinning fast enough for him to ask the only question that mattered.
Now it was open.
Inside, the ring gleamed, untouched and untouched all at once. The curve of the gold band and the diamond sat on top caught the light.
Beside it lay a folded note, written in her steady handwriting.
“I’m sorry it had to be this way. Please believe that I loved you—and I still do. But I can’t choose between you and my brother.”
He stood there for a long time, motionless. The air felt thinner somehow, the walls closing in around him. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, the note trembling in his hand, staring until the words blurred into nothing.
Her closet was empty. Her drawers, bare.
He called her once. Twice. Straight to voicemail.
By morning, the house had stopped feeling like home. The bed stayed empty. The box stayed open. The ring stayed where she’d left it.
For a moment, Lewis thought the years had folded in on themselves that he’d fallen asleep again and woken up inside a dream. But no dream ever made his chest feel this tight.
She was there.
On the couch.
Fast asleep, one arm hanging loosely over the edge, fingers curled toward the floor. The TV cast a dim glow across the room, the screen frozen on the bright pink of Legally Blonde. He’d watched it with her once, years ago, in this same room, with her head tucked into his shoulder and her laughter soft against his neck.
He stood still, trying to process it, her here, in this house, in his hoodie, of all things. The sleeves half-covering her hands, the drawstrings tangled against her chest. There was an empty bottle of wine on the table, the label peeling slightly at the edges, a single glass tipped sideways beside it.
Three years.
Three years since he’d seen her face in anything but photographs.
He took her in slowly, as though she might vanish if he moved too fast. Her hair was longer now. The lines around her mouth were new, subtle, but there. She looked… older. There was something quieter about her now. Something heavier.
Lewis exhaled a laugh, low and disbelieving. “Of all the bloody movies,” he muttered under his breath, glancing at the screen.
She didn’t stir.
He lowered himself into the armchair across from her, elbows on his knees, watching. Every inhale, every tiny twitch of her mouth pulled something taut inside his chest. He told himself he was just making sure she was alright.
But as the minutes stretched, that old ache began to stir, the one he’d buried under new seasons, new races, new noise.
He wondered what she was dreaming about.
Then her eyelashes fluttered, and the air changed.
A sharp inhale, she jerked upright, eyes wide, hair falling across her face. “Scheiße!” The word hit the air before she could catch it.
He straightened instinctively, hands braced on his knees. She blinked, trying to piece the moment together. Then her eyes found his, and the colour drained from her face.
“Was zum Teufel machst du hier?” (“What the hell are you doing here?”)
Her German came out sharp, the kind of unfiltered tone he’d only heard when she was too shocked to think in English.
Lewis blinked once, then again, his voice still rough from the hours of silence behind the wheel. “What am I doing here?” he echoed, low. “That’s funny, considering this is my house.”
She stared, breathing uneven. “It was mine too,” she said, defiance slipping through the cracks of sleep.
“Was,” he said, leaning forward. “Past tense.”
Her jaw tightened, eyes sparking. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He laughed once, no humour, just breath. “You break into my house, drink my wine, wear my clothes, and I’m the one who shouldn’t be here?”
She stood abruptly, the sharp sound of movement slicing the air. “You know what, fine. I’ll leave.”
He was on his feet before he even realised it. His hand caught her wrist, firm but not cruel. “No,” he said, voice low, the word steady as an engine hum. “Not until you tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”
Her glare was ice. “Let go, Lewis.”
He didn’t. “Not until you answer me.”
Her chin lifted, the defiance familiar. “How did you even know I was here?”
He tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk flickering across his mouth. “Still not as private as you think you are,”he said simply.
“The guy who looks after the house called he saw your car on the drive”
She looked away then, jaw clenching. “You should’ve ignored it.”
“And let you sit here alone, drunk, two weeks before your wedding?” His laugh was a bitter edge in the quiet. “Not exactly my style.”
Her head snapped up, the name in his mouth setting something off. “Don’t act like you care.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, voice dropping low, venom curling under the calm. “I stopped a long time ago.”
She ripped her hand free, eyes flashing. “Good let me go then.”
He stood taller now, the exhaustion gone, anger finally surfacing. “You had every right to walk out the way you did? No fight, no goodbye — just a note and a ring? You think you’re the only one who gets to be mad here?”
The silence that followed was a blade.
They stood there — too close, too aware. He could see the faint pulse at her throat, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hand trembled just slightly by her side.
“You don’t get to make me the villain because you couldn’t live with watching your brother lose,” he said, quiet now, deadly soft.
“And you don’t get to act like I didn’t have to choose between the two people I loved most,” she shot back, her voice raw.
He laughed under his breath, not from amusement, but disbelief. “Yeah, well. You made your choice.”
She flinched, barely, but he saw it. Her chin lifted anyway, eyes narrowing, wet and bright. “Well, looks like I made the right one.”
He smiled then, slow, dangerous, tired. “And yet here you are.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She turned sharply, muttering something under her breath, but when his hand caught her wrist again, she didn’t pull away immediately.
“Don’t walk away from me again,” he said, quieter this time, the fight thinning into something desperate.
Her eyes flicked up, furious, stubborn. “Let go.”
He didn’t. His thumb pressed against the pulse in her wrist, grounding her. “Do you love him?”
She froze. The air between them seemed to stop moving.
“That’s none of your business,” she said finally, voice brittle.
“I think it is.” His grip stayed, steady but shaking just slightly. “You left me. You don’t get to show up here, two weeks before your wedding, and tell me I can’t ask that question.”
Her jaw set. “You’re just trying to get under my skin.”
He let out a quiet, humourless sound. “Why would my question get under your skin? Unless it’s true.”
“Because you are jealous!”
“Trust me, I stopped being jealous a long time ago.” Then, lower, almost to himself: “I don’t give a fuck about you.”
She smiled thin, cruel, and brittle. “For someone who doesn’t give a fuck, you seem awfully invested.”
His expression flickered. “I’m not invested,” he said. “I just hate unfinished business.”
She tilted her head, calm and sharp. “No. You’re mad.”
He frowned, his hand loosening just slightly.
“You’re mad,” she repeated softly, “because he managed to do what you couldn’t in four years — in a year and a half.”
His jaw tightened. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
She didn’t look away. “Putting a ring on my finger instead of keeping it locked in a box, waiting for the right time.”
The silence cracked open again — deep, ugly.
He lifted her hand, slow and deliberate, turning it over in his palm. “Well,” he said quietly, eyes flicking from her bare finger to her face, “I can’t see a ring.” His thumb brushed the empty space where it should’ve been. “But I can see my hoodie on you.”
Her breath stilled.
She stood there, in tights, his hoodie, her hair a tangle around her shoulders — looking at him like she didn’t know whether to scream or crumble.
And Lewis looked at her like both were fine by him.
She ripped her hand free. “Let me fucking go,” she said, voice breaking halfway through. “I’m leaving.”
He didn’t move. Just watched. The muscles in his jaw twitched; his hands clenched and unclenched. She turned toward her coat, steps quick, uneven.
He could’ve let her go. He should’ve.
But he didn’t.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice sharp, bitter, “that’s the one thing you do really well, isn’t it?”
She stopped.
The air changed again.
Her shoulders rose and fell once, twice, before she turned back. Her voice was low when she spoke. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He laughed, dry, humourless. “You’re the one who left me with a note. A fucking note. Like the coward you are.”
Her eyes lit up with fury. “What was I supposed to do?” she shouted, stepping closer. “Between you and Nico, what was I supposed to do, Lewis? Watch you destroy each other?”
“No one told you to choose,” he snapped, voice climbing again.
“Yes, you did!” she shouted back. “You and Nico, both of you! You made me choose without even realising it.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now, sharper. “And you chose him.”
“He’s my brother!” she screamed, voice breaking. “What did you expect me to do?”
And that was it, the breaking point.
The anger drained, leaving something raw in its wake. The fight left his voice; what came out instead was softer, almost sad. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Maybe I thought you’d choose me.”
Her face faltered all fury gone, replaced by something trembling and small. She turned her head away, but he saw the way her chin wobbled, the small, helpless giveaway he remembered too well.
It undid him.
Before she could move, he closed the distance. His hand came up, catching her jaw, gentle but sure. She froze, breath trembling. Her shoulder pressed against his chest, her pulse quick against his palm.
“Don’t,” he whispered, voice shaking. His thumb traced her cheekbone. His nose brushed her temple, his breath catching on her skin. “Don’t leave.”
Her eyes closed. “Lewis…”
“Don’t leave again.”
“I have to.”
He shook his head, almost to himself. “No, you don’t.”
“I do.” Her voice cracked. “I’m getting married in two weeks.”
He exhaled, breath uneven. “Then don’t.”
She stiffened. “What?”
“Don’t marry him.” He leaned back enough to meet her eyes, his thumb still warm against her jaw. “Stay. Don’t go back. Not to him.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, voice breaking. “I can’t just walk away. I can’t do that to him.”
“Yes, you can,” he said softly, eyes locked on hers. “You did it to me.”
That was the spark that reignited everything. She shoved him back, eyes blazing. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither was walking into to an empty house and a note,” he shot back, catching her again as she turned.
“Let go!”
He didn’t. Not yet.
They stood there, two people holding on to the last remnants of something that should’ve burned out years ago. Her lips trembled. Her eyes were wet but defiant. The hoodie slipped from her shoulder, and he could still smell her shampoo beneath the trace of wine.
And suddenly, everything collapsed into one truth: she was here. No ring. Just her.
He tugged her closer, voice rough. “You came back here for a reason. Don’t lie to me.”
She blinked fast, swallowing hard, but didn’t answer.
He lowered his forehead until it almost touched hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet. “If you really wanted to forget me,” he said, voice low and unsteady, “you wouldn’t be here.”
She turned her face away, but he felt the tremor anyway. He loosened his hold, enough for her to move, enough to leave. And she didn’t.
Then he reached for her, almost without thinking, and pulled her against him. Her hands pressed against his chest, caught between resisting and remembering. He buried his face in her hair. “I missed you,” he whispered.
She didn’t answer at first, just stood there in his arms as the rain filled the silence. Then, quietly, like it wasn’t meant for him to hear, she said, “I missed you too.”
