MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: hi angels! I’M BACKKKK 😭 do i return with peace? no. i return with this lmfao. this one is roughhh, he knows exactly what he’s doing, says it out loud, and still doesn’t stop. which might be worse actually. he's somehow still the biggest dickhead in monaco. very much “we shouldn’t be doing this” “i know” and then they do it anyway. also, car sex. enjoy! <3 (thank u to my angel @knowinglewis for the inspo + the support over the past month i hope you LOVE this)
pairing: lewis hamilton x reader
wc: 6k!
summary: after swearing he doesn’t do relationships, lewis watches you try to move on with someone else. one conversation, one drive, and all his warnings go out the window the second he gets his hands on you again. because some cycles are too addictive to break.
warnings: explicit smut (minors dni), car sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, praise kink (little degradation too), heavy dirty talk, toxic situationship, emotional infidelity ish (mental fixation on ex during new relationship), possessive behaviour, angst, no happy ending, hurt with minimal comfort, self-aware but unrepentant lewis, regression / cycle of toxicity
The Monaco Grand Prix had been over for hours, the circuit lights long dimmed, but the after party still thrummed like a second race. You’d shown up half for him, half because the guy you were currently sleeping with – Marco – had offered a nice hotel room and an easy weekend. The rooftop bar pulsed with bass that sank into your bones, the harbour lights flickering below in perfect sync with the music, turning the whole city into a glittering trap. That’s what weekends like this had started to feel like. A trap.
Lewis walked in like he owned the night. Dior trousers tailored to sin, tight in all the right places, hugging thighs and hips that had once been yours to map with your mouth. A fitted black tank clung to his chest, biceps carved and inked, the tattoos trailing down his arms to his fingertips catching every strobe like liquid silver. Two diamond chains stacked heavy on his neck, catching light and drawing every eye. You fought every instinct to stare, at the column of his throat, the sharp line of his jaw, those fucking lips that still knew every secret your body kept.
He greeted friends, peers, flashing his easy, devastating smile. Marco’s hand stayed firm on your lower back, warm and claiming, like he sensed the shift in the air the second Lewis appeared.
Like a moth to flame, Lewis’s eyes found yours across the crowd. There was a second of recognition where his eyebrows lifted slightly. Then his gaze slid to the hand on your back, followed the line of the arm, clocked the ownership in Marco’s stance. Whatever flashed behind his eyes…jealousy, possession, something darker…he buried it fast. The mask of cool stayed perfect.
He approached eventually. Leaned in for a sweet, polite kiss on your cheek, lips brushing just long enough to send heat curling low in your stomach. “Hey, angel.”
The old nickname slipped out soft like a habit he couldn’t undo. You felt Marco stiffen beside you.
You smiled back, nodding, voice steady. “Hey. This is Marco.”
Lewis turned to him, extended a hand with his trademark grin. Friendly, but his eyes did a quick, subtle sweep: the watch, the posture, the way Marco’s fingers flexed against your spine. He sized him up in half a second, recognised his face. Formula E driver, same media polish, same lean build, same easy charm, but the championship was different. Electric, urban, not nearly as impressive. Marco was a shittier version of Lewis, is what he processed instantly.
The amusement flickered in Lewis’s gaze for the briefest instant, gone before anyone but you could catch it. “Nice to meet you, mate.”
Marco shook firmly, returning the smile. “You too. Great race today. Your overtake on Charles was superb.”
Lewis chuckled low, modest as always. “Thanks, man. Had to push it. You race too?”
“Formula E mostly. Different beast, but the adrenaline’s the same.”
Lewis nodded, eyes flicking back to you for a split second, amused, almost fond. Like he could see exactly how hard you were working to keep your face neutral, and like he found the parallel between him and Marco hilarious in a quiet, private way. “Respect. Electric’s the future, right? Keeping it clean.”
Marco laughed. “Trying to. You should come do a guest stint sometime, see how it feels without the V6 noise.”
“Maybe one day,” Lewis said, polite, but his smirk tugged a fraction higher. Like the idea of stepping into Marco’s world amused him more than it should.
“How’ve you been?” he asked then, the question landing squarely on you again. His voice dropped just enough that it felt private, even in the crowd.
“Good,” you said, far too quick. “Busy. You?”
“Same. Always moving.” His gaze lingered on your mouth for half a second before sliding back up. “You look… happy.”
Marco’s thumb stroked a small circle on your back, possessive and reassuring.
“She’s been great,” he said with an easy smile. “We’ve been keeping each other company.”
Oh, Lewis didn’t like that. His grin didn’t falter, but something sharpened behind it. The muscle in his jaw clenched, only for a brief second, before he managed a slightly strained “lucky man.”
Small talk flowed after that. Nice, surface level, laughing at the right moments. Lewis asked Marco about his last ePrix weekend, complimenting his taste in watches “That’s a nice piece...vintage?”, kept the vibe light and gentlemanly. But every time you spoke, Lewis leaned in to hear you over the music, head dipping until you were eye-level, breath warm against your skin. His pinky brushed yours on the bar ledge, deliberate, fleeting, gone before Marco could notice. You snapped your eyes back to your date mid-sentence, pulse hammering against your ribs. Lewis watched you fluster, a little smile lingered at the corner of his mouth, one that said I know exactly what you’re trying not to feel.
You were trying so hard not to look at him like you used to. Like he was still the only man who could unravel you with a glance. And he knew. You hated him for it.
“Oh, actually!” Lewis smiled eventually, easy as breathing. “One of our friends is just over there. I’m sure she’d love to see you. Can I steal her away for a second, mate?”
Marco glanced at the empty space Lewis had nodded toward, then back with a confused shrug. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Go catch up.”
Lewis caught your wrist, gentle but quick, and pulled you to the side, away from the crowd, into a shadowed corner where the music dulled to a throb.
Only then did his smile stop, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he scoffed under his breath.
“You really doing this?” he whispered, tilting his head, eyes locked on yours. “Filling the void already? With him?”
The words hit like a slap wrapped in desire. The sharpness of his whisper lit every nerve in your body on fire. He was jealous.
You stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “You’re the one who said you don’t do relationships. No love, no strings, no nothing. You said it while you were balls deep inside of me, Lewis. Repeatedly. You told me, warned me, to stay away.”
He exhaled slow, like the memory was still fresh on his skin too. “I did. And I meant it. Relationships are my enemy. They don’t work for me. Never have. I’ll ruin you, angel. I told you that from the start.”
“Then why do you look at me like that?” you shot back, quieter now. “Like you’re pissed I’m here with someone else?”
His jaw worked your words over, clenching and unclenching before he spoke. “I’m not pissed. I’m… realistic. You’re trying to move on, and that’s good. That’s what I wanted for you. But seeing his hand on you—” He cut himself off, shook his head once. “Doesn’t sit right with me.”
You laughed once, bitter. “You don’t get to feel possessive when you’re the one who drew the line.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist where he still held you. “I don’t want to hurt you. That’s why I said stay away. Every time.”
“Then let go of my wrist.”
“No,” he murmured, tightening his grip slightly. “I don’t want to do that either.”
“Let go, Lew.”
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening into something that made you want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath.
“I like holding your wrist,” he said simply, voice low and playful, like he was confessing the most innocent secret. “Feels nice, doesn't it?”
You tried to glare at him, but it came out weaker than you wanted, heat already pooling low in your stomach. “You’re such an asshole.”
Lewis chuckled softly, the sound warm and dangerous against your skin. He didn’t let go. Instead, his thumb continued its slow, lazy circles over your pulse point, pressing just enough to remind you how well he knew every sensitive spot on your body.
“Maybe,” he murmured, leaning in a fraction closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you like it when I’m an asshole. You like it when I touch you like this… even when you’re pretending you don’t.”
Your breath got stuck in your throat, betraying you the moment his lips touched your skin.
He tilted his head, eyes glittering and far too amused. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that when his hand is on your back, it feels the same as mine does right now.”
He moved the hand that wasn’t holding your wrist to your lower back, a gentle sweep over the curve of your ass before settling in an innocent position. His voice dropped even lower, teasing, almost sweet. “Go on, angel. Lie to me.”
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your body was already leaning toward him, traitorous and desperate. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to pull me away and then act like you still have any claim.”
“I’m not claiming anything,” he said, but the smirk on his lips said otherwise. His hand came up, fingertips ghosting along your bare arm, barely there and yet everywhere at once. “I’m just… reminding you. Reminding both of us.” He paused, voice turning rougher, more honest. “Because the second I saw his hand on you tonight, all I could think about was how much better mine feels there. How much better it feels everywhere.”
He let the silence stretch for a second, thumb still stroking your wrist like he had all the time in the world.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, the words brushing warm against your ear. “I never did. That’s why I told you to stay away. But fuck… I also don’t want to stop touching you. Not when you look at me like that. Not when you still shiver the second I get close.”
Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. The music from the party felt miles away. There was only his voice, his scent, the heat of his body inches from yours.
Lewis finally pulled back enough to meet your eyes again, a wicked little smirk still playing on his lips, but his gaze had gone darker, hungrier.
“So yes… I like holding your wrist,” he admitted, voice soft and dangerous. “I like a lot of things about you. Too many things.” He sighed, rolling his eyes like he was annoyed at himself, but the smile never left. “And I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m bad for you. But here we are.”
Only then did he let go. Slowly, reluctantly, fingers dragging along your skin like he was memorising every inch one last time. The loss of contact left you colder than it should have. You let out a shaky breath, unsure whether it was relief or pure disappointment twisting in your chest.
He leaned in one final time, breath ghosting hot against your ear, voice dropping even deeper.
“We need to talk. Properly. Away from all this noise.” He let the deliberate pause linger, loaded with everything he wasn’t saying. “Let me take you for a drive, baby.”
You hesitated, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. Marco was still somewhere behind you, laughing with someone, completely oblivious to the way the air between you and Lewis had thickened into something dangerous and familiar. The city glittered below the rooftop like it was in on the secret, Monaco sprawled out like a glittering trap that had already caught you both.
Lewis watched you with a lust-filled stare, the one that always undid you. You could feel how much he wanted you. His tongue ran slowly over his bottom lip, like he could taste the moment you were about to cave. The diamond chains around his neck caught the low light, glinting against the smooth, inked skin of his chest where the black tank dipped low. He looked every inch the beautiful, untouchable dickhead who had ruined you more times than you could count.
You hated how much you still wanted him. Hated how your body already knew exactly how this night would end.
He didn’t push. He just waited, eyes dark and knowing. Like he already knew your answer before you did.
Then you said the words that always started the cycle again. “Fine, okay. A quick one.”
The valet brought Lewis’s Ferrari around without a word. You slid into the passenger seat before you could talk yourself out of it, the leather warm from the Monaco night. Lewis folded himself behind the wheel, one hand loose on the gear stick, the other resting on the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. The engine purred to life, and he pulled away from the rooftop venue with the quiet confidence that used to make your stomach flip.
For the first few minutes, the silence was almost gentle.
He drove with the windows cracked, warm wind slipping in and tangling with your perfume. The city lights blurred past as he took the winding road up toward La Turbie, away from the noise and the eyes.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he started, voice soft but steady. One hand left the wheel to rest on the centre console, close enough that his knuckles brushed your thigh. “I don’t want to hurt you. That’s never been the plan.”
You turned your head to look at him. The dashboard glow carved sharp shadows across his jaw, highlighting the freshly trimmed beard and the way his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip again. He looked unfairly beautiful like this, half in shadow, half in light.
“Then why do you keep doing it?” you asked quietly.
Lewis exhaled through his nose, a small, rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “Because I’m selfish. Because I warned you from the beginning that relationships aren’t meant for me… and I still can’t seem to stay away from you.” His fingers flexed on the console, brushing your skin again. “You try to fill the void with every man you meet, don’t you? Because you’re still upset with me. Still trying to prove something.”
The words settled somewhere between accusation and confession. You let out a breathy laugh, half incredulous, half turned on because he knew you like the back of his hand.
“God, you’re unbelievable. You ghost me for weeks, tell me I deserve better, then get jealous the second someone else touches me?”
“I’m not jealous,” he said, but the smirk gave him away. He glanced over at you, eyes dark and playful. “Okay… maybe a little. But come on, angel. Marco?” He shook his head, chuckling low. “Formula E? Electric cars? That’s cute. He’s like the BTEC version of me, babe. Same smile, same charm, same ‘I’m a professional driver’ shit… but boring and without the edge. Without the part that actually makes you wet.”
You couldn’t help it, a real laugh burst out of you, bright and surprised, cutting through the tension like a knife. Lewis grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself, the sound of your laughter doing dangerous things to the air between you.
“Shut up,” you said, still laughing, swatting at his arm. “You’re such a dick.”
“I’m an honest dick,” he countered, voice warm with amusement. “Admit it. When he’s fucking you, you close your eyes and pretend it’s me anyway.”
“Fuck off, Lewis,” you shot back, half-laughing, half-breathless, thighs pressing together without meaning to. “I do not—”
“Oh, baby,” he drawled, low and sultry, eyes flicking from the road to your mouth and back again. “Don’t lie to me. We both know you do.”
You scoffed, but the sound came out shaky. “You’re so fucking full of yourself.”
“And you’re so fucking wet right now just thinking about it,” he murmured, that smug smirk curling deeper. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me his name is the one on your tongue when you come.”
Heat flooded your face. You turned to glare at him, but your voice betrayed you and came out ofter, breathier than you wanted. “You wish.”
Lewis chuckled, smug and knowing His hand left the wheel and landed on your knee, sliding slowly upward, fingertips slipping under the hem of your dress like they belonged there. “Nah… I don’t have to wish. I remember exactly how you sound when you’re trying not to moan my name. All breathy and desperate… like you’re doing right now.”
Your breath hitched. The car felt impossibly small, the air thick with your perfume and the low rumble of the engine. The last time you’d been in this car, his hand had been between your thighs at 3 a.m., two fingers curling inside you while he drove one-handed through empty streets, telling you in the same low, filthy voice exactly what he was going to do to you when you got home. The memory hit you both at the same time. You saw it flash across his face, the way his grip tightened on the wheel, the way his tongue ran over his bottom lip again, slower this time. Lewis swallowed hard.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking to your bare legs where your dress had ridden up slightly. “This car is too small for us to fuck in, baby.”
“Lewis…” It was supposed to be a warning. It came out like a plea.
“Yeah?” His palm smoothed higher, thumb stroking the soft skin of your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you were aching. “You gonna tell me to stop? Or are you gonna keep pretending you don’t want my hand between your thighs right now?”
You swallowed hard, heart slamming against your ribs. All you could do was repeat yourself, with a little more emphasis, your brain scrambling for words. “You’re such a fucking dick, Lewis.”
“Mm. But I’m your favourite dick,” he said, voice dropping even lower, rough with want. His fingers teased higher, brushing the edge of your lace panties. “And you’re soaked for this dick. Aren’t you, angel?”
The silence that followed was loud. Your thighs trembled under his touch. You hated how right he was. Hated how badly you wanted him to keep going.
Lewis leaned over just enough for his breath to ghost your ear, eyes still on the winding road.
“Say it,” he whispered, hot and commanding. “Tell me you think about me when he fucks you. Tell me you close your eyes and wish it was my cock instead.”
You let out a shaky, broken laugh that sounded far too close to a moan.
“Fuck…I hate you..”
He grinned, slow and wicked, fingers finally pressing against your clothed heat, a slow drag upwards.
“And yet here you are… letting me touch you again.”
His fingers kept rubbing slow, torturous circles against your soaked lace, pressing just hard enough to make your hips twitch involuntarily toward his hand. You were embarrassingly wet already, the fabric clinging to you, and Lewis could feel every little shift of your body. His jaw flexed, breath coming slightly heavier as he tried to keep his eyes on the dark, winding road.
You glanced down before you could stop yourself.
The thick outline of his cock was straining against the tailored Dior trousers, twitching visibly with every stroke of his fingers between your thighs. The sight made your mouth go dry. He was rock hard, the fabric stretched tight over him, and the knowledge that he was this turned on just from touching you made you throb under his touch.
Lewis noticed where your eyes had gone. A low, rough chuckle rumbled in his chest.
“See what you do to me?” he murmured, voice thick with arousal. His fingers never stopped their teasing rhythm, pressing firmer now, rubbing right over where you needed him most through the lace. “One conversation and I’m already this fucking hard for you. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
You bit your lip hard, a soft whimper slipping out before you could catch it.
“Tell me to take you back right now,” he said suddenly, strained. His fingers slowed but didn’t stop, still stroking you with maddening patience. “Tell me to turn the car around and drop you back at the party with Marco. I’ll do it. I swear I will.”
Your chest rose and fell rapidly. The words wouldn’t come. All you could do was spread your legs wider, chasing the pressure of his hand.
Lewis let out a shaky exhale, eyes flicking between the road and your face, dark with hunger.
“I meant every warning I ever gave you,” he whispered, finally pulling his hand away just long enough to reach over and cup your chin. His thumb brushed slowly across your lower lip, pressing gently until your mouth parted for him. “I’ll hurt you. I’ll break your heart. I’ll leave you crying over me again.”
He leaned in closer, breath hot against your lips, voice barely above a growl.
“But right now… I really don’t give a fuck about being good.”
Then he kissed you. Deep, desperate, and starving. His tongue slid against yours like he was claiming every moan, every whimper, every shaky breath. The car swerved slightly as he lost focus for half a second, but he didn’t care. Neither did you.
His hand dropped back between your thighs, shoving your dress higher, fingers finally pushing your soaked panties aside to touch bare, dripping skin.
The pull-off was just ahead. Lewis didn’t even ask this time. He took the turn sharply, tyres crunching over gravel as he killed the engine in the shadowed cliffside spot. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing and the distant crash of waves far below.
He turned to you fully, eyes black with lust, chest heaving.
“Last chance, angel,” he rasped, already reaching for the seat lever to push his seat back. “Tell me no.”
You didn’t. Instead, you climbed over the console and into his lap like you’d been starving for it.
Lewis groaned the moment your weight settled on him, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he shoved his seat all the way back. “Fuck, angel… that’s it. Come here, baby.”
Your dress was already bunched around your waist. His fingers yanked your soaked panties to the side with zero patience, the lace digging into your skin. The moment he sprang free, thick and heavy, leaking at the tip, you both moaned. He was so hard it looked almost painful, the head flushed dark and glistening.
You didn’t wait. You sank down on him in one slick, desperate slide.
“Shit—fuck—” Lewis’s head fell back against the headrest, a broken moan ripping from his throat. “So fucking tight… always so fucking perfect for me.”
The stretch burned in the best way. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders through the thin tank as you took every thick inch. He was so deep like this, filling you completely, and the angle in the car made it even hotter.
Lewis’s hands slid up your thighs, gripping hard. “That’s my girl,” he rasped, voice wrecked already. “Look at you… taking me so well. Like you were made for my cock.”
You started moving, rolling your hips, grinding down on him with needy, frantic strokes. The car rocked with every thrust. Fog was already blooming across the windows, sealing you both inside your own private hell.
Lewis couldn’t stop moaning. Low, filthy sounds that vibrated against your neck as he buried his face there, biting and sucking marks into your skin.
“Fuck, baby… ride me just like that,” he groaned, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit. “You feel so good. So wet. You’re dripping, angel. You missed this dick, didn’t you?”
“Yes—” The word broke on a whimper as you slammed down harder, chasing that perfect spot only he ever hit. “Lewis… oh my god—”
“That’s it. Say my name.” His voice was hoarse, praise pouring out between moans. “No one else makes you feel like this. No one else gets you this fucking soaked. You know it. I know it.”
He thrust up to meet you, hips snapping hard, the wet slap of skin echoing in the small space. Every stroke was deep and punishing, like he was trying to fuck the memory of anyone else out of your body.
You were both losing control. Lewis’s head tipped back again, eyes closing, mouth open on a constant stream of broken sounds. “Shit… you’re gonna make me come too fast. You always do this to me—fuck, you ruin me every single time.”
His praise mixed with raw desperation, the two of you feeding off each other.
“You’re so good,” he panted, thumb rubbing faster over your clit. “So fucking good for me. My perfect little slut. Taking every inch like you can’t get enough.”
You clenched around him at the words, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. The praise hit you harder than the thrusts. Lewis felt it. He moaned louder, almost whining. “Yeah? You like when I talk to you like that? Like when I tell you how fucking perfect your pussy feels?”
You nodded frantically, hips stuttering as you rode him harder, grinding down on his cock with messy, desperate rolls.
“God, I’m so deep,” he groaned, voice cracking. “Can feel you squeezing me—fuck, you’re gonna come, aren’t you? Come on my cock, angel. Let me feel it. Let me feel how good I make you feel.”
The praise, the filth, the way his voice shook, iit pushed you over the edge.
You came hard, crying out his name as your walls clenched and fluttered around him. Lewis’s hips stuttered, a loud, broken moan tearing from his chest.
“Fuck—yes—good girl. That’s my good fucking girl,” he gasped, thrusting up through your orgasm, chasing his own. “I’m so close… you feel so good baby. Shit, I can’t— I’m gonna—”
He came with a raw, guttural moan, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you. His hips jerked, fingers digging bruises into your waist while he rode it out, moaning your name in a way that made you dizzy.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the leather seats. Lewis’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let you go yet. He was still twitching inside you, both of you trembling.
“Fuck…” he whispered against your skin, voice hoarse. "Every single time it gets better than the last, angel.”
He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone, then another to your throat, almost tender now that the desperation had burned through.
But the warnings were already creeping back in, you could feel them in the way his grip tightened, like he was holding on and letting go at the same time. His hands stroked slow, soothing circles over your back, but he didn’t pull out. Not yet.
Eventually, he lifted his head and caught your mouth in a kiss – slow, deep, and devastatingly tender. His lips moved like he was trying to memorise the taste of you, tongue sliding against yours in lazy, wet strokes. You moaned softly into his mouth and he swallowed it, kissing you harder, longer, like he couldn’t bear to stop.
When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was rough and cracked with emotion.
“I wish I could give you everything you want, baby…” He kissed you again, slower this time, lips brushing yours between every word. “I wish I wasn’t so fucking broken.”
Another long kiss followed. Deep, wet, and full of quiet ache. His tongue slid against yours like an apology he couldn’t quite voice.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your mouth, thumb gently stroking your cheek. “My gorgeous girl… always so perfect for me.”
He kissed you again, and again, slow, open-mouthed kisses that tasted like salt and longing. Each one deeper than the last, until you were both breathing into each other’s mouths, tongues gliding, lips slick and swollen.
You could feel him starting to harden again inside you, thick and heavy, stretching you open once more. A soft, needy sound escaped your throat. Lewis groaned quietly, hips giving one slow, shallow roll.
“Feel that?” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then back to your lips. “I could never get enough of you.”
He kept the pace devastatingly slow. Gentle, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The car rocked with the lazy rhythm, windows completely fogged now, the air thick and humid between you.
You moaned softly into his mouth, fingers threading through his braids as you kissed him through every thrust.
“I could love you so good, Lew…” you whispered against his lips, voice trembling with emotion. “I could give you everything… if you’d just let me in.”
Lewis’s breath hitched. His eyebrows drew together with something that looked painfully close to regret. He kissed you deeper, slower, tongue sliding wetly against yours as he rolled his hips in the same unhurried rhythm.
“I know, baby… I know you could,” he groaned, the words breaking into a low, reverent moan as he sank deeper. “You aren’t the problem. You never were. It’s me… fuck, it’s always been me.”
He kissed you again, long, messy, and heartbreakingly tender, while his cock dragged slow and thick inside your soaked heat. Every thrust was purposeful, sensual in its gentleness.
“But god… you feel like heaven around me,” he rasped, voice thick with awe. “So warm… so good… taking me so beautifully even after I’ve already filled you up.”
His hand slid between your bodies, fingers gently stroking where you were joined, feeling how wet and full you still were.
“Look at us…” he murmured against your lips, voice full of wonder. “You’re still letting me stay inside you like this. My gorgeous girl… so soft and open for me.”
You whimpered, clenching around him. Lewis answered with a low, shaky groan, forehead resting against yours as he continued those slow, rolling thrusts.
“That’s it… just like that,” he whispered, kissing you deeply again. “You feel so good, baby. So perfect. I don’t deserve how good you feel.”
His praise stayed soft and worshipful, matching the lazy drag of his cock.
“You’re everything I want and everything I’m terrified of,” he breathed between kisses. “I could stay buried in you forever, just like this. My beautiful girl, mine.”
He rolled his hips again, grinding gently so you felt every inch, every slow drag. His mouth never left yours for long, wet kisses that grew messier as the pleasure built, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. You were both moaning softly into each other’s mouths now, the sound low and intimate in the fogged-up car.
Lewis’s hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he kissed you again, slow and deep. “My perfect angel,” he whispered, voice trembling with how good it felt. “I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to let you go…”
You both came at the same time, lips still touching, mouths falling open against each other, damp eyes locked in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. The pleasure rolled through you in long, shuddering waves, pulling soft, broken sounds from both of you. Lewis’s forehead pressed to yours as he spilled deep inside you again, hips stuttering with each pulse, his quiet moan vibrating against your mouth like a secret only you were allowed to hear.
For a few minutes neither of you moved. All you could do was feel each other breathing, trembling, still connected in the tight space of the car. His hands stroked slow, soothing lines up and down your back, grounding you as the high gently ebbed.
Lewis was the first to speak, voice hoarse and impossibly soft.
“Stay right here, baby,” he murmured, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips before carefully shifting beneath you.
He reached into the glove compartment with one hand, still holding you close with the other, and pulled out a small packet of wipes. The gesture was so quietly thoughtful it made your chest ache. He warmed one between his palms before gently cleaning you, his touch feather-light and reverent, like he was handling something precious he knew he didn’t deserve to keep.
You watched him in silence, heart twisting at the contrast. The same man who had just fucked you raw and desperate now wiping you down with such careful tenderness.
When he was done, he cleaned himself quickly, then pulled your dress back down over your thighs with gentle hands and tucked himself back into his trousers. He didn’t let you climb back into the passenger seat right away. Instead he kept you in his lap a little longer, arms wrapped around you, nose brushing your temple.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice low and warm against your skin.
You nodded, fingers playing with the chains around his neck. “Yeah… I’m okay.”
He let out a slow breath, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Good. That’s all I care about right now.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, but familiar, the same quiet that always settled between you after moments like this. Eventually Lewis kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, each one softer than the last.
“Come on, angel,” he whispered. “Let me take you back before they start wondering where you are.”
The drive down the hill was quiet. His hand rested on your thigh the whole way, thumb tracing patterns against your skin. Neither of you spoke much. There wasn’t really anything left to say that hadn’t already been said with bodies and kisses and half-finished warnings.
When he pulled up near the venue, the bass from the party still thumping faintly in the distance, he killed the engine and turned to you. The streetlights painted soft gold across his face, catching on the diamond chains and the faint sheen of sweat still on his skin.
He leaned over and kissed you one last time. Slow, deep, and full of everything he couldn’t promise. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a beat.
“If you ever need me,” he murmured, voice rough but gentle, “you know where to find me, baby. Day or night. No questions asked.”
You nodded, throat tight. You both knew what that really meant.
Lewis watched you step out of the car, eyes following every movement like he was trying to memorise it. Before you could close the door he spoke again, softer this time.
“You looked beautiful tonight. You always do.”
You couldn't bring yourself to reply to him. Your eyes lingered on his, the way he frowned ever so slightly, and then you closed the car door. You walked back toward the lights and the music on unsteady legs, the cool night air brushing against skin that still carried the warmth of him. Back to Marco. Behind you, the low rumble of the Ferrari faded as Lewis drove away.
What you didn’t see though, is that he didn’t pull off immediately.
Instead he sat there in the dark, engine idling, one hand still gripping the steering wheel. A heavy sigh left him as he ran his palm over his face, dragging it down until his fingers covered his mouth. His chest ached. A dull, familiar throb right behind his ribs he’d started to associate with you. He wasn’t the man you deserved. Not even close. He wasn’t ready for you yet, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be.
He didn’t want to be cruel. He didn’t want to keep hurting you. But he kept doing it anyway. Because every time he saw you, every time you let him touch you, every time you said yes when you should have said no… he fell for you all over again. He needed you, he needed you like he needed air.
Lewis leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing as a tired, bitter laugh escaped him.
“Such a fucking dickhead,” he muttered to the empty car, voice thick with self-disgust and a deep, aching, longing.
He was going to keep hurting you, and the worst part was that he already knew you were going to keep letting him back in.
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)
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: here's the final fic of my dear melancholy! sorry it's taken me so long to get this little one-shot series out but thank you for all of the support. i love abel sm so this has really been a labour of love for me. this one's really really sad but how else could we end it? love you angels!! happier fics coming soon <3
pairing: lewis hamilton x reader
wc: 3.6k! (one-shot. based on privilege by the weeknd. my fav song ever pls listen)
summary: all good things must come to an end, even the beautiful, messy, all-consuming ones. when love becomes a loop of pain dressed up as passion, sometimes the kindest thing you can do for each other is walk away while the memories are still worth saving. a quiet, devastating goodbye between two people who loved too hard and hurt each other too well.
warnings: heavy angst, breakup, emotional hurt/comfort, toxic relationship dynamics, ending toxic cycles, mutual pining, both characters still very much in love, no happy resolution.
3:17 a.m. again. It was always 3:17 a.m.
His name was already on your tongue before you were fully awake, the way it always was. It was like your body hadn't gotten the memo yet, like sleep was the only place the goodbye hadn't reached. You'd trace the phantom shape of his jaw in the dark, fingers moving through nothing, and hate yourself for how natural the motion still felt. Muscle memory was the last thing to grieve.
He never told you, but he did the same. Reaching for your waist in the dark of early morning, only for the bone-crushing reality to crash over him like ice water: one of you had fucked it all up again. That the warmth beside him was just a ghost you'd both gotten too good at haunting each other with.
There were shirts you hadn't thrown out. Couldn't. You'd press your face into the collar on bad nights and breathe until the tears came, hot and useless, because even the scent felt like betrayal now. Cedar and smoke and the faint sweetness of whatever cologne he wore when he wanted to feel untouchable. Proof that once, you'd been allowed to want him without punishment.
The goodbyes had never stuck. That was the thing nobody outside the two of you ever understood. Every ending was just a pause, a held breath, a door left barely ajar. You'd sworn it off a dozen times. Packed feelings away like seasonal clothes, told yourself you were done, that this time the silence would hold. Then three weeks later, or two months, or once almost a whole year…a text. A look across a room. His hand finding the small of your back like it had never left. The door would swing open again and you'd both walk through it like you hadn't spent weeks learning to breathe without each other. Like the leaving had never happened at all. It was never really goodbye, it was always wait for me to get better for you.
Until now.
The city did what it always did, glittered on indifferently, a thousand lit windows full of people who had no idea. You'd been sitting in silence for a while by then. Not the comfortable kind. The silence had weight to it, it pressed down on your sternum and made every breath feel slightly too forced. It was the kind of silence that said you both knew what was coming and were just deciding who'd be brave enough to start.
He leaned forward in the dim light of his living room, elbows on his knees, and reached for your hand slowly. Like he was approaching something that might bolt. Like it was the last precious thing he owned, like if he let go too quickly, the whole fragile architecture of what remained between you would collapse.
"I don't want you to suffer anymore." His voice came out low, rough at the edges the way it always got when he was trying not to cry. "Not because of me."
The words landed like a blade between your ribs. The way he said it was so clean, precise, merciful in the worst way. You bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper, the same taste that had bloomed every time one of you walked out the door and swore it was the last time. Your eyes slid away to the shadowed corner of the room, to the place where the light couldn’t reach, anywhere but his face. Because looking at him would mean admitting you still wanted to stay,that you'd always want to stay, that wanting had never been the problem. Your fingers still found his on instinct, threading together like they’d never learned another language, like muscle memory was the only honest thing left between you.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles. The same small, reverent motion he used to make when you were falling asleep against his chest and he thought you wouldn’t notice. You noticed. You always noticed. That was the worst part about all of this. Even now, at the end, he couldn’t stop touching you like you were something precious he was trying to memorise before the lights came up and the illusion shattered.
You wanted to tell him you were both already suffering. That the suffering had started the first time he kissed you like he meant forever and then disappeared for three days without a word. That every reconciliation had only deepened the wound, layering scar tissue over scar tissue until you weren’t sure where the hurt ended and love began. You wanted to scream that letting you go now wouldn’t stop the ache, it would only give it a new shape, a quieter one that settled in your chest like damp rot and never quite left.
But the words stayed locked behind your teeth. All you could do was hold his hand tighter, as if the pressure alone could keep the goodbye from happening. As if your grip could rewrite the ending you both knew was coming years ago. The ending neither of you had ever been strong enough to choose before.
He exhaled, shaky, the sound almost a laugh but too broken to qualify. “God, look at us,” he whispered. “Still holding on even when we’re letting go.”
Your throat burned. You didn’t answer. You just let the silence stretch, let the city lights flicker across his face like they were trying to light him up one last time before the dark took him away from you for good. Underneath the taste of copper on your tongue, beneath the ache in your bones, you understood that this was the kindest cut he’d ever given you. It still felt like dying.
“Look at me, sweetie. Please.”
You turned. His eyes were dark, rimmed with something fragile and wet. The fragility he rarely let anyone see. But you were always his worst exception. He looked like a man who had already made his decision and was grieving it in real time.
“I love you,” he said, the words cracking just enough to hurt. “You know I love you.”
You nodded. It was all your throat would allow.
“But this—this thing we have, this loop we keep running where one of us fucks up and the other forgives just to fuck up again… I can’t keep watching you hurt because of me. Or me because of you. We give in every few months like it’s inevitable, like the pain we cause is some kind of fucked up foreplay.” He exhaled, shaky.
“I care about you too much to let it keep rotting us both. Fuck, babe, I don’t know how else to say it.” His thumb was still slowly moving across your knuckles, barely, like he wasn’t aware he was still doing it.
He stopped. Started again, jaw tight, like he was forcing the words out one by one. “I don't want us to end on some ugly hate-filled note, screaming things we can't take back. So I’m trying to do the bigger thing here…I want to walk away while I still remember why I fell for you. While I still—" His voice broke on the last word, just slightly. He steadied himself. "I never want you to hate me, baby."
The silence that followed was enormous. You just stared at him through your eyelashes, feeling your chest constrict in a way it never had before. He meant it. He really, truly meant it. You tracked the tear falling from his cheek, dropping onto his shirt near his collarbone, willing yourself to say something. Anything.
“Yeah,” you murmured, eyes locked on him, eyebrows furrowing with the strain of trying not to cry. “Yeah, no, I get it.”
You did get it. That was the hardest part about it all, you genuinely did. You could see the love in every line of his face and you could also see the exhaustion underneath it, the same exhaustion you'd been carrying for years. It stung like salt in an open wound, even though you’d seen it coming from miles away. Things had curdled worse lately, sharper words, longer silences, a toxicity that felt almost addictive. You knew you were special to him; he’d said it in hotel rooms at 4 a.m., whispered it against your throat like a secret he couldn’t keep inside. But you were avoidant to your core, always one step back when he leaned in too far. And he was stubborn as hell, feeding off the same chaos you did—the screaming matches that ended in desperate, bruising sex, the way you both got high on making the other cry just to prove you still mattered to each other. You loved knowing he needed you like oxygen. He loved knowing the same about you. Crawling back had become your shared religion.
But he was choosing differently now. The bigger thing. The harder thing. And you couldn't claw at that without looking small, without proving every terrible thing the worst version of yourself had always suspected — that you'd rather burn it down than let it end with any grace.
So you didn't.
Lewis leaned in closer, eyes impossibly tender, glistening at the edges. “Take care of yourself for me, okay?” His whisper cracked on the last word.
Your palm rose to his cheek before you'd decided to move it, the desperate need to comfort him overruling any thoughts about self preservation. The second your palm touched his skin, he leaned into it like he was basking in sunlight. His eyebrows pulled together, another desperate attempt to stop tears, a wounded breath leaving him.
“Yeah. You too, Lewis.” You said softly.
He pressed his lips to your forehead, one hand cradling the back of your head like he could anchor you there forever. He lingered—long, slow breaths through his nose, lips warm and unmoving against your skin. A full minute stretched between you, heavy with everything you’d shared. He lingered long enough that you memorised the weight of his hand, the warmth of his mouth, the way he smelled up close. You made sure to memorise it, just in case you never got to experience it again. Lewis was doing the same thing. Memorising how your skin felt under his lips, how soft your hair was in his hand, the feeling of peace he could never find anywhere else but with you.
You kept your other hand fisted in your lap. If you touched him anywhere else you would shatter. You'd beg. You’d scream. You'd take it all back and ask him to take it all back and you'd both walk back through that door you'd walked through a dozen times before, and in six months you'd be right here again, bleeding in the same familiar ways.
As his lips lingered against your forehead, the old reflexes started to rise. The urge to pull back, to turn the tenderness into something safer and sharper, something that would pull him back into the fight. You’d done it so many times before: a soft moment would crest, and you’d pick a fight over nothing. A missed text, a tone you didn’t like, just to remind yourself the ground could still shift. Better to detonate it yourself than wait for him to leave. But tonight, with his breath warm against your hair, you stayed still. Finally, you let the ache bloom unchecked. For once, you didn’t weaponise the fear. You weren’t going to cause a fight because he was trying to protect you both.
You both needed more than the wreckage you kept offering each other.
When he pulled back, he tilted his head and gave you a soft smile. His eyebrows were still furrowed in a way that showed he was trying not to cry. And even though your heart was somewhere on the floor, you smiled back. Sad, yes. Broken, maybe. But you smiled back.
It was the kindest thing you'd ever done for each other.
Weeks bled into months. The silence between you grew until you went no contact. It was for the best, you’d mutually decided.
Across town, in a low-lit booth at some private members’ club where the music thumped like a second heartbeat, Lewis sat with Miles and Spinz, glass sweating in his hand.
“Lewis is sad because he finally lost the stupid game he was playing with that girl… what’s her face? The pretty one he used to giggle aroun—”
Lewis slammed his drink down so hard the ice jumped. “Don’t fucking talk about it like that.” His voice was low, lethal. “I loved her. You fucking know I did. Keep her name out your mouth.”
Miles visibly flinched, eyebrows raising to his hairline. Spinz blinked, stunned silent.
“Bro, I was just—”
“You weren’t just anything.” Lewis’s stare could’ve cut glass. “It wasn’t a game. You don’t know shit about what we were behind closed doors. Keep her name out your fucking mouth.”
Miles waved Spinz off, eyes fixed on Lewis, who was now glaring into his drink like it had personally betrayed him. “You ended things with her, then?” Miles asked, careful, leaning in to catch the averted gaze.
Lewis gave one sharp nod.
“Shit, man. I thought you two were… locked in. Well, not locked in, but—you always circled back. That’s just how it was.”
Lewis lifted the glass again, took a slow sip, shrugged like the motion cost him something. “I couldn’t keep hurting her. And I couldn’t keep letting her hurt me. Most days we were both so far out of line, Miles… I didn’t want us to wake up one morning and hate each other completely. I wanted to keep the good shit intact, you know? The nights that weren’t war zones. The way she’d laugh at my stupid jokes at three in the morning. I wanted to remember that version of us.”
He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling hard.
“It just fucking hurts. I wanted it to be her. God, I wanted it so bad. But you can’t force compatibility. We kept tearing each other apart instead of building anything real.”
Miles frowned and tilted his head at Lewis. “You guys were good when things were… good. I’m sorry, bruv. I know you loved her.”
Lewis stared at the table for a long beat, thumb tracing the rim of the glass. “Yeah. And I fucked it up plenty too. She’d get scared—real scared—when shit felt too steady. Like if we got too comfortable, the floor was gonna drop out. So she’d pull back, start picking at threads until the whole thing unraveled. Little tests, you know? ‘Prove you won’t leave.’ And I’d feel it, that distance, and instead of talking, I’d go quiet. Disappear for a day or two, let her stew, because I was too stubborn to just say I was scared too. Then she’d blow up to get a reaction, and I’d match her energy every fucking time. I'd yell louder, shut down harder. We turned every fight into proof the other still gave a shit. It was exhausting.”
Miles nodded slowly, no judgment, just listening. “So you both kept feeding it.”
“Exactly. I held on too tight when she needed space. She pushed when I needed her to stay. We were both running the same loop—right person, wrong fucking timing, wrong wiring. I thought if I just loved her hard enough, I could fix it. But love doesn’t fix avoidance, does it? And it doesn’t fix me being a possessive prick when I feel her slipping.” He let out a short, humorless laugh.
“I walked away because I finally realised the kindest thing I could do—for both of us. Let the good memories stay good. Let her find someone who doesn’t make her test the exit every time things get quiet.”
Spinz shifted, voice softer than before. "You think she's okay?"
Lewis's jaw tightened. He looked out across the dim room, the low lights catching the condensation on his glass, and was quiet for long enough that the answer felt like its own kind of answer.
"I hope so," he said finally. "That's the whole point, innit. I don't want to hear she's still suffering because of me."
Miles watched him for a moment. It was rare Lewis let people see him like this. He weighed up the right thing to say. "I mean… think of it as a privilege, yeah? That you got to know someone that deeply. Got to experience that kind of love at all."
Lewis didn't answer straight away. He looked at his glass, thumb still against the rim. Something in his face shifted, not quite agreement, not quite resistance. Just the slow, painful process of trying to hold two true things at once.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice quieter than his friends had ever heard. “Yeah, maybe."
He didn't sound convinced. But he didn't sound like he was dismissing it either. Like he was filing it away for some night when he might actually be able to believe it.
Miles reached over, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You did the hard thing, man. Doesn’t make it hurt less, but… respect.”
Lewis didn't answer straight away. He just nodded once, eyes distant, like he was still replaying that last forehead kiss, the way your thumb had brushed his cheek like you were memorising the texture one final time.
The nights after that blurred. He told himself he could go back to the old ways—bodies without names, nights that ended in someone else’s sheets, drowning the ache in skin and liquor and whatever else promised to sand down the edges of his pain. Rebuild the armour you'd spent years quietly dismantling. Stroke the ego back into shape. Pretend the hollow in his chest was just temporary, just withdrawal, just a thing that would pass if he gave it enough noise to drown in.
It didn't pass.
Every time he tried, your face surfaced behind his eyes at the worst possible moment. Not even the dramatic version of you — not mid-fight, not crying, not any of the moments that should've been easier to file away under we were wrong for each other. It was always you on that last night. The way you'd looked at him so resigned, exhausted, but still so unbearably soft with him, even then. Even at the end. The way your palm had found his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world, like your hands had never learned to be unkind to him even when the rest of you was falling apart.
He didn’t deserve the comfort you’d offered on the nights the world pressed too hard. And you hadn't deserved the way he'd let silence curdle into something cruel whenever things felt too steady, too good, too close to real. That particular brand of self-sabotage you both did so well: going quiet, pulling back, letting you feel the distance until you panicked and swung at each other just so something would happen, just so the feeling of the ground beneath you both could be confirmed. He'd hated you for it sometimes. Hated himself more, after.
It was always right person, wrong time. Wrong timing stretched across years until it felt like fate laughing at you both. You used to joke that your star signs were allergic to each other. He’d tease you mercilessly, call it bullshit, flick your forehead and soothe it with a kiss. Now, alone in the dark with the city humming below, he wondered if you’d been right all along. Maybe the love had been real…it was real, he knew it was real, he'd felt it in places he hadn't known could feel anything. But maybe whatever was broken between you was more powerful. Maybe you couldn't have fixed it without dismantling the whole thing.
He turned the word over sometimes, late at night when the noise wasn't enough. Privilege. The way Miles had said it like it was simple. Like it was a comfort.
Because privilege, he realised too late, wasn't money or fame or the glittering life everyone assumed he led. Privilege was having loved you so completely it almost destroyed you both, and still being able to walk away before it finished the job. Privilege was letting you go, hoping you'd finally stop suffering because of him. And hoping, against every instinct screaming otherwise, that one day he'd stop suffering because of you.
He'd prayed, though. For you. For him. For you to find your way back. More than he'd ever told anyone. More than he'd admit even now.
But still, nothing had lined up the way he needed it to.
So he'd chosen this. Chosen to stop the bleeding before it turned into something neither of you could come back from. Some nights that felt like the most adult thing he'd ever done and other nights it just felt like loss with better vocabulary.
He thought about you more than was probably healthy. Wondered if you were sleeping. Wondered if you still pressed your face into fabric that smelled like someone else and cried without knowing why. Wondered if the 3 a.m. was still the hardest hour, or if you'd started to sleep through it yet.
He hoped you had. He hoped you were somewhere warm and laughing and slowly, incrementally, becoming a version of yourself that didn't need to test the ground every time it stayed steady.
He hoped you knew he loved you. He hoped that much had survived the wreckage intact.
The last image he let himself keep — the one he returned to when the rest of it got too heavy — was you, on that last night, sad and broken and still somehow smiling back at him. He held onto that. The fact that it had ended with your mouth curved upward, even slightly. Even through the grief of it.
It wasn't enough. But it was something. And some nights, something was all you got.
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)
lewis is a gentleman. he would even spend THOUSANDS on you. his money is yours too sis.
most definitely taking you to any luxury stores you like: fenti, channel, cartier .... you name it!!! he adors it when you try on new things
"lewis does this look good?"
"amazing babe, let's check out then."
lewis is definitely giving you dozens of compliments everyday because he finds you beautiful more than anything in this world.
he would open car doors for you, making sure you get out of the car safe.
does extra chores in the house, when he thinks you're tired doing so.
when lewis sees you sleeping on that couch whilst waiting for him to come home, he carries you upstairs to your bedroom to place you down and to give a sweet goodnight kiss
"good night my love"
i think lewis is big on PDA, he loves resting his hand on your back – just to reassure you that he's still there. be prepared for soft hand and forehead kisses, and lots of hand holding in public
speaking of that, lewis would be overprotective! 😅 boy wants to make sure that you're okay at all times. he would adjust your jacket and tie your shoes laces up for you, just so you're careful when outside – classy move.
if your name was ever mentioned negatively in an interview, he would defend you no matter what the issue. he doesn't give 2 shits about what people say about you guys relationship. you love eachother and that's all that matters.
when he comes to see you after race weekend, he often brings you flowers when he comes visit your home.
you guys would most likely have a long distance relationship, i could imagine him also sending you motivational morning text messages before you head to work to help you with stress. ilhsm🫶🏽
lewis occasionally takes you out to go to your favourite restaurants, whether it's fast food or a fancy ass place, he doesn't care, he just wants to do everything you liike
you 2 would go on late night drives at 2AM in the morning if you both can't sleep during the niggt. lewis would also love to listen to your rambling, he loves to hear your thoughts.
lewis loves holding you when you sleep on his chest
if you were sick, lewis would make sure you slept well, ate and drank water. he'll take care of everything girl – he would even massage your shoulders if you were having a bad day
lewis is doing this because he loves you. you're everything to him. it doesn't matter if you guys argue or never, he's very obsessed with you — he wants to be with you forever. what would he do without you in his life?
well, lets wait and see once you have a ring on your finger very soon .... (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
note: im back temporary but, i have exams VERY soon next week and i'm trying to prepare for the next month. i wanted to start writing for lewis now because i will be busy very soon and hopefully i can try writing for requests and more stuff very soon. i will be back in june. thank you guys for 90 followers i will do a qna very soon (ᐢ ܸ. .ܸ ᐢ)♡
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author’s note: hi angels, i’m slowly crawling my way back into the writing flow and sorting through my terrifying 40+ request pile (send help, or wine). thank you for being so patient with me while i took a little break!! this is pure smut, i hope you LOVE it <3
pairing: lewis hamilton x reader
wc: 3.2k
summary: after a chaotic, delayed flight leaves you spiralling and dangerously late for a high-profile charity gala, lewis hamilton is the picture of calm composure... until the moment you step out of the shower in nothing but a robe. seven days apart has tested his patience, and the usually collected man is desperate, needy, and willing to beg for just a few stolen minutes with you. what starts as sweet reassurance quickly turns into something far more sinful, proving that even when the world is waiting, lewis only has eyes for you.
warnings: explicit smut, mdni, titty fucking, spit play, oral sex (m & f receiving), dirty talk, needy & desperate lewis, praise kink, light switch dom/sub undertones, cum swallowing, established relationship. lewis is both incredibly sweet and filthy.
The suite door clicked shut behind you with a finality that did nothing to calm the storm in your chest. Your flight had been delayed by nearly three hours. Turbulence, mechanical issues, and a gate change that felt personally engineered by the universe to ruin your night. Now you were catastrophically late for the charity gala, the one Lewis had been committed to for months. Your hair was a mess from the recycled plane air, your skin felt gritty, and every second that ticked by ratcheted your anxiety higher.
Lewis, by contrast, looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread as usual. He sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in a tailored black suit that hugged his shoulders and tapered perfectly at the waist, the crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar just enough to reveal the smooth column of his throat and the tattoos you loved so much. Diamonds glittered across his neck. One ankle rested casually on his knee, phone in hand as he typed something. When you burst in, suitcase wheels clattering and breathless, he glanced up and his whole face softened.
“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and warm. He set the phone aside immediately and rose, crossing the room in seconds. His hands cupped your face with infinite gentleness, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. His eyes flitted over your face, cataloguing how you were feeling before he even had to ask. “Breathe for me, you're okay baby.”
“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, already shrugging out of your jacket. “The plane...customs...everything. We’re going to be so late, Lew. They’re probably already seating people and I still look like I’ve been dragged through a wind tunnel and I need to shower and do my hair and makeup and—”
“Shh.” He pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose. “Not your fault at all, sweetie. We’ll just be fashionably late, yeah? It’s fine. I already sent a message, we’re not the guests of honour. No one’s going to riot if we arrive after the first course.” His dark eyes held yours, steady and reassuring, always grounding you naturally.
But beneath that serenity he brought to you so easily, you caught the flicker of heat, restrained but unmistakable. He wet his bottom lip with his tongue as his eyes dragged over your every feature. He hadn’t seen you in seven long days. Seven days of races, meetings, and time zones keeping you apart.
You tried to smile, but the panic still buzzed under your skin, overstimulated and frayed. “My hair is going to be impossible. And my dress is wrinkled and—”
“No no no, stop spiralling. You’re always perfect,” he said simply, helping you pull off your joggers with careful fingers. His touch lingered though, like he couldn’t help himself, the tips of his fingers gently grazing the back of your thighs, up until he gave your ass a gentle squeeze.
You opened your mouth to tell him off...but before you could he gave you a cheeky grin and let go of you with a wink. “Go shower, sweetie. I’ll sort your dress. Take as long as you need.”
You didn’t. You took eight frantic minutes. Scalding water, frantic scrubbing, a quick wash of your hair that left it dripping down your back as you wrapped yourself in the hotel’s thick white robe. When you stepped back into the bedroom, steam curling around your ankles, Lewis was exactly where he’d said he’d be: back on the bed, your evening gown draped neatly over the armchair, already steamed and ready to go. He’d dimmed the lights slightly. The city glittered beyond the windows, but his gaze was locked on you. You could feel his eyes like a gentle caress down your sides.
He looked hungry.
Not obvious. Never obvious with Lewis. But it was there in the slight parting of his lips, the way his fingers flexed against his thigh, the subtle shift in his posture as he took you in. You knew he was obsessed with you like this. Bare faced, damp-haired, smelling of your favourite shower gel. A week apart had clearly tested him more than he’d let on during your late-night calls.
But you were late. Ridiculously late. So you turned and started sifting through your bag, ignoring how he shamelessly adjusted himself in his trousers.
“You’re staring,” you said, voice still tight with residual stress as you hunted for your makeup bag.
“Can’t help it.” His tone stayed soft, but there was a restless edge underneath. “Missed you, baby. More than you know.” He patted the space beside him on the bed. “Come here for a second. Let me help you calm down.”
You hesitated, glancing at the clock. “Lewis, we really don’t have time—”
“Oh come on, beautiful. Please…two minutes,” he coaxed, a charming smirk tugging at his mouth. You rolled your eyes at him, but that only spurred him on more. He reached out and grabbed your hand, gently tugging you towards the bed.
When you sat, he pulled you gently between his spread thighs, your back to his chest. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him. His lips found the damp curve of your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses that made your pulse quicken. The heat of his tongue over your skin left you defenceless in seconds. “You’re so tense, angel. Let me take some of that weight, yeah?”
His hands smoothed up and down your arms, then slipped beneath the robe to cup your shoulders, thumbs working into the knots with practiced care. Every touch was reverent. Every breath against your skin was warm. You couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through you, or the goosebumps surfacing your skin. He wasn’t rushing anything, yet you could feel him growing hard against the small of your back, the rigid length of him pressing insistently through the fine wool of his trousers. He didn’t grind against you yet, he simply held you, breathing you in, letting the evidence of his need throb quietly between you.
“Lewis…” Your voice wavered, you were aiming for protest, but it came out more as a sigh. The panic of being late was still there, fluttering wildly, but his presence was slowly muting it, replacing it with a different kind of heat.
“I know, I know,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One hand drifted higher, palming the soft weight of your breast through the robe, thumb circling lazily over your nipple until it peaked. You melted further back against him, and you could feel his smug smile against your ear.
“We’re late. You’re stressed. I’m being selfish.” He lets out a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “But fuck, angel… a whole week without touching you. Without tasting you. I’ve been thinking about this body every night. Been saving myself for you…” His other hand slid down, parting the robe just enough to expose the valley between your breasts. He groaned softly, leaning forward and pressing his face there, inhaling. “Just need a little taste. Please.”
You glanced toward the mirror across the room, your hair was still soaking wet, no makeup, robe slipping off one shoulder, and you felt the familiar spiral of overwhelm rising again. You were so embarrassingly late. “Lew, we don’t have time—”
He shifted you effortlessly in his lap so you faced him, straddling one of his thighs. The movement made the robe fall open completely. His suit jacket was still on, the contrast between his polished elegance and your near-naked vulnerability made your stomach flip. His brown eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide with want, yet his voice remained achingly sweet.
“Please, baby… please.” The words came out ragged, desperate. His hands cupped your breasts, lifting them, thumbs stroking reverently. “Just let me feel you. I’ll be so quick, I swear. We don’t even have to– just let me fuck your tits or something…anything….” He looked up at you with raw hunger wrapped in devotion, pressing hot, open kisses along the inner curve of one breast. “Please… please, baby, please. I’ve been so good. Missed you so fucking much.”
His hips rolled subtly beneath you, his bulge straining against his zipper.
You were helpless and you knew it. Watching him be reduced to breathless begging because he’d been without you for seven days was enough for you to give him anything and everything he wanted.
The panic had burned away, leaving only raw, humming need in its place. Your fingers gripped his braids, just enough to tilt his head back. His eyes fluttered, dark and glassy with want as you cupped his jaw in both hands, thumbs stroking the sharp line of it. You held him there for a few long seconds, watching as his chest heaved, as his eyebrows furrowed in desperation. And then you crashed your lips to his.
He moaned into the kiss like a man starving, the sound vibrating straight through you. His tongue met yours instantly, hot and slick and desperate, sliding deep with no hesitation. The kiss was wet, open-mouthed, breathless. He tasted like mint and longing and love. One of his hands gripped your hip, massaging the soft flesh whilst anchoring you on his thigh, while the other stayed devoted to your breast, kneading the soft weight, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you whimpered against his lips.
When you finally pulled back for air, a thin string of saliva connected you for a second before breaking. Lewis chased your mouth, panting.
“Baby…” His voice was shaky, low and rough. “Please. Please let me have you. I’ll be so quick, I swear. Just need to feel you around me. Been dreaming about you every night” His forehead pressed to yours, eyes pleading. He was fixated on your tits, one hand still playing with them as he begged. “Please, please, love. I’m aching so bad it hurts. Let me fuck them. I’ll make it up to you later, I promise. I’ll spend hours between your legs if you want. Just—please.”
You brushed your thumb over his swollen bottom lip, and he kissed it reverently. Automatic devotion. He knew how to get what he wanted.
“Lay me down, Lew.”
Relief and fresh hunger flashed across his face. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you back against the plush bedding with the same care he’d use handling something fragile. Lewis rose onto his knees between your spread thighs, still fully dressed in his sharp black suit. His hands shook slightly as he undid his belt and zipper, freeing his cock.
He was rock hard, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking just from the kisses you'd given him. You watched, mesmerised, as he wrapped a hand around himself and stroked slowly, eyes devouring every inch of your body splayed out for him.
“Fuck… look at you,” he breathed. Obsession dripped from every word. “My beautiful baby. Missed this body so much. Missed you.” He leaned forward, pressing the thick head of his cock against your lips just enough for you to taste the salt of him, then pulled back. Instead, he slid his thumb into your mouth. You sucked instinctively, tongue swirling around the digit, and Lewis’s eyes rolled back, a broken groan tearing from his throat. He kept working himself, mouth parted and panting, eyes locked on the way you were sucking his thumb.
“Shit—baby. I love it when you do that..”
He pulled his thumb free with a wet pop, then gathered spit in his mouth and let it drip down onto your breasts in a warm, obscene trail. He spread it with the head of his cock, painting your skin, before pressing your breasts together himself. The first slow slide between them dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest.
“Oh my god… yes.” His hips rolled forward, eyes fluttering. “So soft. Perfect—fuck, they’re perfect for me.”
You held yourself for him, pressing your tits tighter around his length as he began to thrust. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filled the suite. Lewis’s head tipped back, braids falling messily around his face, jaw slack with pleasure. Every few strokes the flushed head of his cock nudged up toward your collarbones, shiny and leaking.
“Talk to me, Lewis,” you whispered, desperate and aching for more. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Like heaven,” he gasped, eyes locking onto yours again. “Better than heaven. So fucking good, baby. Missed how good you make me feel. Only you, angel. You’re so pretty down there… letting me use you when we’re already late. Such a good girl for me.”
You smiled, wicked and soft, and when his next thrust brought him close enough, you leaned your head forward and dragged your tongue across the tip of his cock. Lewis’s hips stuttered hard.
“Fuck—!” His voice cracked. “Baby… oh shit, do that again. Please.”
“You taste so good, baby,” you murmured, licking him again on the next upward glide, savouring the taste of him. “Mmm… so fucking good.”
“Oh my god– thank you, baby… fuck yes, don’t stop—please.” The begging was back, raw and needy, each word punctuated by a desperate thrust between your breasts. His rhythm grew faster, more erratic, you wished you could see the muscles in his abs and thighs flexing. Sweat glistened at his temples. The polished man sat on the bed when you’d arrived was gone, only this desperately in love man remained. You loved watching him dissolve into this version of himself.
He was getting close. You could see it in the way his eyes kept rolling back, the way his grip on your breasts tightened, the filthy stream of praise and pleas falling from his lips.
“Gonna come so hard for you,” he growled, voice dropping into the dangerous register it did when he was close. “Look at me, baby. Gonna swallow it all for me, aren’t you? Want me to cum down your throat, don’t you? Want to drink every drop while I’m still wearing this fucking suit?”
You moaned around the head of his cock on the next lick, eyes watering with how deep you took him when he pushed forward. The dirty talk sent another rush of heat through you as you nodded eagerly.
“Yes—please, baby, open your mouth,” he begged, stroking himself fast now, the wet head slapping against your tongue. “I’m so close. Please let me fill that pretty mouth. Been saving it all for you. All week. Fuck—take it, baby. Take it—”
His whole body seized. With a deep, broken groan that echoed off the walls, Lewis came hard. Thick, hot pulses spilled across your tongue and down your throat. You swallowed around him, sucking gently, milking every last drop as he shuddered and cursed beautifully above you. His hand stroked your hair through it, tender even in the middle of his orgasm, whispering shaky praises between gasps.
When he finally pulled back, spent and trembling, he collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his chest. His suit was rumpled now, tie askew, braids fallen out of his hair tie. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, completely unbothered that he could taste himself on your tongue.
“God, I love you,” he murmured, voice soft again, that angelic sweetness returning in full force. “Thank you, baby. You’re incredible. Always make me feel so good.”
You let out a breathless laugh, glancing down at the glossy mess painted across your chest and collarbones. His release and spit glistened on your skin, warm and obscene against the soft light of the suite. “I’m gonna have to shower again, Lew…”
He giggled, a low, boyish sound that melted into something almost guilty. He actually looked a little sheepish as he bit his lip and surveyed the evidence of his desperation. “Shit. Sorry, baby.” The apology was genuine, but his eyes still held a spark of satisfaction, dark and possessive. “Couldn’t help myself. You looked too good like that.”
Before you could swing your legs off the bed, Lewis caught you gently by the waist and pulled you back down, rolling you beneath him with effortless strength. The weight of his body settled over yours, the fabric of his suit whispering against your bare skin.
“You’re not showering yet,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Not until I’ve taken care of my girl.”
His lips trailed lower—slow, worshipful kisses down your throat, over your sternum. You shivered beneath him, fingers threading back into his braids as he hummed in quiet appreciation.
“Lew… we really are so late—”
“Shh. Two minutes,” he promised, though the wicked curve of his mouth suggested it might stretch longer. “Just let me taste you. I’ve missed this pussy all week. Let me make you feel good, baby. Please.”
He didn’t wait for another protest. Sliding down your body with fluid grace, Lewis settled between your thighs, pushing them wider with gentle hands. He pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then another, working his way inward until his breath ghosted over your soaked core. A low, appreciative groan rumbled from his chest.
“Already so wet for me,” he murmured, almost awed. “My perfect girl.”
Then his mouth was on you. Hot, slow, and devastatingly skilled. His tongue flattened against your clit before circling it with lazy precision, sucking gently as two fingers eased inside you, curling at the exact angle you loved so much. The wet sounds of his devotion filled the room, mingled with your soft gasps and his quiet, hungry moans. He devoured you like a man savouring his favourite meal after starving for days. Long, luxurious licks followed by focused suction that had your back arching off the bed.
One of his hands reached up to intertwine with yours, holding it tightly against your stomach as the other worked between your legs, stroking the perfect spot inside you with every thrust of his fingers. He never rushed. Even now, with the clock ticking, Lewis took his time, lavishing you with love and filthy praise between kisses and licks.
“That’s it, baby… let me hear you. Fuck, you taste so sweet. Missed making you fall apart for me.”
Your free hand tightened in his braids as the pleasure coiled tighter, hips rolling against his talented mouth. He groaned in encouragement, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. When you finally came, it crashed over you in deep, shuddering waves, his name spilling from your lips in a gasped moan. Lewis stayed with you through every pulse, licking you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive, only pulling back when you gently tugged at his braids.
He crawled back up your body, face flushed, lips shiny with your arousal, and kissed you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was slower this time, full of love, gratitude, and quiet promise.
“There,” he whispered against your mouth, smiling his soft, boyish smile again. “Now we can both shower. Quickly.” He pressed one last kiss to your forehead. “Though I wouldn’t mind being a little later if it means getting to do that again.”
You laughed, breathless and glowing, and let him pull you toward the bathroom, his hand warm and steady in yours. The gala could wait another ten minutes. Nothing mattered more to him than this.
gif from @/lewgifs on X MY GOAT
(tags: @70srogertaylor @forzalewis44xo @mikaissance @saintslewis @liveloungeharry @knowinglewis @palefacestudentlove @nebulastar @determinednot2fall @wetweathermilton @vintagesoul-01 @scenesofobx @nebulastarr @magnificentlyrainythunder)
MEET ME AT THE MET (lewis hamilton one shot) • iamquaintrelle
# summary: she's the youngest contender ever for an EGOT - stunning, funny, yet lewis wants nothing more than to ruin the 'good girl' persona she constantly puts on as a front. she's cunning, can play the game like no one else, and lewis will always be down for the chase.
# pairings: lewis hamilton x black female singer reader
# warnings: cursing, drinking, adult themes, yearning!lewis, smut, age gap (reader is in her late 20s) - minors dni and if uncomfortable, do not read.
# tags: @lewismcqueen, @beauty-gurl, @issfaith, @palefacestudentlove, @kinggbl, @vintagesoul-01, @peyiswriting, @scorpiobleue, @purplelewlew, @rethasavedlives, @lovelymilaa, @butterpas2, @jessnotwiththemess, @muglermami, @pinkcatcus, @plan3tch1ld, @iamryanl, @weetjy, @camillak97, @snowseasonmademe, @differentmentalityduck, @knowinglewis, @itisiyourfemur, @determinednot2fall, @literallysza @totallynotluluu, @cannonindeez, @eriks-girl
# author's note: all photo credits are from pinterest.
Lewis stood on the Met Gala carpet in his custom Wales Bonner ivory suit, camera flashes going off like rapid-fire, and tried to focus on what the interviewer was asking him.
Something about his look—the cropped jacket, the high-waisted trousers with the tuxedo stripe, the embroidered sash with cowrie shells hanging from his waist. Something about being co-chair, about the theme "Superfine: Tailoring Black Style," about how much research went into this outfit.
He'd spent months on this look with his stylist Eric McNeal and Grace Wales Bonner. Every detail meant something—the ivory color denoting purity and status, the cowrie shells as ancestral protection, the baobab flower motifs, the garnet-colored diamonds in his brooches. His custom Stephen Jones beret sat perfectly on his head, Manolo Blaniks on his feet, rings heavy with meaning on his fingers.
This was important. This mattered. Using fashion to honor Black dandyism, to tell stories through clothing, to shine a light on the culture.
But right now? Fuck all of that.
Because she was three interviews down from him, and even with a hundred other people on this carpet, Lewis couldn't take his eyes off her.
The dress was incredible. Champagne-colored silk that moved like liquid gold, all 1920s Art Deco beading and fringe that caught every camera flash. The neckline plunged—not obscenely, but enough. Enough to make his mouth go dry. The waist was cinched tight, emphasizing those curves he'd been thinking about for weeks, and when she moved the fringe swayed, catching light like water.
Her hair was in finger waves, sleek and shining. Very Josephine Baker, very intentional. Diamond chandelier earrings swung when she laughed at something the interviewer said, and that laugh—that sound carried over all the noise straight to him.
Lewis felt it low in his stomach. In his chest. Everywhere.
"Lewis? Can you talk about the symbolism in your outfit?"
He blinked, brought his attention back. Smiled—that easy, practiced smile he'd perfected over years of interviews and press conferences. "Yeah, absolutely. Eric and I, we spent three months on research alone. Every detail has meaning—the cowrie shells, they're protective talismans in African culture. The garnets reference January birthstones. Even the cufflinks, they're shaped like African Daisies, which felt like a beautiful metaphor for growth and heritage, you know?"
The interviewer was nodding, eating it up. Good. He was saying the right things.
But she was turning now, showing the back of her dress to the photographers, and Christ—the back was even better than the front. Completely backless, dipping low, showing smooth brown skin that he wanted to put his hands on.
"—really hope people take the time to research and think deeply about what they're wearing tonight," he finished, and honestly he had no idea if that made sense in context with what they'd been talking about.
The interviewer seemed satisfied though, moved on to asking about Ferrari's season, his goals for the championship, the F1 movie with Brad. Lewis answered on autopilot—he'd been doing this long enough that he could talk about racing in his sleep.
All while tracking her movement down the carpet with his peripheral vision.
Focus, Hamilton. For fuck's sake.
He'd been chasing this woman for weeks. Actual weeks. And she was playing him—giving him just enough to keep him interested but never enough to actually get anywhere.
It was maddening. Honestly? He fucking loved it.
Three Months Earlier
Lewis had been lying in bed at 2 AM, scrolling through TikTok like a bored man in his early forties that he was, when her video came up on his For You Page.
It was from some late-night talk show appearance. She was telling a story about accidentally texting the wrong person some wildly inappropriate message meant for her best friend, and the way she told it—animated, self-deprecating, with perfect comedic timing—had him laughing out loud in his empty bedroom.
Then the camera cut to a close-up, and Lewis's laughter died in his throat.
She was stunning. Not in that conventional, safe way that Hollywood usually promoted. She was striking. Deep brown skin that glowed under the studio lights, natural hair styled in soft curls that framed her face, deep dimples that appeared when she smiled—and God, that smile. Wide and genuine and a little mischievous, like she knew secrets you wanted to learn.
And her body. The dress she wore was modest by industry standards but couldn't hide the curves underneath. Thin waist, wide hips, the kind of proportions that made a man's brain short-circuit.
Lewis sat up in bed, immediately clicked on her profile, and fell down a rabbit hole.
She was an actress, singer, and dancer—triple threat didn't even begin to cover it. At twenty-eight, she was the youngest person ever to be one award away from an EGOT. She had an Emmy for a limited series, a Grammy for a soundtrack album, and a Tony for a Broadway revival. All she needed was the Oscar, and people were already predicting she'd get nominated for the film she'd just wrapped.
Her interviews were gold. Funny, quick-witted, charming without being fake. She talked about her craft with genuine passion, made interviewers laugh, had this way of being completely herself that felt rare in an industry of carefully managed personas.
And every single video had comments from men losing their minds over her. Celebrities, athletes, regular guys—everyone was in love with her. Some rapper had written a whole song about wanting to wife her up. An NBA player had publicly said she was his dream woman. Even some British actor had mentioned her in an interview as his celebrity crush.
Lewis understood the hype completely.
He'd watched video after video—talk show appearances, red carpet interviews, behind-the-scenes footage from her projects. There was one clip of her dancing at some industry party, really dancing, and Lewis had watched it maybe fifteen times before he realized how obsessed he was acting.
"Fuck it," he'd muttered, and texted Spinz.
Lewis: Need you to do something for me.
Spinz: It's 2 AM, bro.
Lewis: I know what time it is. I need you to reach out to someone's talent agent. Get them to the Australian Grand Prix.
Spinz: Who?
Lewis sent her name, a link to her Instagram.
There was a long pause before Spinz responded.
Spinz: THE [her name]??? Bro, she's literally the most sought-after woman in entertainment right now. Every man with a pulse wants her.
Lewis: Good thing I'm not just any man with a pulse.
Spinz: You're serious about this?
Lewis: Dead serious. Reach out. Offer whatever we need to offer.
Spinz: Alright, man. I'll try. But don't get your hopes up. She's known for turning down these kinds of invitations.
Lewis didn't respond. He didn't do "don't get your hopes up." He'd built a career on manifesting what he wanted, on believing things into existence when everyone said they were impossible.
He wanted her. Simple as that.
Spinz reached out. Offered everything—VIP paddock access, travel arrangements, accommodations, the full Ferrari experience.
She declined. Prior commitments. Schedule conflicts. Maybe another time.
"Maybe another time" in celebrity-speak meant never.
But Lewis didn't give up easy. He'd gotten her number from a mutual friend in music, crafted a text that was casual but clear.
Lewis: Heard you turned down my GP invite. Can't say I'm not disappointed. Would've been good to meet you properly.
Two days of radio silence.
When she finally responded: Sorry, been swamped. Maybe next time you're in LA?
Maybe. Next time. As noncommittal as it gets.
Lewis grinned at his phone anyway. It was something.
Lewis: I'm in LA next week actually. Thursday work?
Another day: Thursday's tough. Maybe the week after?
He showed up the next week regardless. Made sure their mutual friend mentioned it. She texted with a coffee shop and a time.
He arrived early. Ordered her favorite—he'd done his homework. Waited.
She showed up twenty minutes late in an oversized hoodie and leggings that somehow still made her look incredible.
"Traffic," she said, sliding into the seat across from him. Not apologetic at all.
"You live ten minutes from here." He'd maybe looked that up.
She smiled. Those dimples. "Okay, fine. I was hoping you'd get bored and leave."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because most men do when you make them wait."
"I'm not most men."
"So I'm learning." She studied him, took the coffee he'd ordered without asking how he knew. "You know every man in Hollywood wants to date me, right?"
"I'm aware."
"And you think you're different because...?"
"Because I want to know you," Lewis said, leaning forward slightly. Not crowding her space but making his interest clear. "Not just date you. Not just sleep with you—though I absolutely want that too, let's be honest. But I want the real you. The one behind what you show cameras."
She blinked. Clearly hadn't expected that level of directness. "That's smooth."
"It's honest."
Two hours they talked. She was smarter than her bubbly persona suggested, more guarded than her openness in interviews implied. Passionate about creating opportunities for other artists of color. Funny in ways that surprised him. Sharp enough to keep him on his toes.
When they finally left, Lewis walked her to her car—a practical SUV, not the flashy sports car he'd expected—leaned against the driver's door.
"When can I see you again?"
"I don't know. I'm busy."
"Make time."
"You're confident."
"I know what I want." He let his eyes drop to her mouth. Back up. "And I want you."
She looked up at him. For just a second her guard dropped. He saw interest. Heat. Real attraction.
Then she smiled, patted his chest, slid past him into her car.
"We'll see," she said, and drove away.
Six weeks ago.
Since then it had been a game. He'd text, she'd respond eventually. He'd call, she'd let half of them go to voicemail. He'd send flowers—expensive, excessive arrangements—and her assistant would post them but she wouldn't mention them to him directly.
He sent gifts. First editions of her favorite books. Custom jewelry from a Black designer she'd talked about wanting to work with.
Each gift carefully chosen. Showing he paid attention.
She'd send polite thank you texts. Nothing more.
It was frustrating as hell. Made him want her even more.
Lewis been around beautiful women who'd been happy to fit his schedule, make things easy. He'd never been anti-relationship exactly—just never actively looking for one. Liked keeping things simple. Fun. Uncomplicated.
This woman was destroying all of that with her complete refusal to make anything easy.
And somehow that made it better.
Back on the Met Gala Carpet
Lewis finished his interviews and made his way inside, nodding at people, stopping for photos, playing his role.
But he was tracking her through the venue like a heat-seeking missile.
She was near the cocktail area, surrounded by people. Other celebrities, designers, photographers. She was magnetic, drawing people in with that laugh, those dimples, the way she made everyone feel seen.
Lewis had watched her do it in interviews. She had this gift of making people feel important, valued. It was part of why everyone loved her.
But he knew better. He'd seen glimpses of who she really was—sharper, more calculating, playing a game most people didn't realize was happening.
She wasn't the "good girl" the media painted her as. She was smart, strategic, in complete control.
And God, it was attractive.
He watched her touch some actor's arm, lean in to whisper something that made him laugh. Watched her adjust her posture slightly when she noticed cameras, tilting her chin to catch the light.
She was good. Really good.
Lewis waited until she was between conversations, then made his move.
"That dress is incredible," he said, appearing at her elbow, offering champagne from a passing waiter.
She turned, and for just a second something flickered in her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that practiced smile.
"Lewis. Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself."
His outfit had subtle details that only revealed themselves up close. He'd spent time on this look because he knew he'd see her tonight.
"Law outdid himself," Lewis said, gesturing to her dress. "Very Josephine Baker. I heard you talking about the inspiration."
"You were listening to my interview?"
"I always listen when you talk."
"That's a dangerous admission."
"Why dangerous?"
"Because now I know you're paying attention." She sipped her champagne, eyes never leaving his. "And I'll have to be more careful."
Christ, she was good at this.
"I've been paying attention for weeks," Lewis said, lowering his voice, stepping closer. "You know that."
"Have I?" Playing innocent.
"You're lying." He smiled. "You notice everything."
"Maybe." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Or maybe I'm just good at ignoring things that aren't important."
"And I'm not important?"
"I didn't say that."
"You're implying it."
"I'm implying that you're persistent. And I'm wondering if it's because you actually want me, or because I'm the first woman in a while who hasn't immediately said yes."
Lewis laughed, genuinely amused. "Can't it be both?"
"I suppose." She glanced around, nodded at someone, looked back. "But I'm not interested in being a conquest, Lewis. I'm not trying to be another woman who said yes to you just so you can move on."
"I don't want that either."
"Since when? You've never exactly been relationship material."
"Things change."
"Do they?" She was challenging him now, those eyes sharp. "Or did you just get bored with easy?"
"Maybe I realized easy isn't what I want anymore." He held her gaze. "Maybe I saw your video at 11 PM and realized I wanted something real for the first time in years."
That got her. He saw it—the way her expression shifted, guard dropping slightly.
"That's a pretty speech," she said softly.
"Not a speech. Truth."
"Dinner's starting soon." She broke eye contact first. "We should head in."
"We're sitting together."
"Are we?"
"I'm co-chair. I can make it happen."
She laughed, shook her head. "You're something else."
"So I've been told."
Lewis did make it happen. A quiet word with organizers, some seat adjustments, and suddenly she was next to him at dinner.
She raised an eyebrow at the place cards but didn't protest.
Dinner was elaborate—multiple courses, artistic presentations, servers explaining each dish. Lewis barely tasted any of it.
They talked through the meal. Easy on the surface, but underneath was constant tension. Every time her hand brushed his. Every time she laughed and her leg pressed against his under the table. Every time she looked at him with those eyes that saw right through him.
"Tell me something real," she said during the fourth course. "Something you don't tell everybody."
"Like what?"
"Like... what do you actually want? Not from racing. From life."
Most people asked about championships, records, goals. No one asked what he wanted from life.
"I want to build something that lasts," Lewis said after a moment. "Beyond racing. I want to create opportunities for people who look like me, who come from where I came from. I want to be remembered for more than just driving fast." He paused. "And I want someone to build that with. Someone real."
She nodded slowly. "I get that. Sometimes I feel like I'm performing so much—for auditions, for interviews, for cameras—that I forget which version is actually me."
"They're all you," Lewis said. "Just different parts. But I think the real you is sitting here right now, not this good girl persona thing....nah."
Her eyes flashed. "Who says I'm not a good girl?"
"Everything about you. The way you move, talk, look at me right now like you're deciding whether to let me in or shut me out." He leaned closer. "You're not a good girl. You know exactly what you want and how to get it. And right now, you want to make me work for it."
"Maybe I just want you to prove you're worth my time."
"Haven't I?"
"Not yet." But she was smiling, real this time. "But you're getting closer."
"What do I have to do?"
"I don't know yet." She took a sip of wine. "Surprise me. Show me something I haven't seen. Stop trying so hard and just... be yourself."
It was the most honest thing she'd said, and it hit him harder than expected.
"Alright," he said. "I can do that."
After dinner came dancing. The Met transformed into something between nightclub and art installation, music heavy, famous people letting loose in million-dollar outfits.
Lewis found her at the edge of the dance floor.
"Dance with me."
She looked at him, tilted her head. "Why?"
"Why not?"
"Because I don't need people talking about me being another one of Lewis Hamilton's girls."
"What if you're not?" He kept his hand extended. "What if we just have a good time tonight?"
She studied him for a long moment, like she was weighing whether he was worth the potential headache.
Finally, she took his hand. "One dance. You step on these Louboutins, I'm leaving."
"Deal."
The song was slow, heavy bass that you felt in your chest. Lewis pulled her close—one hand settling on her waist where fabric gave way to bare skin, the other holding hers. She fit against him like she was meant to be there.
They moved together easily. She followed his lead but also challenged it, made it a back-and-forth instead of just him leading.
"You're a good dancer," she murmured, close enough that he felt her breath on his neck.
"So are you. But I already knew that."
"From stalking my Instagram?"
"From doing my research." He grinned. "I'm thorough."
"That's one word for it." But she was smiling, those dimples appearing. "Most people would call it obsessive."
"Most people don't know what they want badly enough to go after it."
She pulled back slightly to look at him. In the low lighting, she looked different than she did in interviews—less performed, more real. "And what do you want, Lewis?"
"Tonight?" He let his eyes drop to her mouth, back up. "You. Just you."
"For what? A good time?"
"For whatever you'll give me." His hand splayed across her bare back, thumb brushing her skin. "I'm not picky."
She laughed, throaty and real. "You're trouble."
"So I've been told."
"I don't do trouble."
"Liar." He pulled her closer as the song shifted to something with more bass, more rhythm. "You love trouble. You just like being in control of it."
"You think you have me figured out?"
"Not even close. But I want to."
The song changed again—something more upbeat now, something that had people moving differently on the dance floor. She turned in his arms, her back to his front, and started moving in a way that made his breath catch.
"You good with this?" she asked over her shoulder, grinding against him to the beat.
Lewis's hands found her hips, fingers gripping that thin waist. "More than good."
She moved like she did in that video he'd watched too many times—confident, sensual, completely in control. Her ass pressed back against him, her body rolling with the music, and Lewis had to focus on keeping his breathing even.
"You're a bad, bad girl," he said in her ear, his mouth close enough to her neck that he could smell her perfume.
"And you like it."
"Never said I didn't."
She turned back to face him, hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders. "What's your endgame here, Hamilton?"
"Right now? Convincing you to come back to my place in SoHo."
She raised an eyebrow, still moving against him. "Does that usually work? That line?"
Lewis made a face—slight grimace, sheepish almost—that silently admitted yes, it usually did.
"Thought so." She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm not some ho you can sweet talk into bed."
"Never called you that." His voice was serious now. "Never even thought it."
"Then why you trying to get me to your place?"
"Is it so bad to say I want you all to myself?" He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "No crowds, no performance, just you and me?"
She studied him, those sharp eyes looking for the lie.
"Plus," he added, grin returning, "my view is incredible. Can see all of Manhattan lit up at night. It's something else."
"Using your expensive view to lure women home now?"
"Is it working?"
"Maybe." She bit her lip, still moving with him. "But first, Colman's throwing an afterparty. You coming?"
Colman Domingo's afterparty was everything the Met Gala wasn't—looser, wilder, people actually letting go instead of performing for cameras. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and Lewis found himself in a corner with her, their bodies close in the packed space.
"I love this song," she said when something with a dirty bassline came on.
"Yeah?"
"Mm-hmm." She turned around again, pressing back against him, her hips moving in a slow grind that had his hands tightening on her waist. "You gonna keep up again?"
"Always."
For the second time that night, she moved on him like she was trying to drive him crazy—slow rolls of her hips, her ass pressing back against him, her head tilting back against his shoulder. Lewis's hands roamed—her waist, her hips, splaying across her stomach to pull her closer.
"You're really bad," he said in her ear.
"You already said that."
"Worth repeating."
She turned her head, lips close to his jaw. "You're not so innocent yourself. I can feel exactly what this is doing to you."
"Not trying to hide it."
"Good." She ground back against him harder, deliberate. "Don't start now."
The song shifted, something with more tempo, and she spun to face him. Her hands were on his chest, his neck, in his hair—touching him like she had every right to, like she'd been doing it for years instead of hours.
"What are you doing to me?" Lewis asked, his hands on her hips, pulling her flush against him.
"What you've been doing to me for weeks." She smiled, wicked. "Driving you crazy."
"It's working."
"I know."
"So come home with me."
"You don't give up, do you?"
"No, I don't."
She looked up at him, her expression shifting—something softer underneath all that bravado. "Don't waste my time, Lewis. I'm not interested in games."
"Neither am I."
"No?" She challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, you're very good at playing them."
"I told you that I know what I want." His thumb brushed her hip bone through the dress.
She was quiet for a moment, swaying with him even though the song had changed to something slower. Around them, people were dancing, drinking, laughing. But it felt like they were in their own world.
"Okay," she said finally.
"Okay?"
"Your place. But I'm not making any promises about what happens when we get there."
Lewis grinned, pulled her closer. "I'll take my chances."
************************************************
The elevator ride up was charged—Lewis backed against one wall, her against the other, the air between them crackling with want and anticipation.
"You're staring," she said.
"Can't help it."
"You've been staring at me all night."
"All six weeks, actually."
She smiled, shook her head. "You're persistent."
"Just a little bit."
The elevator dinged, doors opening to his penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed Manhattan lit up like a photograph, the city sprawling out in all directions.
"Okay," she admitted, walking toward the windows. "The view is pretty incredible."
"Told you." Lewis came up behind her, close but not touching. "You want something to drink?"
"Water's fine."
He went to the kitchen—sleek, modern, barely used since he was always traveling—grabbed two bottles of water. When he came back, she was still at the window, the city lights reflecting in her eyes.
"It's beautiful up here," she said softly. "Quiet."
"My favorite thing about it." He handed her the water, their fingers brushing. "Being up above all the noise."
She took a sip, then turned to face him. "So now what?"
"Now?" He set his water down, stepped closer. "Now we stop pretending we don't want this."
"Who says I'm pretending?"
"You are." His hand came up to her face, thumb brushing her cheek. "You've been playing hard to get since the coffee shop."
"And you've been eating it up."
"Never said I didn't like the chase." He stepped closer, his other hand finding her waist. "But I think we're done chasing now."
"Are we?"
"Unless you want to keep playing games."
She set her water down, both hands coming to his chest. "I don't play games, Lewis. I just don't give myself away easily."
"Good. I wouldn't want you to."
"No?" She tilted her head up, their faces close now. "What do you want then?"
"Right now?" His thumb traced her bottom lip. "To kiss you. To see if you taste as good as I've been imagining."
"And what have you been imagining?"
"A lot of things." His voice dropped lower. "Want me to show you?"
She studied him for a long moment—those sharp, intelligent eyes looking for any sign this was a game, a performance, anything but real.
Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she smiled—small, genuine—and said, "Show me."
Lewis didn't need to be told twice.
He kissed her like he'd been thinking about for weeks—deep, thorough, taking his time. She tasted like champagne and mint, her lips soft and responsive. When she opened for him, when her tongue met his, Lewis felt it everywhere.
Her hands were in his hair, messing up the careful styling. His hands were on her waist, her back, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. The kiss went from exploratory to desperate fast—six weeks of want pouring into it.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Lewis rested his forehead against hers.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Yeah." Her hands were still in his hair, her chest rising and falling against his.
"Worth the wait?"
"Maybe." But she was smiling, dimples out. "Kiss me again and I'll let you know."
So he did.
And again.
And somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, between her laugh when he lifted her slightly off her feet and his groan when she bit his bottom lip, Lewis knew he was absolutely fucked.
Her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it free from his pants, while his hands roamed up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the fabric of her long dress. The dress was a nightmare—layers of buttons down the back, zipper snaking along the seam, all designed to tease and torment. He wanted her skin, bare and hot under his palms, but every time he fumbled with a button, it slipped or stuck, frustrating him more.
She laughed into his mouth, low and breathy, as his fingers worked at the top button near her collar. "Patience," she murmured, nipping at his jaw. "This dress isn't made for quick undressing."
"Fuck patience," he growled, his lips trailing down her neck, sucking at the pulse point that made her gasp. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips and pressing her against the edge of the couch. She arched into him, her body molding to his, and he could feel the heat of her through the layers. One hand slipped under the hem of her dress, fingers tracing up her thigh, finding the lace edge of her panties. She moaned softly when he cupped her ass, squeezing firmly.
Her hands weren't idle. She yanked his shirt open, buttons popping free and scattering across the floor. Her nails raked down his chest, over his abs and tattoos, making him hiss. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall, and captured her mouth again, tongues tangling in a wet, messy kiss. His dick strained against his pants, throbbing as she ground against him, her thigh slipping between his legs to rub just right.
He tried the zipper at her side next, tugging it down an inch, but it caught on the fabric.
"This thing," he muttered against her lips, "is going to be the death of me."
His other hand moved from her ass, fingers dipping under her panties to stroke her slick folds. She was wet already, her pussy clenching around his probing finger as he slid it inside her.
"Oh God," she whimpered, her head falling back. Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in as he pumped his finger slowly, thumb circling her clit. He added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot that made her buck against him.
But he wanted more. Needed her naked, spread out, taking him deep. Impatience surged through him like fire. With a frustrated grunt, he hooked his arms under her thighs and lifted her fully, her legs wrapping around his waist. She yelped in surprise, laughing as he carried her toward the living room rug, the soft expanse of it calling to him more than the bed right now.
He lowered her onto the rug, following her down, his body covering hers. The dress bunched up around her waist, buttons half-undone from his earlier efforts, but still in the way. He kissed her fiercely, one hand shoving the fabric aside to expose her breasts. No bra—thank fuck for that. He palmed one, thumb flicking her nipple until it hardened, then leaned down to suck it into his mouth, tongue swirling.
She arched beneath him, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. "Lewis…"
He switched to the other breast, biting gently, while his free hand yanked at the zipper again, finally getting it to give way partway. The dress parted like a reluctant flower, revealing more skin. But it wasn't enough. Growling, he sat back on his heels, grabbing the front placket and ripping the remaining buttons open with a sharp tug. They pinged across the room, forgotten.
Her eyes widened, a playful spark in them. "Impatient much?"
"You have no idea."
He shoved the dress off her shoulders, down her arms, exposing her completely from the waist up. Her brown nipples pebbled in the cool air. He leaned over her again, kissing her deep, his bare chest pressing against hers. His hands explored everywhere—squeezing her tits, tracing her ribs, dipping back between her legs to finger her pussy harder, faster.
She writhed under him, her own hands working at his belt, unbuckling it with frantic tugs. The zipper of his pants came down, and she palmed his dick through his boxers, stroking the hard length. He thrust into her hand, groaning into her mouth.
But then she pushed at his chest lightly, feigning a gasp of disapproval as he settled more firmly between her thighs, the rug soft under her back. "You're fucking me on the rug? I'm not good enough for the bed?"
Lewis grinned down at her, his eyes dark with lust, dick nudging against her through the thin barrier of fabric. "I fuck you all over this penthouse."
She arched a brow, her fingers tightening around him, squeezing just enough to make him hiss. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "You wanna bet?"
Her laugh turned into a moan as he ground against her, the friction of his dick against her soaked panties sending sparks up her spine. Lewis's patience snapped like a taut wire. He pulled his boxers down then shoved her panties aside, not bothering to remove them, his fingers slick from her arousal as he positioned himself at her entrance. Her pussy lips parted eagerly, glistening and swollen, begging for him. He didn't think about protection—didn't want to. He craved the raw slide of her heat gripping him bare, nothing between them but sweat and need.
With a low grunt, he thrust forward, burying his dick deep in one smooth stroke. She was tight, so fucking tight, her walls clenching around him like a velvet fist, hot and wet, sucking him in deeper. Every inch stretched her, her pussy fluttering as it adjusted to his thickness, juices coating him until he was slick with her.
"Fuck, baby," he rasped, pulling back slowly before slamming in again, bottoming out against her cervix. "Your pussy's gripping me so good, like it never wants to let go. So wet for me, dripping all over my dick."
She cried out, a sharp whimper that melted into a moan, her body arching off the rug. Her nails dug into his shoulders, then slid down to brace against his pelvis as he started a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward with deadly precision. Each thrust punched the air from her lungs, her pussy squelching around him, the obscene sound mixing with her gasps.
"Lewis—oh god, slow down," she whimpered, her hand pressing firm against his abs, trying to temper the force of his strokes. Her thighs trembled, inner muscles spasming as he hit that deep spot over and over.
He grabbed her wrist, pinning it to the rug above her head, his other hand hooking under her knee to lift her leg high. "No, take this dick, baby girl," he said, voice rough with lust. He draped her leg over his shoulder, opening her wider, the angle letting him drive even deeper. Her pussy stretched impossibly around him, walls rippling in protest and pleasure.
She moaned louder, head thrashing, her free hand clutching the rug fibers. "It's too much—fuck, you're so deep," she panted, but her hips bucked up to meet him, betraying her words.
Lewis leaned in, his mouth finding the delicate skin of her ankle, kissing it hot and open-mouthed before trailing licks down to her calf. He sucked at the muscle there, teeth grazing as he pounded into her relentlessly. His thumb found her clit, swollen and slick, rubbing tight circles that made her jolt.
"Feel that? Your little clit throbbing under my fingers," he murmured against her skin, nipping her calf.
Her whimpers turned to broken sobs of pleasure, body shaking as the pressure built. "Yes—oh fuck, yes, don't stop," she gasped. The rug burned against her skin, but she didn't care, lost in the raw stretch and rub of him inside her, his thumb relentless on her clit, his lips branding her leg.
Lewis kept his rhythm punishing, hips driving forward as her pussy clenched around his bare dick, her juices slicking every plunge. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a nasty kiss, tongues tangling wildly, saliva spilling between their lips. He sucked on her tongue, devouring her like he owned her, spit trailing from the corner of her mouth as she kissed back just as fiercely, moaning into him.
He broke away, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, to her exposed chest. Her breasts heaved with each breath, nipples hard and begging. He latched onto one, sucking hard, teeth nipping the peak until she arched with a gasp. Switching to the other, he bit down lightly, rolling the bud between his lips, tugging until it throbbed red and sensitive.
"Fuck, these tits," he muttered against her skin, giving one a final sharp suck before pulling back. But he wasn't done. His thrusts slowed to a halt, dick still buried deep as he slid down her body, hooking her legs over his shoulders. He pulled out with a wet pop, her pussy gaping slightly, pink and glistening.
She whimpered at the loss, but he dove in, mouth covering her folds, tongue plunging into her heat. He lapped at her entrance, tasting their mixed arousal, sucking her clit between his lips with firm pulls. Her hips bucked, thighs clamping around his head, heels digging into his back as she writhed beneath him.
She definitely tasted better than he imagined, and he was becoming a fein for her already.
"Oh shit, Lewis—you're such a munch," she gasped out, half-laughing through a moan, her fingers twisting in his hair.
He chuckled against her, the vibration making her jolt. "Damn right I am. Gonna eat this pussy till you break."
His tongue flicked faster over her clit, two fingers curling inside her, stroking that spongy spot relentlessly. She thrashed, legs squeezing tighter, body coiling like a spring.
Her orgasm hit like a storm, pussy convulsing as she screamed, a raw, guttural cry echoing off the penthouse walls. Clear fluid gushed from her, squirting in hot spurts over his chin and tongue. He drank her down, licking every drop, prolonging the waves until she shuddered bonelessly.
Only then did he lift his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with hunger. He stood briefly, shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs, kicking them aside. His dick stood rigid, veined and slick with her essence, balls heavy.
"Come 'ere," he rasped, reaching for her. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her up into his embrace. She melted against him, their mouths crashing together in a deep kiss, tongues sliding slowly and thoroughly, sharing the taste of her release.
As they kissed, his dick nudged her entrance, slipping right back in with ease, her walls welcoming him home. He sank to his haunches on the rug, settling her in his lap, her legs straddling his hips. No hesitation this time—she took every inch without a plea to slow, rocking down to meet him like she was built for this, for him.
Lewis gripped her ass, guiding her as he thrust up hard, really fucking her now. Her pussy gripped him like a vice, milking his length with every withdraw and slam, inner walls fluttering in perfect rhythm. Each plunge felt better than the last, her heat pulling him deeper, refusing to let go. He never wanted to leave this—her body molded to his, taking his dick like it was hers to claim.
Bhat. Bhat. Bhat. Bhat. The wet slaps of their bodies colliding filled the room, her pussy so juicy it soaked his thighs, the sounds obscene and rhythmic. Grunts escaped him with every drive, matched by her deep groans, nails raking his shoulders as she rode the intensity.
Pressure built low in his balls, coiling tight. He managed two more brutal thrusts, then a third, burying himself to the hilt as he came. Ropes of cum flooded her, thick and hot, filling her pussy until it overflowed, trickling warm down his thighs and onto the rug.
He yanked her close by the back of her neck, crashing their lips together in a messy kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding tight, both of them breathing raggedly, chests heaving. The kiss slowed, turning languid, tongues brushing softly as aftershocks rippled through them.
They broke apart, foreheads resting together, and she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. A sly smile curved her lips, that teasing glint returning. "So.... are you gonna keep that promise or not? All over this penthouse, was it?"
Lewis felt heat shoot through him despite the fact that they'd just—
"You're insatiable," he said, but he was already pulling her closer.
"You complaining?"
"Never."
She kissed him, deep and slow. "What are we doing then?"
Lewis grinned against her mouth. "You're getting that tour, sweetheart."
***********************************************
Lewis woke slowly, awareness returning in pieces. Sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His body sore in the best way. Sheets tangled around his legs. The scent of her perfume on his pillows.
And memories. God, the memories.
Her on the living room rug, Manhattan glittering behind her. Her on the kitchen counter, his name falling from her lips. Her in the shower, water cascading over both of them. Finally, to the bedroom where they'd finally collapsed, exhausted and satisfied and—
Lewis reached out, expecting warmth, expecting her.
The bed was empty.
He sat up, fully awake now, his heart starting to race. The bedroom was a disaster—sheets half on the floor, pillows everywhere, his Wales Bonner jacket draped over the chair, her dress in a puddle near the door. Evidence of last night everywhere.
Except her.
"No," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "No, no, no."
Had she just—had she fucked him and left? Just bounced without a word?
He leaned over to grab his phone off the nightstand, ready to call her, to text her, to figure out what the hell happened—
The toilet flushed.
Lewis froze.
Water ran in the bathroom. The sink. Someone washing their hands.
Then the door opened, and she came padding out wearing one of his t-shirts—the old Mercedes one he'd worn yesterday before changing for the Gala. It hung to mid-thigh on her, making her look smaller, softer. Her hair was an absolute disaster—the finger waves completely destroyed, sticking up in every direction, a proper bird's nest.
She looked perfect.
She caught him staring, paused. "What?"
"Thought I was gonna have to send out a missing persons report," Lewis said, relief flooding through him so intense it made him lightheaded.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she climbed back into bed. "Dramatic much? I had to pee."
"You scared me."
"Good." She settled in next to him, curling into his side like she belonged there. "Keep you on your toes."
Lewis leaned over, cupped her face, and kissed her. Sweet this time, gentle, morning soft.
"Good morning, baby girl," he murmured against her lips.
She smiled—a real smile, those dimples appearing, her eyes soft in the morning light. "Morning."
They lay there for a moment, just breathing together, the city waking up outside the windows. Lewis traced lazy patterns on her shoulder, down her arm, not wanting to break the quiet peace of the moment.
"So," she said eventually, her voice still sleep-rough. "Last night was..."
"Incredible?" Lewis supplied. "Mind-blowing? The best night of my life?"
"Cocky." But she was grinning. "I was gonna say 'a lot.'"
"A lot good or a lot bad?"
"Definitely good." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "Very good. Though I don't know if I can walk properly today."
"That's the goal." He was absolutely not sorry.
She laughed, swatted his arm. "You're ridiculous."
"You like it though."
"Maybe." She propped herself up on her elbow to look at him properly. "So what happens now?"
"Now?" Lewis tucked a piece of her disaster hair behind her ear. "Now I make you breakfast. And then maybe we spend the day in bed. And then—"
"I meant with us, Lewis." Her voice was softer now, vulnerable in a way he hadn't heard before. "What is this? What are we doing?"
Lewis looked at her—really looked at her. This woman who'd made him chase her for weeks, who'd driven him crazy, who was now in his bed wearing his shirt looking at him like she was scared of the answer.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I know I don't want this to be just one night. I know I've been thinking about you for weeks and now that I've had you, I want you again. And again." He cupped her face. "I want to see where this goes. For real."
"No promises though, right? No expectations?"
"Just us figuring it out as we go." He kissed her softly. "That work for you?"
She studied him for a long moment, those sharp eyes looking for any sign he was playing her. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her because she nodded.
"Yeah. That works." She bit her lip, that teasing look returning. "So... about that Grand Prix invitation. Is that still on the table? Or was that just part of your game?"
Lewis felt his face break into a huge smile, so wide it almost hurt. "You want to come to a race?"
"Maybe. If the offer still stands."
"Baby girl, the offer always stood." He was already planning it in his head—getting her paddock access, making sure she had everything she needed, showing her his world. "When can you come? We've got Monaco in a few weeks, then Barcelona—"
"Monaco sounds good." She was smiling now too, those dimples out in full force. "I can probably clear my schedule."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She kissed him, slow and sweet. "Besides, I need to see what all the fuss is about. See if you're as good on the track as you are in bed."
"I'm better on the track."
"Impossible," she said, and the way she looked at him made Lewis's chest tight.
"Come to Monaco," he said. "Let me show you around."
"Okay." She settled back against his chest, her hand over his heart. "But you're explaining to Spinz why I'm suddenly accepting his invitations."
Lewis laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "Deal."
They lay there as the morning sun climbed higher, Manhattan coming alive outside the windows, and Lewis thought about how six weeks ago he'd seen her on a video and decided he wanted to know her.
Now she was here, in his arms, in his shirt, with his marks on her skin and her laugh in his ears and the promise of more tomorrows.
He'd chased her. He'd caught her.
And somehow, impossibly, it was even better than he'd imagined.
"Hey," she said softly, tilting her head to look at him.
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth?" Her dimples appeared. "You were worth the wait too."
Lewis kissed her again, deep and slow, taking his time.
synopsis. after rumors and a messy fallout shake your carefully hidden relationship, you’re forced to confront your insecurities while lewis shows up determined to prove that choosing you was never a question.
warnings. relationship conflict / argument, insecurity and self doubt, jealousy (referencing public rumors), miscommunication in a relationship, emotional tension, paparazzi and lack of privacy, mentions of kim kardashian, mentions of alexandra leclerc née saint mleux, light suggestive content (making out & implied smut), angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, established relationship, secret relationship. let me know if there's more tags needed!
a/n. i loved writing this! i struggled writing the end sadly, which is why it took so long, but i loved this prompt. i loved rewatching parts of love story fx/jfk jr & cbk tv show for this. thank you so much for the request! my request are open and my rules are on my pinned post. please comment, like, reblog, etc! it keeps me way more motivated to write lol. thank you for reading!
The first time you had met Lewis Hamilton, it was strictly professional; a business meeting. Scheduled weeks in advance, passed through emails and assistants until it finally landed in your calendar. You were hired to help direct a marketing PR collaboration with Lewis’ brand, Plus 44, and you were there because you were good at what you did. In fact, a little bit too good.
You showed up early, as always. Your laptop was tucked under your arm, phone in hand, skimming notes about the deal you already knew by heart. The meeting room was exactly what you expected. It was a bleak, uninspiring room with four walls and a long, oval desk in the middle of it. There was a small team already there, quietly chatting to each other before the meeting began. You slipped into it all easily - introductions, handshakes, that work version of you that knew how to take control of your body and detach you from reality.
You were halfway through setting up when Lewis walked in. And despite yourself, you looked up.
You’d reckon meeting the most accomplished Formula One driver in the world would be far more grandiose. There was no dramatic red carpet that rolled out before his feet, there were no peasants to carry him to his throne, it was just…him. Lewis walked over to everyone in the room, greeted them like he had all the time in the world, and focused intently to remember everybody’s name.
Then his attention landed on you for a mere second. Then again, longer this time.
“This is her,” your boss said, gesturing toward you. “She’s leading PR for the drop.”
You stood, offering your hand and introduced yourself. “Hello.”
“Lewis,” he replied, like you didn’t already know. His handshake was warm and soft yet steady. He held it just a second longer than expected, as if he were placing you somewhere in his busy head. “I’ve heard about you,” he added.
You raised a brow slightly. “Hopefully good things.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. “Hmm.. We’ll see.” You almost rolled your eyes but, instead, you sat back down and opened your laptop.
The meeting started the way they always did. Structured, boring, uneventful. You talked through your ideas, your approach, the way the brand needed to feel like more than just him if it was going to last. You expected him to mentally check out. Most people did, and you didn’t blame them. Who cares about the numbers? But Lewis Hamilton isn't like most people. He watched your every move, listened to your every word, and even took notes when he found necessary. It threw you off more than you liked.
“If Plus 44 is going to work,” you mused, clicking to the next slide, “it can’t just rely solely on your name. Your brand has to exist outside of you.”
Lewis paused and pursed his lips. Then his voice came calm. “So I’m the limitation?”
You looked at him, steady. “You, sir, are the starting point. Not the ceiling.”
There was another long, almost awkward pause. Eventually, he smiled and met your gaze. “Alright. Go on.”
And just like that, it turned into something else. It was a proper partnership between all departments - and especially between you both. Lewis asked questions, pushed back when he didn’t agree, listened when you explained. You challenged him right back. Didn’t sugarcoat your words, didn’t backtrack. And Lewis Hamilton loved that trait about you.
However, that was then. Now, you've been dating the world champion for a year and a half. You two lived together with your dog, Doug, and snuck around like teenagers - and it was fun. Or that’s what you told yourself. I mean, your relationship wasn’t necessarily secret, per se, just… not public. And maybe half of that decision was mutual. You understood the world your boyfriend lived in, the way he needed complete focus on his career without the noise of his personal life thrown in his face. You knew you were blessed enough that he made room in his heart to truly commit to you, and lord knows Lewis deserves to be loved and desired.
But the other half was you.
Because there was nothing you hated more - you hated the media. The way they twisted things, the way they reduced people down to words that fit better in a headline than they did in real life for just a small profit and something that will be forgotten within a month. You had built something for yourself. From absolutely nothing. Long nights, constant work, proving yourself over and over again until your name actually meant something in male dominated rooms like that.
You were not just someone’s girlfriend. And you refused to become “Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend” in a headline. So you kept it yours. Just like that first meeting was supposed to be. Yours... Until it wasn’t just yours anymore.
It was another Sunday during Lewis' off week and you had made a habit of walking around the city's park with your dog, just to catch up on your lives. But today was just miserable. The sun was scorching, the humidity was high, and everything felt visible. The gravel path crunches under your shoes, the air is sharp against your skin, and the faint hum of the city reaches you even here. People pass in twos and threes, dogs tug on leashes, laughter drifts over from a picnic table nearby. Doug pulls ahead of you, nose to the ground, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from your shoulders. He’s happy. He doesn’t care about headlines. He doesn’t care about Kim Kardashian. Sounds like a nice life, huh?
Beside you, Lewis walks slower than usual. His hoodie up, sunglasses up on his face, hands in his pockets. To anyone else, he probably looks relaxed. If it weren't for his huge hoodie in a heat advisory - he was just another guy taking a walk. But you know Lewis. You know the small things. The way his shoulders sit just a little tighter. The way his eyes flick to every movement around him. The way he is quiet, not distant, just… waiting. Like he knows something is coming. It’s a characteristic of his that has been with him ever since he was a little boy, avoiding and waiting for the other person to finally say something.
You stop. Doug tilts his head at the pauses, huffs, and waddles closer to your ankle.
“So,” you say, your voice tight, and a bit more snippy than you mean it to be, “you and Kim Kardashian, huh?”
Lewis exhales slowly, he was eventually expecting this. “We’re doing this now?”
“When else would we do it?” you ask, keeping your eyes fixed ahead.
He shifts, adjusts his sunglasses. “It’s not like that. You know that.”
You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “You’ve been seen with her. Multiple times.”
“So what?” he says, calm. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“TMZ seems to think it does.”
“TMZ thinks whatever gets clicks,” Lewis says, firm now. “You know how this works.”
And that tone, that calm certainty does everything but soothe you. How dare he? How dare he make you put your life on hold, then dismiss you when he’s out canoodling with a supermodel?
“Do you hear yourself?” you snap, gripping Doug’s leash a little too tightly. “Do you hear how easy that is for you to say?”
“Because it is easy. Because it’s not complicated,” he shrugs.
“Well, it is for me,” you shoot back. He winces slightly out of the corner of your eye.
“But why?” he asks, quieter, careful.
“Because, Lewis! I’m the one standing here watching it happen,” you gesture. “I’m the one seeing people talk about you like you’re with someone else while I’m—”
“While you’re what?” he cuts in.
“While I’m nothing,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Lewis immediately stops walking, kicking up small rocks in the process. “Don’t say that.”
“Then what am I supposed to say? Huh?” you ask. “That I’m fine with this? That I just have to be okay with you flirting with anybody because you’re Lewis Hamilton and I’m me? Nonexistent?”
Doug whines softly at the tension. He moves closer, nudging your leg. You barely notice. “Listen, we agreed to keep it private,” Lewis says, trying to steady his voice.
“I don’t know what fucking world you live in, but is not the same as nonexistent,” you shoot back. A couple walking past slows, glances at you both. But honestly you could care less. A part of you wanted them to see you - to see your pain and hurt. To be seen.
Lewis steps closer instinctively, lowering his voice only so you could hear. “We did this for a reason.”
“And how is that working out?” you ask, gesturing vaguely around you. “Because I’m still dealing with it. Alone.”
“You’re not alone,” he says, quieter now, almost pleading.
“It feels like I am,” you say. “You’re gone. All the time. I can’t ever talk to you.” His eyes tighten and his jawline is sharper than usual. The way he looks at you like he wants to fix something he cannot. He looks almost hurt at your words.
“I’m with you,” Lewis hushes. “I’ve always been with you.”
“Then why does it look like you’re with someone else?”
“Because people are making it up,” he retorted, voice rising a fraction, getting evermore intense. “I can’t control that.”
“But you can control what you do,” you point out. “And you chose to be seen with her. Again and again. With her kids, Lewis!”
“I’m allowed to have friends,” he snaps.
“You and I have different definitions of ‘friends,’” you shout.
Lewis runs a hand over his face, exhaling. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
You take a step back, tightening your grip on Doug’s leash. “I’m blowing it out of proportion!?”
“Yes,” he replies firmly. “This is not what you’re making it.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable. You really think this is just in my head?”
“No… I just think you’re letting social media get to you,” Lewis corrected.
“Social media?” you repeat. “Social media?! Does she fuck you good? Huh? Does she make you feel better about your ego?”
Lewis’ brows furrow and his jaw slackens. His reaction was immediate and unguarded and it landed harder than you expect. Not because you meant it, but because you didn’t. The words leave your mouth before your brain has time to catch up, sharp and ugly in a way that doesn’t feel like you. You know it isn’t true. You know it the second it hangs in the air between you, heavy and irreversible. And still, you said it.
For a moment, you almost take it back. You can feel it sitting at the back of your throat, that instinct to fix it, to soften it, to undo the damage before it settles. But your pride gets there first. The anger, the embarrassment, the way everything already feels too exposed to start backtracking now. So you don’t. The silence stretches, long and uncomfortable. Neither of you moves. He just stands there, looking at you like he’s trying to figure out if you meant it, or if you even understand what you just said.
“Don’t you dare do this here,” he blurts quietly.
“You just want me behind closed doors where no one can see you pretend I don’t exist! You didn’t seem to care when you were in public with her!”
“I’m not pretending to do anything,” Lewis retorts, his frustration finally breaking through.
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only fucking person in this relationship who has something to lose?”
Another click. Another flash. The sharp burst of light stings your eyes, and this time you don’t even try to ignore it. People aren’t pretending anymore. They’re openly watching, phones half lowered. You knew you were going to regret this spectacle later but, perhaps, it was a wake up call for your boyfriend.
Lewis steps closer urgently. “You’re upset, I get that, but this isn’t—”
“No.” You shake your head hard, cutting straight through him. “Don’t try to dismiss it.”
“I’m not,” he insists, throwing his hands up in annoyance. “I’m trying to talk to you!”
“You just are though,” you fire back, your voice tightening despite yourself. “You’re making it sound like I’m crazy for reacting to something that’s happening right in front of me. You always do this.”
“Nothing is happening in front of you,” he says, firmer now, his jaw set.
“It is,” you say, stepping closer instead of backing down. “Maybe not to you, but to everyone else, it is.”
The space between you turns tense and brittle. Doug shifts awkwardly nearby, clearly wishing he were anywhere else, his big brown eyes darting between you both like he's a kid watching his divorced parents. Lewis exhales and reaches out, his hand closing around your arm in an instinctive attempt to steady you, to pull you back into his loving arms. The second his fingers make contact with your bare arm, you flinch hard, recoiling like you’ve been burned.
“Don’t,” you almost yell and pull your arm back against your chest like you need the space to breathe. “Don’t fucking touch me.” His hand drops immediately, something like shock flashing across his face. You look at Lewis, the man you love and care about, and something in your chest shifts. It is not the hot, aggressive anger from before. Not even the sting of hurt. It’s almost indescribably cold. “I can’t do this,” you say.
His expression changes instantly and all his confidence drains out of it. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” you hold his gaze. Another pause settles between you, thick and uncomfortable. You take a step back, tightening your grip on Doug’s leash like it’s the only thing grounding you. “I need space,” you say, and the words hit heavier than you expect.
For a moment, Lewis doesn’t react. There was no argument, no interruption, no dispute. Just a pause, like he’s deciding something. Then he nods once, small and controlled. “Okay.”
It sounds wrong. Too calm. Too easy. Like it doesn’t match what’s actually happening - two years down the drain. You turn before you can second guess yourself. Doug moves with you instantly, and you start walking. It takes every bone in your body to not turn around and look at him but you knew if you did, you’d run back into his arms. Lewis stays where he is. At first, everything feels muted, like the world has stopped rotating. Then the noise slowly creeps back in. He should go after you. He knows that. Every instinct is there, pushing at him to move, to fix it, to say something better, anything that would stop this from ending like this.
But he doesn’t.
Because he’s been here before. Different person, different moment, yet with the same feeling settling heavy in his chest. That same thought that there will be time to fix it later, that this isn’t really the end yet. There wasn’t a last time. Not with Nicole. Not with any of it. And standing there now, staring at the space you just left behind, he feels it again. That quiet, sinking certainty: he let you go. And this time, with cameras flashing and the world already watching, it isn’t something that will stay private.
It’s everywhere. And it isn’t his anymore.
Working helps, but it doesn’t fix it. It fills your time, gives your hands something to do and your mind something to focus on, but it doesn’t quiet anything inside your mind. The park keeps replaying whether you want it to or not. His face. Your voice. The way he didn’t come after you. You don’t check the articles. You don’t need to - you lived it.
It was everywhere within the hour. Photos, clips, headlines written by people who weren’t there but spoke like they were. You had seen enough of that world to know exactly how it would be spun. “Mystery woman,” “heated argument,” “Lewis Hamilton linked to multiple women.” It didn’t matter what actually happened. It never does. And it definitely doesn’t matter who you are before him.
That part lingers more than you’d like to admit. Because no matter how successful you are, no matter how much you’ve built for yourself, the narrative is always the same. Women like Kim Kardashian make sense next to him. They look right. They belong in those headlines. They don’t have to explain themselves into the space they take up. You do. And you hate that you do. You hate that a part of you stood there in that park and believed it. That maybe you were the one who didn’t fit. That maybe you were the one Lewis could afford to keep private because losing you wouldn’t disrupt anything visible.
So to cope, you work. The Rhode shoot runs long, as expected. Lighting adjustments, reshoots, last-minute changes that you handle without thinking. It’s muscle memory at this point. You move through it cleanly, efficiently, just as you always do. However, once it wraps and people start clearing out, the quiet settles in again. You’re sitting off to the side with your laptop open, staring at the same slide you’ve been “fixing” for the last ten minutes.
“It’s not good to squint at a computer like that for long,” Alexandra’s voice is light, but it cuts through your focus easily. You glance up at her, blinking. She’s leaning against the table across from you, arms loosely crossed and the way she looked at you felt a little too observant.
You had met Alexandra Leclerc, Charles’ newly wedded wife, at a Rhode marketing event months ago. It started as a quick introduction, turned into a few conversations here and there, and then somehow became this. You could sympathize and understand her when many couldn’t, dating a Ferrari driver and living in a world that never really lets you be anything but your partner’s girlfriend. You loved her, honestly. There was something endlessly interesting about the way she elegantly carried herself, the way she spoke, the way she seemed so sure without ever needing to prove it. And her style was insane! Effortless, put together in a way that looked cohesively graceful without trying hard. Somewhere along the way, without either of you making a big deal out of it, she became one of your closest friends.
“I’m working,” you say, flat.
She hums like she doesn’t believe you for a second. “Right.”
You look back down at your laptop, tapping the trackpad once, twice. Nothing changes. There’s a small pause before she speaks again, “Charles is worried about him.”
You keep your eyes on the screen like you didn’t hear her properly. “Okay,” you say, neutral.
“He actually called me this morning,” she continues, fiddling with her bracelet. “Asked if I’d heard from you.”
That makes you glance up in annoyance. “Ugh... Why would he do that?”
Alexandra gives you a look that answers the question for you. “Because he knows we're friends. And because of everything.”
You exhale quietly and lean back in your chair. “Well, I’m sure he’s fine.”
“He’s not,” she retorts simply.
You almost push back on that, but something in her tone makes you pause. “He has a race weekend coming up,” you decided on instead. “He’ll focus. He always does.”
Alexandra shifts her weight and purses her lips. “Charles said he hasn’t been sleeping properly. And he’s been snapping at people. Which is not really his thing.”
You look down at your hands. You don’t say anything because you don’t know what to do with that. Because part of you is still angry, still holding onto everything you felt in that moment, the way it built up and spilled out all at once. The insecurity, the frustration, the quiet comparisons you never wanted to make but did anyway. But another part of you doesn’t like the idea of Lewis Hamilton, the man you love after everything, like that at all. Your fingers tap lightly against the edge of your laptop before you realize you’re doing it. You stop, sigh, then glance back up at her.
“How do you do it?” you ask.
Alexandra’s brows lift slightly. “Do.. what?”
“This,” you gesture vaguely, then more pointedly, “be with someone like that and still… be you. Be your own person.” She watches you carefully without interrupting. “I don’t want to disappear into someone else’s life,” you continue, quieter now. “I’ve worked too hard for that. I like what I’ve built. I like being… me. But I also want to be with him,” You swallow slightly. “But it feels like I’m only there when it’s convenient,” you add, almost under your breath. Alexandra doesn’t answer you immediately. She shifts, leaning back against the table, arms crossing loosely as she thinks.
“It’s not easy,” she eventually landed on.
You huff lightly. “That’s reassuring.”
She smiles faintly at that, but it doesn’t last. “I had to decide early on that I wasn’t going to compete with his world,” she continues. “Because I would lose. Not because I’m not enough, but because it’s bigger than both of us.”
You stay quiet, listening.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a place in it,” she adds. “It just looks different than people expect.”
Your brows knit slightly. “How?”
“I make sure I’m not shrinking myself to fit into it,” Alexandra says simply. “And he makes sure I don’t feel like I have to.”
You look down again, your throat tightening just slightly. Your gaze lingers on your hands, fingers loosely curled in your lap like you don’t quite know what to do with them. Your thumb drags absently over the edge of your nail, a quiet, repetitive motion that grounds you more than anything else right now. You press your lips together, swallowing past the feeling before it can settle too deeply, before it turns into something harder to control. For a second, you consider brushing it off, making a joke, redirecting like you usually would. But instead you decide to be earnest.
“I don’t think he realized,” you admit after a moment. “How it felt. Watching everything. Seeing him with her, seeing people talk about it like it made more sense than…” You trail off, shaking your head. “It makes you feel stupid for even being there.”
“Don’t say that. You’re far from stupid,” Alexandra says, firm but calm.
“It doesn’t matter, what I am or not” you reply. “Because it feels like I am in the moment.”
She studies you for a second, then nods slowly. “Did you tell him that?”
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I think I told him a lot of things.”
“Not the same thing,” Alexandra pointed out.
Unfortunately for your ego, your friend is right. But fortunately, it helped you see it clearer. She wasn’t right about everything, not in a way that suddenly makes this easy, but right about the part that matters the most; you didn’t actually say it. Not the insecurity that had been sitting under all of it, the part that wasn’t loud or angry, just… honest. You told him how it looked, how it felt in the moment, how much it pissed you off. But you never really told him what it did to you. What it made you question. What it made you feel like you were in his life.
It doesn’t erase anything. It doesn’t make you less upset. But it shifts something just enough to make you realize that maybe he didn’t fully understand what you were trying to say. Not because he didn’t care, but because you never gave him the chance to hear it the way you meant it. Shit!
A few weeks past of non-stop work, and by the time you get home, you’re exhausted. It wasn’t necessarily the tiredness that sleep fixes. Moreso it was the heavy weight on your shoulders, that makes your heels feel louder against the hallway floor, that has you already thinking about taking your makeup off and pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a few hours. Your keys are already in your hand by the time you reach the door, your movements automatic, familiar.
You unlock it, push it open, and step inside to the bright lights that waited in your hallway - Wait what the fuck? You don’t move at first. You just stand there, one foot still half in the hallway, your brain taking a second longer than it should to catch up. You know you turned them off this morning because you always do. You’re annoyingly consistent about things like that.
You narrow your eyes slightly, stepping in slower this time, your grip tightening around your keys like that’s going to help you in any meaningful way. “If someone is in here,” you call out, flat but loud enough, “You’re thickly skulled if you meant to leave the lights on.”
Then, from further inside, calm as ever, “It’s me.”
You blink. “…Lewis?”
The man steps into view a second later like this is completely normal, like people don’t usually break into their own homes they technically moved out of weeks ago. He’s in a plain shirt, sweats, nothing dramatic, nothing that matches the way your heart just jumped into your throat.
You stare at him. “You cannot just be in here like that.”
Lewis exhales through his nose, almost like he expected that reaction. He held up his keys pointedly. “I still have a key.”
“I thought you were a burglar,” you shoot back, kicking the door shut behind you.
“I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“Well, you succeeded anyway.”
Lewis doesn’t move closer right away. He stays exactly where he is, a few feet away, like he’s drawn a line for himself and refuses to cross it without permission. It’s deliberate. You can tell that he was restraining himself. He was analyzing each move he made and thoroughly thinking it through. “I’m not here to argue,” he admits.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, dropping your keys onto the counter with a soft clatter. “That would be a first.”
“I’m serious.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes you look at him properly. Not a glance, not the quick, guarded looks you’ve been giving him since you walked in, but a full, steady look. You search for it automatically, the defensiveness, the edge, the part of him that usually meets you halfway in a fight. But, it’s not there. His gaze is stripped back in a way that makes you uneasy because you don’t have anything to push against.
“I handled that wrong,” he continues. “In the park.”
You shift your weight slightly, crossing your arms without thinking, more for something to do than anything else. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I shouldn’t have dismissed you,” he acknowledged. “Or made it seem like you were overreacting.” You don’t answer right away. You let the words sit, turning them over in your head, testing them for anything that sounds like an excuse. There isn’t one. “I wasn’t listening to what you were actually saying,” he adds.
You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “And what was I saying?”
Lewis pauses - not because he doesn’t know, but because he’s choosing how to say it. You can see it in the way his jaw shifts, the way his gaze flickers for a second before settling back on you.
“That you feel like you don’t exist in my life,” he eventually says. Your jaw tightens before you can stop it. It’s immediate, instinctive, like your body reacts before your mind catches up. Hearing it out loud feels worse than saying it ever did. “You think I keep you separate because it’s easier,” he continues. “Because I don’t have to answer for it. And when something like that happens, with her, it just… proves it.”
Your arms tighten across your chest, fingers pressing into your sleeves. You hate how accurate it sounds when he says it. Hate that he understands it now, after the fact.
“I thought I was protecting you… From all of it. The media, the way people talk.” Lewis exhales, quieter this time, as if the realization made him choke up. “I didn’t realize I was also making you feel like you weren’t something I’d stand next to. I was selfish.”
“But what about her?” you question. It comes out less sharp than before. Not an accusation this time but rather a fact you haven’t been able to ignore.
“It was strictly business,” he nods. “It was for a Skims campaign, and she had reached out to Plus 44 to arrange something. Her team wanted to keep it quiet, but somebody called the paparazzi. I should’ve thought about how that would look. How that would feel for you.”
“Surely that’s not something you can just not think about,” you reply, your brows pulling together slightly.
“I know.”
You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly, more at yourself than anything else. “Lewis… Do you really know what that looks like from the outside?” you ask. “Seeing you with someone like her, seeing people talk about it like it makes sense?” Your throat tightens, the words coming out slower now. “It makes you feel stupid. Like you’re the one who doesn’t belong there in the first place.” You don’t look away this time. You make yourself hold his gaze, even when it feels uncomfortable, even when you can see the shift in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
“You’re the one I come home to. You’re the one I built a life with. That’s not nothing.”
“Then why doesn’t it feel like that?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a step closer. Slow enough that you can register it, decide if you want to stop him. Careful in a way that feels intentional, like he’s not assuming anything about where he stands with you.
“Because I didn’t show you that properly,” he says. “Not in a way that you could feel.” There’s no hesitation in it. No attempt to dodge responsibility. And that, more than anything, is what gets to you. Something in your chest shifts, your heart begins to beat a little bit faster. “I don’t want to do this without you,” Lewis nods. “And I don’t want you feeling like you’re on the outside of my life.”
You shift slightly, then take a small step forward before you can overthink it. Not all the way, not enough to close the distance completely, but enough to change something.
“I need to feel like you choose me,” you say.
Lewis nods, immediate. “I do.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer, searching, measuring, making sure he understands what that actually means.
“Then show me,” you reply. There’s a beat. It wasn’t long, but enough for something to settle between you, something unspoken however understood. Lewis doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, steady, like he’s taking in every part of your face, every shift in your expression, making sure you mean it. Then he closes the distance. Lewis steps into you with a kind of certainty that feels different from before, less instinct, more intention. His hand comes up first, fingers brushing along your jaw, warm and careful, like he’s reacquainting himself with something he hasn’t touched in too far long. You feel it everywhere, the contact grounding and disarming all at once. He hesitates for half a second - just enough to give you time to pull away. You don’t. So he kisses you.
It’s softer than you expect at first. Not tentative, not unsure, just… controlled, like he’s holding himself back on purpose. Like he’s trying to show you something through it, not just take. His lips move against yours slowly, deliberately, giving you time to respond, to meet him there instead of being overwhelmed by it. You do. Your hand comes up without thinking, gripping lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer in a way that breaks whatever restraint he was holding onto. The shift is immediate. The kiss deepens, his other hand finding your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he needs the contact to make sense of this.
As you brush against his soft lips, you realize he's still your Lewis. Familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten, but there’s something else layered into it now. Something heavier and more deliberate. Like he’s trying to make up for everything he didn’t say before without using words. You exhale against him, your grip tightening, and that’s all it takes for him to tilt his head, changing the angle, kissing you deeper, slower. Lewis is taking his time with it. His thumb brushes along your cheek, grounding, while his hand at your waist presses you closer, firm but not forceful. Your other hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers curling slightly, keeping him there. You don’t want space. Not right now.
Your breath catches slightly when he pulls you in again, slower this time, less urgency, more intention. Neither of you pull away, like if you were to, you might lose whatever this is again. Yet, you’re the one who breaks it. Not by much. Just enough to pull back, your hand still gripping his shirt, your forehead almost brushing his. Your breathing is uneven, your thoughts still catching up.
Up close like this, you notice everything.
The way Lewis’ flushed lips are still slightly parted, it was clear he hasn’t fully caught his breath either. The faint crease between his brows that hasn’t smoothed out, even now. Part of him is still holding onto the weight of the conversation you had before. His eyes flicker over your face quickly, searching, trying to read what you’re thinking before you say it. There’s something softer there too, something you don’t think he even realizes he’s showing. Not guarded, not distant. Just open in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.
You hesitate for a second and grip his shirt a little bit tighter, then: “Stay,” you whisper.
Lewis doesn’t even think about it. “Okay,” he answers, just as soft. You nod once, like that settles it, even if nothing else is fully sorted yet. You smile and your hand loosens in his shirt just enough to slide up, settling at the side of his neck. You keep him close in a way that feels loving instead of uncertain. There’s still things you haven’t worked through, still conversations waiting for you both, but the distance that felt so absolute before isn’t there anymore. And as you stand there, close enough to feel the steadiness of him again, it doesn’t feel like something you’re about to lose. But rather, it feels like something you’re choosing to keep.
pairing | Bucky Barnes x Reader
summary | In a moment of introspection, you make a very interesting analogy that proves to be correct and offers an indulgence into life's more simple pleasures OR Bucky Barnes gets lovingly held down while he gets ice cream licked off of his chest.
warnings | 18 + ONLY; porn with no plot, established relationship, she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, Bucky is whipped for his girlfriend, slight dom!reader but like..lovingly? idk, food play?, dry humping, nipple stimulation, outercourse?, premature ejaculation, author's poor attempt at humor (if I missed anything let me know)
word count | 1.8k
phoenix chirps | Welcome to what happens when I say “I wanna write a drabble”. The biggest dt to @sheriff-bodecker who once said "Bucky Barnes has nipples like butter pecan ice cream". I love the way your brain works, Stevie, and I really wish you’d let me just dig around in there for like ten minutes to see how stuff gets arranged. I hope I did this justice 💛
The request was innocent enough.
All you wanted when you left Sam Wilson's apartment after an afternoon of catching up was ice cream. And Bucky, being the loving, doting boyfriend he was, happily obliged. Which is how you found yourself standing in front of the open freezer, a fresh pint of butter pecan ice cream clutched in one hand.
There was something strangely familiar about the contents of the ice cream container. You hummed to yourself, closing the freezer with your foot and leaning back against the appliance, dragging the spoon across the surface. Why did this pale, buttery frozen treat feel so intimately reminiscent?
Well. You'd just start with the last person you were intimate with.
Moving into the bedroom, there he lay. Bucky Barnes, fresh from a shower, wearing a threadbare shirt and loose sweatpants. He had an ankle crossed over the other, one arm folded propping his head up and the other holding a book. "Wondered when you were gonna come to bed." he mused, eyes flicking up to you.
"Take your shirt off," you said around a small spoonful of ice cream, standing at the foot of your shared bed.
He moved quickly, discarding the fabric without question. Something about how duteous he was with your requests had something already pulling at your chest.
"Any particular reason…why?" he now asked, eyeing you up and down as you moved closer, spoon held loosely in your mouth.
"I'm trying something," you answered, words slightly muffled around the metal on your tongue.
Bucky leaned over, grabbing your hips to maneuver you so your thighs bracketed his. "Okay, well I'd like to try something, can you put your dessert away, please?"
You swatted his hands away with a slightly annoyed grunt and balanced the small pint on his belly between your legs, smirking as his muscles contracted from the cold. "Would you relax? I'm in the middle of something."
Taking a large spoonful of the ice cream, you very gently smeared it across the expanse of his chest. The creamy color matched the tone of his skin almost perfectly, the pale brown of the pecan pieces looked like the darker hues of his nipples. You wanted to laugh, really. How you made this comparison while standing beside the fridge was beyond your comprehension.
"Sweetheart, what are — " he started, then hissed as the cold made contact with his skin. "You're going to make a mess."
"Quit complaining, Sergeant, just let me work," you said with a pat to his ribs, layering on more ice cream. The small dusting of chest hair clumping together as you maneuvered the spoon side to side.
Bucky heaved a large sigh under you, but looked up at you with the gaze of a man who really could think of no better place to be. Even if he was getting sticky and his girlfriend did not seem to be fazed by how hard his cock was becoming underneath your warmth. "Fine, but you're cleaning this up."
A mischievous grin replaced your look of concentration, trailing the spoon over the divots of his collarbones and neck, spreading more of the melting ice cream over his adam's apple. Discarding the container to the bedside table, and your shirt to the floor so you wouldn't ruin it, you leaned forward to lick up your mess.
"Couldn't you have - ah - eaten out of a bowl?" Bucky grunted, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. Your tongue lapped at the now melted ice cream, with slow languid licks. Every drag had a chain reaction of shuddering muscles beneath your touch, leaving his nerves trembling until one area was licked clean and you moved to another.
Shaking your head at his question, you focused on the swell of his chest, teeth sinking into the flesh just below his pecan colored nipple. "What is it you tell me when I try to push you away from between my thighs?" you mused, biting down again. "Let me finish my meal, I'm not done yet?"
A strangled whimper vibrated through his body when you brought your tongue up to dance around his nipple, concurrently rocking your hips. "That's…that's different," he tried to reason, his arms now snaking around your waist to meet your lazy movements. Like his body had already decided for him that if he wasn't going to get away from you and your need to lick ice cream off of him, he may as well enjoy whatever ride you're about to give.
"Tsk, double standards…" you murmur, placing open mouth kisses along his sternum as you travel to the other side of his chest. The taste of sugar bloomed against your tongue, mixing with the slight salt of his skin and whatever body wash he'd used in a concoction that had heat and need and hunger simmering at the edges of your mind.
Humming again, you let him gently rock you against the thick press of his cock; still covered by his sweatpants, the slick of your body was soaking through your panties and creating a delicious friction for the both of you. Soon, the fabric that had once been a barrier contoured to your bodies, felt like there was little there at all.
Reaching down, you dolloped another spoonful of ice cream onto the stiff peak of Bucky's nipple. A melted river threatened to drip onto the sheets, but not before you caught it with your tongue, salivating more as it hit your senses. Your teeth oh so delicately latched on, tugging just enough to get the skin taut before releasing the peak at another of his choked out moans.
"Sweetheart, can…can we - oh fuck - " whatever words he was going to say disappeared, lost to the abyss of butter pecan ice cream and the sensation of you overstimulating every one of his pleasure centers.
One hand moved to the back of your head, massaging the muscles of your neck while you took the bud into your mouth again sucking harder. Bucky's hips continued to thrust, the blunt head of his cock tapping against your clothed clit.
Despite the warmth pooling between your thighs and the ache deep within your belly, Bucky was gracing your ears with sounds you rarely heard. Even in intimate settings, he wasn't necessarily the loudest, unless he was so worked up he couldn't hold back.
Another needy whimper sounded from his throat as your teeth gently bit down on his nipple, body seizing briefly under you. A mental note was made as you traversed to the other bud that was still sticky with ice cream, all the while you let Bucky's hands grip your hips, moving your lower half against his in thrusts that were becoming increasingly desperate.
Your tongue made one gentle lick over his nipple before your mouth traveled up to suck a faint mark onto his neck. Goosebumps flared on his arms as you felt him shudder again. "I didn't think you were so sensitive, Sergeant. So worked up and all I did was eat a bit of ice cream."
Lips meeting his, his own tongue darted out to taste the sweetness that still lingered. "You're doing so much more than eating ice cream, don't play cute," he grunted.
His mouth tried to chase yours when you pulled back, but you moved quickly, teeth again grazing his nipple in hopes of hearing more whimpers. "What has gotten into you today?" he grumbled half-heartedly, rocking up into you a bit rougher to remind you that it hadn't been him. Yet.
"Figured out your nipples remind me of butter pecan ice cream." You answered like it was just that simple. Like he had asked you to explain what you were going to be wearing on your next date night.
"That is…" he paused again as your fingers moved to his chest, sliding gently over the peak that wasn't currently in your mouth. A high pitched moan stole the words from his mouth, once you began moving faster. Tongue, fingers, and hips all working in tandem while the near empty container of ice cream sat forgotten.
"Okay, don't - don't stop," Bucky begged, breathier than he had been moments before when he was about to tease you.
His arms tightened around your waist again, pulling you close. The front of his sweatpants were now soaked through, and thanks to the thinness of the fabric you could feel his cock begin to twitch against your center.
You moved faster, feeling his muscles constrict with each pass of your tongue and brush of your clit. Bucky's breaths came out in sharper pants, the thrusting of his hips turning near frantic while he searched for any friction.
Both love and triumph flowed through your veins, knowing that this giant man who could have very easily broken free from this little experiment you were doing was crumbling quickly underneath you. While his cock wasn't even buried deep enough for you to feel it in your lungs. All because of ice cream.
With another gasping breath, your name fell from his lips over and over as his back arched and his hips twitched upwards in erratic movements. You felt the warmth blossom between your thighs, slicker than it had ever been.
Placing gentle kisses on his love-bitten skin, you slowed the roll of your hips. Sitting up fully you felt the throbs of his cock beginning to slow while you braced your hands on his ribs. Looking down, you saw the flush of his cheeks, the redness of his bottom lip where he had been biting to keep from making too incriminating of noises. His eyes were a bit wild, looking up at you in awe, thumbs sweeping across your waist; an apology behind the movement as he realized how hard he'd been squeezing down towards the end.
You hummed, picking up the ice cream again, swirling the spoon in the mostly melted remains. "Well," you said putting a small spoonful in your mouth. "Looks like I got some whipped cream to go with my dessert."
Bucky let out a long suffering sigh, glancing down between your bodies where a white substance was leaking through his sweatpants.
You tapped the spoon against his over sensitive cock, adjusting as he jolted a bit. "What's the refractory period on that whipped cream nozzle? I wasn't expecting it to go off so quickly."
In one smooth motion, he yanked the container free from your hands and flipped your positions. Your back hit the plush mattress before you even had a chance to react this time.
Bucky's grin was wicked as he pinned you down, not with enough force to hurt but enough for you to know that your playtime was over and his was about to begin. "You are so lucky I love you, but you're going to get it now."
Lewis Hamilton is beautiful. You've always known this—the whole world knows this—but it hits you differently when he's standing in front of you in nothing but his Calvin Klein briefs, the low light of his bedroom casting shadows across the defined muscles of his chest and abs.
"You're staring," he says, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
"Can you blame me?" you counter, your eyes trailing down his body appreciatively. "You're gorgeous."
He crosses the room to where you're sitting on the edge of his bed, his fingers tilting your chin up so you're looking into those warm brown eyes. "So are you," he says softly. "So fucking beautiful. Do you know how long I've been thinking about this? About having you here, in my bed?"
"Tell me," you whisper.
"Since the moment I met you," he admits. "Couldn't stop thinking about what you'd look like spread out on my sheets. What sounds you'd make. How you'd taste." His thumb brushes across your lower lip. "How these pretty lips would look wrapped around my cock."
Heat floods through you at his words, at the raw desire in his voice. Lewis has always been confident, self-assured, but this is different. This is intimate. This is just for you.
"I want that too," you say, your hands sliding up his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath warm skin. "Want to taste you. Want to make you feel good."
"Yeah?" His voice drops lower, rougher. "You want to suck my cock, baby?"
"God, yes," you breathe.
He steps back slightly, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs. "Then let me show you what you're working with."
He pushes the fabric down slowly, teasingly, and your breath catches as his cock springs free. He's already half-hard, and even like this he's impressive—thick and long, the beautiful dark brown skin a shade deeper than the rest of him, the head already glistening slightly with precum.
"Fuck," you whisper, unable to look away. You've been with other men before, but Lewis is something else entirely. His cock is gorgeous, perfectly proportioned, the kind that makes your mouth water and your pussy clench in anticipation.
"Like what you see?" he asks, wrapping one hand around himself and giving a slow stroke. The sight of his tattooed hand on his dark cock is almost obscenely beautiful.
"You're perfect," you say honestly. "Every inch of you."
He smiles, pleased. "Come here then. Show me how much you want it."
You don't need to be told twice. You slide off the bed onto your knees in front of him, your hands running up his muscular thighs. Up close, you can see every detail—the thick vein running along the underside, the way his cock curves slightly upward, the beautiful contrast of his dark skin against the pink-brown of the head.
"You're staring again," he teases, but his voice is strained now, his cock hardening fully under your gaze.
"Can't help it," you murmur, leaning forward to press a kiss to his hip, then his lower abs, working your way down. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."
His hand comes to rest in your hair, not pushing, just touching. "And you're about to make me lose my mind," he says. "Please, baby. Need your mouth on me."
You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, marveling at the weight and heat of him, at how your fingers barely meet around his girth. You lean forward and lick a stripe up the underside, from base to tip, tasting salt and musk and something uniquely him.
"Fuck," he hisses, his hips jerking slightly. "That's it. Just like that."
Encouraged, you do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the head, lapping up the precum that's beading there. He tastes good, and the sounds he's making—those little gasps and groans—make you want to hear more.
You take him into your mouth slowly, relaxing your jaw to accommodate his size. He's big enough that you can't take him all at once, so you work him gradually, taking him deeper with each bob of your head, using your hand to stroke what you can't fit.
"Jesus Christ," Lewis groans, his hand tightening in your hair. "Your mouth feels incredible. So fucking good, baby."
You hum around him in response, and the vibration makes him curse. You establish a rhythm, taking him as deep as you can, your tongue working along the underside of his shaft, your hand twisting at the base. You're making a mess of it—spit dripping down your chin, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes when you take him too deep—but you don't care. You want to worship him, want to make him feel as good as he makes you feel.
"Look at you," he says, his voice rough with arousal. "Look at you taking my cock so well. Such a good girl for me. So fucking perfect."
His praise spurs you on. You pull back to catch your breath, using your hand to stroke him while you look up at him through your lashes. "I love your cock," you tell him honestly. "Love how big you are. How beautiful. Could do this all day."
"Fuck, don't say things like that," he groans. "You're going to make me come too fast."
"Maybe I want that," you say, leaning forward to lick at the sensitive spot just under the head. "Want to taste you. Want you to come in my mouth."
"Shit," he breathes. "You're killing me, baby."
You take him back into your mouth, this time with more purpose, more intensity. You hollow your cheeks, creating suction, and take him as deep as you can, fighting your gag reflex when he hits the back of your throat. His hand in your hair tightens, and you can feel his thighs tensing under your palms.
"I'm close," he warns. "Fuck, I'm so close. Where do you want it?"
You pull off just long enough to say, "In my mouth. Want to swallow every drop," before taking him back in.
That does it. With a groan that sounds like it's torn from his chest, Lewis comes, his cock pulsing as he fills your mouth with his release. There's so much of it, hot and thick and salty, and you do your best to swallow it all, though some escapes the corners of your mouth.
When he's finally spent, you pull off slowly, licking him clean, pressing soft kisses to his softening cock. He's looking down at you with an expression of awe and satisfaction, his chest heaving.
"Come here," he says, pulling you to your feet and into a deep kiss, not caring that he can taste himself on your tongue. "That was the best blowjob of my fucking life. You're incredible."
"Yeah?" you ask, pleased.
"Yeah," he confirms, walking you backward toward the bed. "And now I'm going to return the favor. Going to make you feel so good you forget your own name."
He lays you back on the bed, his hands making quick work of your clothes until you're bare beneath him. He takes his time exploring your body with his hands and mouth, kissing and licking and sucking until you're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.
"Lewis," you gasp when his mouth finds your breast, his tongue circling your nipple. "Please."
"Please what?" he asks, moving to the other breast. "Tell me what you need, baby."
"You," you say. "Need you inside me. Need your cock."
He groans against your skin. "Love hearing you say that. Love how much you want me." His hand slides between your legs, finding you soaked and ready. "Fuck, you're so wet. This all for me?"
"All for you," you confirm breathlessly. "Always for you."
He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. Even after the blowjob, he's already hard again, ready for you. "You sure you can take me?" he asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice despite the teasing tone. "I'm not exactly small."
"I can take it," you assure him. "Want all of you. Every inch."
He pushes in slowly, carefully, and the stretch is immediate and intense. He's so thick, filling you in a way you've never been filled before, and you have to breathe through it, consciously relaxing to accommodate his size.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "You're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Just a little more, baby."
When he's fully seated, you both pause, adjusting to the sensation. You feel impossibly full, stretched around him, and when you look down you can see the beautiful contrast of his dark skin against yours, can see where you're joined.
"Okay?" he asks, his forehead pressed to yours.
"More than okay," you gasp. "You feel amazing. So big, so deep. Move, Lewis. Please move."
He starts with slow, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, letting you feel every inch of him. The drag of his cock against your inner walls is exquisite, hitting spots you didn't even know existed.
"You feel like heaven," he groans. "So tight, so wet. Perfect pussy, baby. Made for my cock."
His dirty talk combined with the relentless pleasure of his thrusts is pushing you toward the edge embarrassingly fast. You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
"There," you gasp. "Right there, don't stop."
"Not stopping," he promises, his pace increasing. "Going to fuck you until you come all over my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me. Want to hear you scream my name."
His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit, rubbing circles that make you cry out. The combination of his cock inside you and his fingers on your clit is overwhelming, and you can feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly.
"Lewis," you gasp. "I'm going to—I'm so close—"
"Come for me," he commands. "Let me feel it. Come on my cock, baby."
Your orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that steals your breath. You clench around him, your whole body shaking, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He fucks you through it, prolonging your pleasure, his own rhythm becoming erratic.
"Fuck, I'm going to come," he groans. "Where—"
"Inside," you gasp. "Want to feel you come inside me."
With a final deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a shout, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his release. The sensation of him coming inside you triggers another smaller orgasm, and you clench around him again, milking every last drop.
When you both finally come down, he collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You're both sweaty and satisfied, your bodies still trembling with aftershocks.
"That was..." you start, but can't find the words.
"Yeah," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "That was everything."
You lie there in comfortable silence for a while, just holding each other, until he speaks again.
"I meant what I said earlier," he says quietly. "About thinking about this since I met you. About wanting you. This isn't just sex for me."
You turn to look at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "It's not just sex for me either," you admit. "I'm falling for you, Lewis. Have been for a while now."
His smile is brilliant, lighting up his whole face. "Good," he says, pulling you closer. "Because I'm already gone for you. Completely gone."
He kisses you then, soft and sweet and full of promise, and you know this is just the beginning of something beautiful.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: hi angels!! this one knocked me a little sick to write, not gonna lie. very toxic lewis, very bad decisions, very sad boy spiralling in the rain at 2 a.m but you should NOT feel bad for him. grab tissues, maybe an alcoholic drink, and proceed with caution. love you for reading anyway 💔
pairing: lewis hamilton x ex!reader
wc: 4.4k (one-shot. part of my dear melancholy,)
summary: the cologne he still wears is your favourite. the bed he shares with her still remembers your hips. lewis tries to move on, tries to feel something real, but every touch turns into betrayal, every quiet night into a scream he can’t let out. until the phone rings at 2 a.m. and he begs the one person who already walked away. (inspired by wasted times by the weeknd)
warnings: explicit smut (mdni), heavy angst, toxic relationship, emotional infidelity, physical cheating (in thoughts/actions), possessive obsession, breakdown/sobbing, no happy ending, hurt no comfort, grief & regret, please read with care if these themes are triggering
Lewis had spent the evening at a sponsor dinner in Monaco. Saying all the right things, smiling at the people he had to, shaking countless hands and being effortlessly charming as always. He knew exactly who was waiting for him at home. Felt the dread and guilt twist in his stomach as the driver pulled up to his building, rain already drumming against the tinted windows like it knew.
He stepped inside without calling out. Watched the rain streak down the glass, took a shaky breath as he ripped his tie off and started on the buttons of his shirt. The apartment smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen. His space, always too quiet when he came back alone. He could smell his own cologne clinging to his collar and it was giving him a headache. Still your favourite. He still hadn’t changed it. Still sprayed it on every morning like muscle memory, like the ghost of your nose against his neck might one day materialise if he just kept the scent the same. It didn’t. Never did.
Sophia was waiting for him in his bed, probably wearing nothing but one of his old T-shirts, the oversized ones that drowned her frame. She’s beautiful, soft-spoken, convinced she’s finally the one healing him—whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. He lingers in the corridor longer than he should, one hand braced on the wall, breathing through his mouth like he’s prepping for a qualifying lap he knows he’ll fuck up.
He steps into the room and forces his best smile, fingers already working the tie out of his braids, letting them fall loose around his shoulders as he shrugs the shirt off completely.
Sophia sits up, sheets pooling around her waist, and gives him a gentle smile. “Hey, Lew.”
He looks away fast. Clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache and starts taking his jewellery off—rings, chain, bracelet—methodical, so she doesn’t see whatever’s twisting across his face. He fucking hates when she calls him that. Despises it. Only two people get to call him Lew. His mum, and you. The word still feels like your mouth shaped it first; her saying it is theft.
“Hi, babe,” he mutters eventually, forcing the thoughts down, swallowing them whole.
“Good night?” she asks. So fucking soft-spoken, like he’s made of porcelain, like she’s tiptoeing around landmines she can already see the outlines of. He hates that she knows. Hates that she’s still here anyway.
“Yeah, yeah it was fine. Usual circus,” Lewis mutters, glancing over his shoulder at her and giving another small smile. He’s aiming for reassurance, but it lands somewhere closer to apology.
She opens her arms for him. Lewis walks over, leans down to kiss her forehead, tries not to breathe her in too deep. Her hands are gentle as they stroke over his bare back, careful, almost too soft. He stares at the headboard instead of looking down at her, keeps his lips pressed to her skin like it’s a shield.
Sophia hums softly, tilts her head up to meet his eyes. “I missed you, baby.” Her voice drops to a suggestive whisper, the one she thinks will pull him back into the moment, back into the room, back into her.
He watches her bottom lip as she bites it gently, giving him the eyes she knows will work. “Yeah?” he whispers back, thumb stroking over her lip on pure instinct.
Her hand slides over his bicep until her palm is warm against his chest as she hums again. He’s weak, really. He knows it. He’s a cruel, weak, awful man.
He leans down to kiss her anyway, because the silence in his chest is louder than any guilt he could feel right now. It’s soft at first, at least. She pulls him closer; he crowds over her on the bed. It’s enough, for just a second. Enough to make him forget. Then her tongue swipes over his bottom lip and he opens for her, and already he can see you behind his eyelids. Two years ago, same bed, riding him slow after a sponsor dinner like you owed him your life, like every roll of your hips was claiming territory he’d never get back.
It’s that memory that makes him harden in his tailored trousers. Not her. Never her. You. He’s not even trying to think about you; the images come completely uninvited. How you felt under his hands, how you smelled like salt and sex and something sweeter he could never name. They slice through the present, sharp and cruel, making Sophia’s touch feel like static. He should pull away, be honest, tell her to leave and that this isn’t working, that he’s using her and she could never ever compare to you–
But Sophia’s hands are sliding over his bulge now. He pulls her on top of him and squeezes his eyes shut, just enough to block out who she really is.
Before long he’s inside her again. Her hands cup his cheek, too gentle, too soft, like she’s handling something fragile she’s afraid to drop. You used to ride him like he belonged to you, hips grinding down with purpose, claiming every inch like it was your birthright. He thrusts up into Sophia, steady, mechanical almost. Her moans come out so sweet and polite, breathy little sighs that never quite break. He keeps his eyes closed so he can imagine the filthy commands you used to gasp into his ear—harder, Lewis, fuck me like you mean it—while your nails raked red lines down his back, marking territory he still feels in his sleep.
His hands grip her waist, fingers digging in just shy of bruising. Her lips find his neck, soft kisses trailing like apologies. He doesn’t say a thing when she moans, “I love you,” voice trembling with hope. The words land like stones in his gut. He swallows them down, keeps moving.
The guilt coils tighter, hot and sick, until he can’t stand it anymore. He flips her over in one rough motion, pins her beneath him. Grips Sophia’s hair the exact way he used to grip yours, tight at the roots, pulling just enough to arch her back. She gasps in pleasure, sharp and surprised. Lewis’s stomach twists because it sounds all wrong. Too high, too clean. You would have laughed low in your throat, pushed back against him harder, dared him to pull tighter. But this is the only way he can get through it, not looking at her face, not seeing the wrong eyes looking up at him. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, chasing the wrong sounds, the wrong heat, anything to make this feel like before
He drowns out Sophia’s sounds with his own grunts, curses, the wet slap of his hips against her skin. Suddenly he’s not in Monaco anymore. He’s back in Singapore, two years ago, the night after a brutal quali where everything felt like it was slipping. You’d fought in the hotel suite, screaming about schedules, about distance, about how he never fucking stayed, and then you’d fucked the fight right out of both of you. He’d bent you over the balcony railing at 5 a.m., city lights glittering below like fallen stars, humidity thick on your skin. The railing was cool against your palms; his hand splayed wide over your stomach, holding you steady while he railed into you from behind. Kissing your shoulder, tasting salt and sweat. Whispering against your ear how much he loved you, how he belonged to you, how he was yours. Over and over and over, like a mantra, like if he said it enough the words would stick. You’d cried out that you belonged to him too, voice breaking on his name, thighs shaking, the whole city hearing how ruined you both were for each other.
The memory hits like a drug, heat building low in his stomach, coiling tight. He keeps his eyes shut, chasing that vision: the way you clenched around him, the way you sobbed his name and how much you loved him, the way the night air smelled of rain and sex and your perfume mixed with his cologne. It’s enough. It’s always been enough.
He leans forward over Sophia, pushes her flat against the mattress, stays buried deep as he chases the edge. Buries his face in the side of her neck from behind. Her hair smells like vanilla shampoo, not your dark, smoky jasmine, and the wrongness of it almost pulls him back. Almost. But he thrusts harder, pictures your face, the way you looked when you came undone for him.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come, baby… oh, just like that—” He cuts himself off with a rough grunt instead of moaning your name. Catches it at the last second, bites it back behind his teeth. But the way Sophia goes suddenly, deathly silent beneath him makes it feel like she heard the phantom syllable anyway. The ghost name that almost slipped free.
He finishes inside her with a low, broken sound, hips stuttering, vision white behind his eyelids. For one blinding second it’s you he’s spilling into, you he’s claiming, you he’s ruining himself for all over again. Then the aftershocks fade, and it’s just Sophia’s shallow breathing, the rain still tapping against the glass like it’s trying to get in.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Stays there, chest heaving, face still pressed to her neck so he doesn’t have to look at her. The room smells like sex and regret and that stupid fucking cologne he still wears because it used to make you lean in closer. Sophia shifts under him, small and careful. He feels her hand reach back, fingers brushing his thigh like she’s checking if he’s still there. He isn’t, though. Not really.
He rolls off her slowly, lands on his back beside her. Stares up at the ceiling, the faint glow of Monaco’s lights bleeding through the rain-streaked windows like diluted neon. His heart hammers like he’s just crossed the finish line, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin, but there’s no podium waiting. No champagne. Just bone-deep guilt and that same hollowed-out place in his chest he’s carried since the day you walked out. Sophia curls toward him, tucks her head under his chin, cheek against the steady thud of his traitor heart. He lets her. Doesn’t lift an arm to hold her back. The silence stretches, thick and accusing, pressing down on them both.
He knows what comes next. The quiet questions. The hurt eyes searching his face. The way she’ll pretend the slip didn’t happen, or worse, ask if he’s okay in that small, hopeful voice. He’s not okay. He never was.
“That was so good, baby,” Sophia whispers, fingers tracing the compass inked over his sternum. The touch makes his skin crawl, a slow shiver he can’t hide. “You make me so happy. I’ve never felt this connected to anyone—”
Lewis drowns out the rest. Strokes her hair on autopilot, eyes locked on the ceiling like it might crack open and swallow him whole. He mutters something vague—yeah, me too or glad you’re here—he’s not even sure what leaves his mouth. The truth surges up anyway, uninvited, unstoppable. Sophia is kind. Patient. Beautiful. The kind of woman the world would call a catch, the kind photographers beg to shoot, the kind his friends text him about like he’s won something. He should feel proud. Grateful. Anything other than this aching nausea pooling low in his stomach, heavy as lead.
But Sophia isn’t even half of you. She never could be. The thought lands clean and cruel, no room for excuses. He feels it in his bones: the way your laugh used to fill rooms, the way your anger used to burn brighter than anyone’s, the way you looked at him like he was both god and disaster and you loved every ruined inch of him. Sophia’s soft love is safety. Yours was war, but he’s still addicted to the conflict it caused.
Lewis mutters an excuse about needing water, slips out from under her careful weight. Pulls on a pair of black shorts, pads barefoot into the kitchen. The marble is cold under his feet. He feels gross, sticky with her, with what he just did. Needs to shower her off, scrub until his skin is raw. He starts filling a glass at the sink, watches the water rise too fast, spill over the rim and down his fingers. He doesn’t move to turn it off.
Soft footsteps follow behind him.
“Lewis.”
He doesn’t answer. Keeps staring at the running water, the way it pools on the counter, drips to the floor.
“Lewis?”
Still nothing.
“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?”
He turns the tap off at last. Braces both hands on the edge of the counter, head hanging low between his shoulders. The tattoos on his back flex with the tension, every line of ink a story you used to trace with your tongue. He should feel shame. Disgust at himself for using Sophia like this, for turning her body into a stand-in while his mind stayed miles away with you. But the shame is nothing next to the grief. The aching sadness that you aren’t here. That you never will be again. He had no business catching feelings for anyone else. Had no business catching feelings at all if it wasn’t with you. He isn’t sure he even knows how to catch feelings anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers eventually, voice cracked open. “I’m so fucking sorry, Soph. I tried. I really, really tried.”
Sophia stands frozen in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself like she’s holding her own pieces together. She stares at his back, the broad shoulders, the familiar slope of muscle, the constellation of tattoos she’s learned by heart over months of trying to be enough. Her stomach drops like she’s missed a step on stairs. She realises, fully, finally, that she’s been nothing but a placeholder. A soft landing for a man still bleeding from wounds someone else inflicted. The ghost of you still haunts every room in this apartment, still owns every quiet corner of his heart. She’s been good. Patient. Sweet. Even when he’s been distant, even when his eyes slide away mid-conversation. But there’s always been a part of her that knew, knew the way he said your name in his sleep sometimes, knew the way he’d pause too long when her perfume wasn’t quite right.
She’s too proud to cry in front of him. Too proud to beg. But the ache he’s carved into her is visceral, a slow tear through the center of her chest. She doesn’t say anything else. Just stands there a moment longer, watching the water drip from the counter to the floor, watching the man she thought she was healing refuse to look at her.
Then she turns, quiet as a shadow, and walks back toward the bedroom. Lewis stays exactly where he is. Hands still braced. Head still bowed. The kitchen light buzzes faintly overhead.
He doesn’t follow her. He never does. He never could.
Eventually he forces himself toward the balcony doors, slides them open with numb fingers. The rain rushes in like it’s been waiting. Cold drops hit his bare shoulders immediately, soaking him in seconds, running down the ink on his back in dark rivulets. He steps out anyway, lets it lash him. He looks out at the black water of the harbour, the yachts rocking like ghosts under sodium lights. Feels nothing. Or maybe too much at once, it all blurs into the same dull roar he’s heard for months now.
He runs a hand over his face, water and sweat mixing, and prays — actually prays, silent and furious — for the pain to stop. For the desperation clawing at his ribs to loosen its grip. For the instinctual, unavoidable yearning his soul still feels for yours to just… leave him be. It doesn’t. It never has. The ache is tidal, pulling him under every time he thinks he’s surfaced.
He remembers you leaving. The screaming that echoed off the walls of your shared London flat until the neighbours banged on the ceiling. The crying, both of you wrecked, snot and tears and spit, no dignity left. The way he begged on his knees, voice breaking on your name like it was the only word he still knew. The way you sobbed so hard you could barely breathe, hands shaking as you yanked the promise ring off your finger and threw it at his chest. It hit like a bullet; he can still feel it sometimes, just under his collarbone where the edge caught him. His hand finds it now on the thin silver chain around his neck, the ring still threaded there, cold and heavy against his wet skin. He clings to it like he could still hold onto you, knuckles aching with how hard he’s clenching his fist around the ring.
You put him through absolute hell. Screamed that he was selfish, that racing owned him more than you ever would, that he’d never choose you when it mattered. But he put you through it too. He remembers screaming it at you that night, voice raw and cracking: “You think I don’t feel it every time I leave? Every time the plane takes off and you’re not next to me? I ghost your calls because if I hear your voice I’ll turn the fucking plane around and lose everything I’ve built — and you’d hate me for it eventually!” He’d cried then, too. Furious tears, chest heaving as he hurled back every ugly truth: “I come home reeking of champagne and strangers because that’s what victory tastes like when you’re not there to share it! Because if I’m alone in a hotel room I’ll think about you too hard and I’ll break! I can’t afford to do that!” And the promises…the promises he screamed he’d keep: “I swear, after this season, after the next title, I’ll slow down, I’ll choose you, I’ll be home more — just don’t leave me, please don’t fucking leave me.” They were lies before the ink dried on the air between you, he knew it even as the words left his mouth. You both knew.
But none of it matters now. Nothing he’s done since, not the trophies, not the women, not the carefully curated peace, can make him forget you. He wants you for himself. Forever. Always will. The thought is possessive, ugly, unshakable. Who do you belong to now? The question lives in his throat like bile and he thinks for a second he’s going to throw up on the balcony.
He remembers the first time he slept with Sophia. Post-race in Abu Dhabi, the season finally over, the Yas Marina lights still burning behind his eyelids. He’d taken her back to the hotel because her smile was easy and her hands didn’t ask questions. He’d already started comparing her then, the way she didn’t kiss like you did, the way her touch felt polite where yours had been greedy. It was wrong. So fucking wrong. He’d come with his eyes squeezed shut, picturing your thighs around his waist, and hated himself before the sweat even cooled.
He thinks about the way you used to look at him after the worst fights. Eyes red-rimmed but steady, like you could see straight through every defence he’d ever built. The way your thumb would stroke over his cheekbone, slow and soft, tracing the freckle just under his eye. The way you’d lean in, press your lips to that same spot, whispering I love you like it was a secret you were tired of keeping. Like forgiveness tasted like his skin.
The rain keeps falling harder now, drumming against the balcony railing, soaking his shorts, pooling around his bare feet. He barely notices. His phone is clutched in his fist, screen lit up under the downpour, droplets smearing the glass like tears he can’t shed anymore.
Your last message is still there, like a wound that won’t close.
My angel: Don’t call me when you’re lonely, Lewis. I won’t answer.
He stares at it until the words blur. Starts typing, frantically, thumbs shaking, rain mixing with the sweat on his palms.
I miss you
I’m sorry
Come back
Who the fuck are you with right now
I can’t do this without you
The messages build, unsent, stacking like accusations. His brain catches up a second too late, heart slamming, chest tight, and he throws the phone down hard. It skids across the wet tiles, screen cracking faintly against the stone. He doesn’t pick it up. Just stands there, breathing ragged, rain streaming into his eyes, the chain with your ring digging into his palm like a punishment for everything he’s ever done wrong.
He doesn’t know how long he stays out there. Long enough for the cold to settle into his bones. Long enough for the city lights to smear into halos through the water on his lashes. Long enough to realise the desperation isn’t going anywhere. It’s home now. He’s home to it.
He hears Sophia approach from behind again — soft footsteps on wet tile. This time he has the decency to turn. At least he gives her that much.
She’s dressed: black leggings, one of his old hoodies she never gave back, overnight bag slung over her shoulder like she’s already halfway gone. Her eyes are red, swollen, but dry now. No more tears left for tonight. He braces for the scream, the slap, the hurled accusations. God knows he deserves every one of them for the ghosting, the comparisons, the way he fucked her while thinking of someone else. He’d take the hit. He’d take anything.
But she just stares. Exhausted. Hollowed out. The fight’s been leached from her over months of quiet patience, and now there’s only this: a woman who loved him anyway, standing in the rain-lit doorway looking at a man who never quite looked back.
The only thing she says is quiet, almost gentle. “I hope she’s worth it, Lewis.”
No venom. No pleading. Then she’s gone. The front door shuts with the softest click, not a slam, not a bang. Finality in the softest way. The sound echoes longer than it should in the empty apartment. Lewis stands there a second longer, rain still dripping from his braids, pooling at his feet. Then he bends, scoops his cracked phone off the tiles. The screen lights up under his thumb, smeared with water and fingerprints. He types before the guilt can catch up.
Lewis: you pulling up on anyone tonight?
Sent. The double tick appears almost instantly. Read. 2:47 a.m.
No reply. His thumb hovers. Chest tightens.
Lewis: Is that a yes? You giving your love to someone else then?
Read again. Instant. Cruel. Still nothing.
He wants to scream. Wants to put his fist through the glass railing and watch the shards fall twenty floors to the street below. He doesn’t even know if you’re in Monaco — could be London, could be LA, could be wrapped around someone new in a bed that isn’t his — but the thought alone makes him want to burn the whole fucking country down just to find you. To drag you back. To make you remember.
He steps inside, slides the balcony door shut behind him. Grabs a towel from the bathroom rack, rubs it roughly over his face, his shoulders, his chest. He doesn’t bother being gentle. The skin stings in a way that feels good. He needs it to hurt.
He drops onto the edge of the bed, the same bed where he just fucked someone else while picturing you. The sheets still smell like Sophia’s vanilla and sex and regret. He buries his face in his hands.
The spiral comes fast. It starts as a tremor in his shoulders. Then his breath hitches. Then the sob rips out of him, ugly, broken, sounds he hasn’t let himself make since that night in London. He’s crying like a child who’s lost everything, like a man who finally understands he threw it away himself. Shoulders shaking, chest caving in, tears hot and relentless down his face. He can’t breathe around it. Can’t stop it.
His phone is still in his hand. He swipes to your contact before the rational part of him can intervene. Presses call. It rings twice. You pick up.
“Lewis, it’s 2 a.m. Stop texting. Stop calling. Please.” Your voice is tired and flat. The sound of someone who’s built walls higher than his ever were.
He doesn’t speak at first. He can only breathe, ragged, wet, wrecked. The sob escapes anyway, loud enough that you hear it crack down the line.
There’s complete silence on your end. Then, your voice softens like it always did with him. “Lewis?”
He’s babbling before he can stop himself, words tumbling out between gasps.
“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I tried, I swear I tried. I thought if I just— if I just kept moving, kept winning, kept pretending… but it’s you. It’s always been you. Every fucking race, every podium, every night I come home to someone else and close my eyes and it’s your face. Your hands. Your voice. I hate myself for it. I hate that I hurt her. I hate that I hurt you. But I can’t stop. I don’t want to wake up if you aren’t next to me. I don’t want mornings without you. I don’t want anything without you.”
He’s sobbing so hard the words fracture, barely coherent. “Please. Just—tell me you still feel it. Tell me I’m not alone in this hell. Tell me you’re not giving it to someone else. Please, baby. Please.”
There’s another long silence. Rain taps against the window like it’s listening. When you speak again, your voice is quiet. Steady. You sound calm in a way that only comes after everything’s already been broken.
“You made your choices, Lewis. A long time ago. And I made mine.”
“Angel, please–”
“I’m not coming back, Lew. I can’t. For both of us. Take care of yourself.”
The line goes dead.
He stares at the screen, black, cracked, reflecting the wet mess of his face back at him. The phone slips from his fingers, lands soft on the duvet. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry anymore, he’s too exhausted too. He sits there in the dark, rain still falling, your ring on his chain cold against his chest. The apartment is empty now. So is he.
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)
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: i am so sorry in advance. this chapter will hurt you. it hurt me. it hurt lewis. it hurt everyone. we all suffered. also: this starts soft (spicy if you squint), then drops off a cliff into pain. you’ve been warned. hydrate. scream. message me when you’re in tears. <3
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Pro Snowboarder!Reader
wc: 11.4k!!
summary: what begins as intimacy and safety after a World Championship win slowly fractures under the weight of Olympic obsession. lewis watches her pull away, choosing discipline over connection, until silence turns into disaster. from soft mornings and unspoken devotion to a brutal crash and hospital aftermath, this chapter traces love at its most helpless. staying, waiting, and choosing someone even when they can’t choose themselves.
warnings: sexual content (not quite smut?), intense emotional angst, graphic sports injury, hospitalisation & medical procedures, sedation, panic attacks, dissociation, physical pain, emotional distress, crying, themes of burnout & obsession, disordered training habits (food/exercise discussed but not glamorised), guilt, fear of career-ending injury, emotional withdrawal, hurt/comfort, lewis hamilton in profound emotional pain for most of the chapter.
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The night after she wins the World Championship is something Lewis had only ever allowed himself to imagine in fragments. Never in full. Never too clearly. Just careful, quick, flashes in order to keep himself sane. Her weight against him, the sound she makes when she forgets to guard herself, the way his name feels in her mouth when she’s not trying to be careful.
He’d thought about it constantly during the months apart. In hotel rooms that smelled like unfamiliar detergent. On flights where sleep wouldn’t come. Lying awake after races, staring at ceilings, replaying the memory of her hands all over him like a muscle reflex he couldn’t unlearn.
Every single night, he’d pictured how it would feel to have her under him again. Or on top of him. Or tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. They’d spoken about it on the phone. How good it would feel. How good he’d make her feel. He hadn’t even thought about anyone else. How could he?
But his imagination had been cruelly inadequate. Because nothing prepared him for the moment she’s finally there. Medal gone, adrenaline still buzzing through her skin, eyes dark and bright and hungry in a way that makes his breath catch painfully in his chest.
All he remembers vividly is telling her he missed her. It comes out wrecked. Uncontrolled. Pressed straight into the curve of her neck as if he needs her warmth just to stay upright.
She smells like cold air and champagne and herself, familiar enough to hurt. Her arms slide around him, strong, sure, grounding, and for a split second that’s all there is. Breathing. Holding. The quiet shock of being with her again.
The memory fractures from there. Not into chaos, but into sensation.
Her mouth at his jaw. His hands finding her waist like they’ve been waiting months for permission again. The way her body fits against his as if it remembers him better than his mind ever could. He registers the scrape of teeth, the hitch of her breath, the way she makes a sound when he presses her back and finally lets himself take instead of ache for her.
He remembers the marks she leaves on him most clearly. The next morning, standing shirtless in the mirror, he’d traced them absently. Some red, then purple. Each one a quiet, possessive reminder. Proof. As if some part of him needed evidence that the night hadn’t been a hallucination born of longing.
Later, when everything slows. When the world reduces to sheets and skin and the low murmur of breath. He remembers the intimacy of it most.
The way she lets him stay there, unguarded and beautiful. The way her fingers thread into his braids without thinking. The way her body softens. Not weak, she could never be weak. But open, trusting and devastatingly present in a way that Lewis could never forget.
It isn’t frantic then. It’s reverent. Lewis has been worshipped before. Desired, wanted, chased. This is different. This feels like finally being allowed close to the one thing you’d been chasing that you were never sure you could get close to again.
He presses his forehead to her thigh at one point, eyes closed, breathing her in like she’s oxygen. He’d been desperate to taste her again. He’d spent countless nights falling apart to the mere thought of getting the privilege to be in between her thighs one more time. Her hand came up to cup his cheek, eyes flickered over the way his lips and chin glistened. When their eyes finally lock and they’re both panting, the thought hits him so hard it almost scares him. That he would wait months again, years if he had to, just for this. Just for the privilege of knowing her like this, in the dark, when she’s not performing or winning or being watched. When it’s only them.
Later, when she finally drifts off, warm and loose beside him, one arm thrown carelessly across his chest, Lewis lies awake. His body spent and aching like it did months ago in Gstaad, his heart dangerously full. He lets himself process it all, and he already knows. This wasn’t just a reunion. This was a breaking point. He’d fallen off the cliff edge and straight into her bed and there was no going back now. Not for him, anyway.
For a handful of weeks, life rearranges itself into something almost gentle.
Not enough to lose form, she’s still her, but just enough to let herself breathe. Training doesn’t stop, but it bends around her for once, not the other way. There’s a little more give in the schedule. The olympics are nearly a year away. A little more time between flights. Enough for her to say yes when Lewis asks if she wants to follow him and Miles back to LA. Enough for her to end up at his flat in London for four days without really meaning to.
She sleeps better now. So does he.
He wakes most mornings to find her curled into his side, one leg slung over his hip like it belongs there. Her cheek warm against his chest, her hair a tangle on his pillow. Sometimes she mumbles in her sleep. Sometimes she murmurs his name like it’s a thought, not a need. Lew now, always Lew. He doesn’t move when it happens. Just presses a kiss to her forehead. Brushes his thumb across her spine. Memorises.
She only ever calls him Lewis when he’s teasing her. Or in trouble. Every other time, whether she’s half-asleep, mid-laugh, rolling her eyes, it’s Lew. Like it belongs to her. It does, in his head, at least.
Sometimes, when the sun is barely up and she’s still dreaming against his shoulder, he whispers “morning, baby” into the curve of her neck. She always smiles, still asleep, like her body recognises him even when her mind doesn’t. There’s something about being known in the quiet that undoes him more than anything else ever could.
Breakfast is a blur of routine. Protein shakes for her because Rhea has eyes everywhere, porridge if she’s in the mood, green juice if Miles made it and is being bossy. Tea for him, always. They sit at his little kitchen table in hoodies and mismatched socks, scrolling through their calendars like people planning for a war. She steals bites from his protein bar. He lets her. He always does.
She lets him kiss her. That’s what ruins him the most. Not the heat. Not the nights where she breathes into his mouth like she’s starving for him. But the softness. The quiet, casual kisses she gives like breath. A greeting. A punctuation mark. A promise. She reaches for his hand sometimes without thinking. When they cross the street, when he laughs, when they’re doing absolutely nothing and it still feels like something. He tries not to fall further. Fails constantly.
Miles is no help. “You’re basically married,” he whispers one afternoon at a shoot, watching her pick lint off Lewis’s shirt between takes. Neither of them were supposed to come along, but here they were. Lewis and Miles and…whatever she had become. “We doing spring or summer wedding?”
“She hasn’t killed me yet,” Lewis says with a shrug, low enough only Miles hears.
“Exactly. That’s commitment.”
Even Shaun gets involved. “She looks rested,” he tells Lewis, approving but cautious. “Keep doing whatever that is.”
Nina nods like it’s already decided that the two of them are going to get married and own 4 dogs and have 4 kids. “This was always coming. I love seeing you both together.”
And her people? The ones who know how hard she is to reach? They don’t say much. But Dom doesn’t protest when she takes a weekend off to travel with Lewis. Ana makes her a care pack for the flight. Rhea barely even rolls her eyes when she FaceTimes from his place wearing one of his shirts. Noa and Ella just send a series of skull emojis to the group chat with a screenshot of Lewis reposting her run. Again. For the third time this week.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not even official. But it’s real. It’s there. It feels official. Quietly, profoundly, theirs.
He files those days away like something sacred: the way she tugs his hoodie sleeves down over her hands when she’s cold. The sound of her laugh when Miles gets too bold. The sight of her standing barefoot in his kitchen, texting Dom with one hand while stealing his blueberries with the other. The grin she gives him right before leaving for the gym. Quick, private, like a secret meant only for him.
Eventually, the season calls them both back. Flights to catch. Slopes to return to. Goals to chase. But before that, for a moment, he embraces the way she’s softened for him. Open arms, open heart, open mind. Lewis finally feels like he’s got her. For a moment, he gets to hold her like she won’t vanish with the morning. For a moment, she lets herself stay.
And Lewis, careful as ever, lets himself believe she might not leave this time. Might finally be past shutting him out. Might actually be letting herself fall. Might quietly, gradually, irrevocably, be his.
At first it’s just scheduling. He has simulator days, she has altitude work. He leaves her before dawn to catch a flight; she texts him a photo of the half-pipe at sunrise, all blue shadow and promise. He sends her a shot of the track cutting through the city; she replies with a thumbs up and Be safe. It’s small, ordinary, the kind of drift you expect when life is measured in airports and wins.
But then the drift doesn’t stop.
He lands in Australia and calls from the hotel. Lights off, curtains drawn, the thrum of air-con loud in the kind of silence only race weeks create. It rings out. He tries again the next day. And the next.
She replies two days later with something short: Good luck. Big week.
He types wish you were here and deletes it.
He types miss you and deletes that too.
He sends Thank you. Proud of you. Go eat.
It sits on delivered for hours that feel longer than they are.
He doesn’t sleep much that week. His body’s in motion, but everything inside him feels stalled. Stuck in that kitchen in London where she laughed barefoot over blueberries. Between sessions he scrolls back through their messages. The long, easy threads from before Switzerland, the photos and the voice notes, the stupid memes Miles kept lobbing into the group chat. Now the chat is mostly one-sided: Miles narrating his breakfast, Shaun posting gym fails, Nina asking if everyone’s hydrating. Noa and Ella reporting back for her.
When her name appears, it’s logistics. Arrival times, physio slots, a nutrition check-in. Never her. Never the woman who once curled into him like she’d never leave. The one who murmured his name like it was home.
He tries not to make it mean anything. She’s always been this way. He knows that. The discipline, the tunnel-vision. Her focus isn’t new. It’s part of why he fell in love with her. But knowing something and surviving it are different things.
When he wakes up at 3 a.m. after a dream of her laugh and instinctively reaches for a body that isn’t there, he realises what’s really happening. He’s lonely for her. Not just the calls or the messages, but her. The version of her that softened. That stayed. That felt like she loved him back.
But he doesn’t know how to ask for her without scaring her off. So he doesn’t ask. He just waits. And hurts. Quietly.
Back in Monaco, a small restaurant tucked off a side street between meetings, Miles spins a fork in a bowl of pasta and watches Lewis not eat his. “You realise,” he says gently, “you haven’t made eye contact with food in twenty minutes.”
Lewis sets the fork down. “She doesn’t pick up anymore.”
Miles doesn’t feign surprise, he just sighs. “Texts?”
“Eventually.” He smiles without humour. “Postcards from the cave.”
Miles leans back. “You’re not doing anything wrong, mate.”
“Feels like I am.” It’s quiet, the admission. “Feels like if I were easier somehow, less…something. Less…me? She’d let me close. And then… I remember Gstaad. Switzerland. Whatever the fuck happened after that. She did let me close. And now we’re back to… this.”
“Try replacing ‘you’ with ‘Olympics,’” Miles says. “She’s not choosing against you, she’s choosing for the thing that built her.”
Lewis clenches his jaw and forces his pasta down. They don’t talk about her again.
Across town, Shaun answers on the first ring and arrives in ten minutes like a rescue dog. He listens to the whole thing with his elbows on his knees, nodding like a metronome. When Lewis runs out of words, Shaun says, “This is just who she is. Has been since she was a kid. When she gets close to the edge of a goal, everything else stops existing. I watched her at sixteen do the same trick thirty times because it didn’t feel right even though it was perfect. She only stopped because she fainted.”
Lewis closes his eyes. “That sounds like her,” he says, soft enough to be fond and sad at once.
“I get it,” Shaun says. “It hurts. You’ll feel shut out. You’re not. You’re just… not inside the part of her head that keeps the lights on right now. Let her have the tunnel. Be there when she looks for the exit.”
Nina, who has said little, presses a glass of water into his hand. “She’s not punishing you,” she adds. “She’s punishing herself. That’s not better. But it’s different.”
It helps. Not relief, but context. He can live with context, or he hopes he can.
The next week he lands in Japan and tries again. He calls between media obligations, from the car on the way to the circuit, late in the evening when the city finally goes quiet. Two rings, four, voicemail. He leaves a message that says nothing much, just his voice woven around the only words that won’t crowd her. “I’m here. Proud of you. Eat. Sleep. Text when you can.”
She texts three days later: Saw your quali. Clean. Proud. Then: Busy. Sorry for delay. He stares at the full stop at the end of sorry, as if punctuation could tell him more than the blunt texts.
He stops asking when he can see her. He sends articles about breathing and ankle mobility and a photo of a dog he passed in the paddock. He replies to her sponsor post with a flame emoji just to make Ella cackle in the group chat. He watches the green “active now” dot under her name turn on and off, and he resolves to be a person who doesn’t stare at dots.
The first real crack runs under his ribs during a video call that shouldn’t matter. He steps outside the hospitality suite; it’s dusk, the track washed out from the lights. He’s exhausted, but he’s still making time. He’d stop time for her if he had to. Her face appears in the rectangle. Cap on, hoodie up, a smear of chalk on her cheekbone, from a lifting session he assumes. She looks beautiful. She looks exhausted.
“I saw the clip Dom posted. You look—” He stops himself before perfect.
“Fine,” she says instead, clipped. “I need to fix the fourth rotation.”
He forces the frown off his face. He swallows down everything he wants to say. “Eat after, yeah?”
She gives half a smile. “Rhea will hunt me if I don’t.”
It’s nothing. It shouldn’t hurt. It does. When the call drops, he stands still and stares at his screen until it goes black. She'd barely glanced at him twice.
He tells himself to get over himself. He tells himself to race. He does both.
Two more weeks spool out like a thread unravelling. Results, debriefs, departures. He texts her before every training session; sometimes she replies with a photo of snow at 5:12 a.m., the world blue and holy. That’s enough to keep him floating for a day, sometimes two. He talks to the car with more intensity than usual. He meditates longer. He adds a second run to his morning circuit and pretends it isn’t because movement is the only thing that dulls the want. The need. The pain.
He doesn’t tell her he misses her. He suspects she knows. He suspects that’s why she’s silent.
Back in Europe between races, he walks to the sea at stupid hours and lets the cold air pull him clean. Miles texts him a photo of a wedding venue in Tuscany. “Just in case,” the caption says. Lewis sends back fourteen knives and one eye roll. Shaun forwards a training day snapshot. Her in midair, clean as always, plus a text: She’s okay. Too okay. Keep an eye on your heart, mate.
Then, a night like any other. A hotel room, dark except for the glow of his phone, he catches himself opening Instagram before sleep. Her story is a white rectangle of snow and shadow, the half-pipe cut sharp as a blade. A second clip: the trick he knows she’s been hunting, landed clean, so clean it makes his breath catch.
He types Proud of you and doesn’t send it. He calls instead. Voicemail. He leaves nothing this time. The silence feels like the only honest thing he can give her.
The next morning he texts: Knock them dead today. Hydrate. Don’t fight Dom. She answers hours later: Fine. Busy. Will call. A full stop again. He imagines her thumb pressing the punctuation, as if the sentence might run away from her otherwise. He doesn’t tell Miles about the punctuation. He tells himself he’s sane. Not overthinking. He’s not.
A week later, Monaco again. Lunch has been eaten and forgotten. The day is sunlit and indifferent. He sits on the balcony with a notebook he isn’t using, and says it out loud, because sometimes naming a thing makes it bearable.
“Am I doing something wrong?”
Miles looks up from a fencing video on mute. “No.”
“She’s… not here.” He doesn’t mean geographically. “I don’t want to be a weight.”
“You’re not,” Miles says. “You’re a rope. She’ll yank on it when she remembers she’s not a robot.”
“Poetic,” Lewis says, half a smile. “Useless.”
Miles comes to lean on the balcony rail beside him. “You’ve spent your life learning how to be ruthless without losing yourself. She’s still learning the second part. Let her. You’re doing the right thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Not making her choose.” He bumps Lewis’s shoulder. “And staying.”
Lewis looks out at the water. He thinks of Gstaad. He thinks of Switzerland, of snow in her eyelashes, of the way she’d laughed into his mouth in the dark like relief could be a person. He thinks of the quiet that followed. He thinks of the ache. He thinks of calling again.
He calls again. Two rings. Four. Voicemail. He leaves the smallest message he knows how to leave. “I’m here, angel.”
He flies to Spain. He races. He stands on a podium that feels like someone else’s. He does the interviews. He eats in rooms that echo. He sees her in everything. Choppy reflections in a carbon fibre wing, the clean edge of a curb, the way a gust of wind can rearrange your future without asking.
When the phone finally rings, he nearly fumbles it.
“Hey,” she says, breathless, like she ran to the call.
His relief is stupid, huge. He's grinning before he can tell himself not to. “Hi.”
“Sorry,” she adds, too quickly. “I’m drowning. I didn’t mean to be—” She searches for the word. “Absent.”
“You’re busy,” he says, soft. “You’re allowed, sweetie.”
Silence from her. Then, quietly, like she’s scared of the answer, she murmurs, “are you mad at me?”
He laughs, surprised. “No.”
“You sound… I don’t know.” A tiny exhale. “Different.”
“I miss you,” he says, simply. Then, after a second and far softer than it feels because he doesn't want to worry her: “But I’m okay.”
Another second, smaller this time. “Okay. Good. I want you to be okay.”
“Eat.”
“Bossy.”
“Hydrate.”
“Annoying.”
“Text me when you’re done.”
“I will,” she says, and he hears the smile he hasn’t seen in days. “Promise.”
"Bye, baby."
"Bye Lew, I miss you too."
He doesn’t tell Miles about that, either. He keeps it for himself.
For a day and a half the rhythm returns. Quick messages between sets, a photo of her lunch with a middle finger because Rhea added an extra portion, a blurry video from his cooldown with the caption don’t laugh at my form. He sleeps easier. He makes the mistake of believing the pendulum has swung back. That it will stay this way.
Then. Silence. Complete. No texts. No calls. No new stories or posts on instagram. Not even a read receipt.
Two days, then four. Then ten. At first, he tells himself it’s a camp blackout, a training push, another tunnel he’s not meant to enter. But by the second week, the denial starts to sting. His phone sits face down on the table beside his laptop, screen lighting up with everything but what he wants.
Miles notices the change in Lewis first. They’re in LA, sitting in his apartment in silence. Miles is scrolling through his feed when he realises Lewis hasn’t looked up in hours.
“You good?” he asks, voice careful.
Lewis hums, eyes fixed on nothing. “Fine.”
“You’ve said that four times today,” Miles says. “Starting to sound like code for something else, mate..”
Lewis exhales, sets the phone aside. “She’s gone quiet.”
Miles leans forward, elbows on knees. “How quiet?”
“Two weeks.”
That gets him a look. Miles looks genuinely concerned before trying to reach for something reasonable. “Maybe she’s deep in it. You know how she gets.”
“I know,” Lewis says. His tone isn’t angry, it’s tired. “It’s just… it’s like she’s vanished. I got used to hearing her voice every night, even if it was ten seconds. And now—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I shouldn’t let it get to me.”
Miles reaches out, hand on his shoulder. “That’s not how love works, mate. You don’t just switch it off because it’s inconvenient.”
Lewis lets out a low laugh, sad and true. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how to do it halfway. I never have.”
Miles squeezes once, gentle. “You don’t have to apologise for that.”
He doesn’t reply. Just nods, jaw tight, eyes somewhere far away.
When Shaun walks in later, Miles gives him the look, one that says don’t tease him right now. Shaun gets it instantly. He sits opposite Lewis, arms folded, watching him quietly for a moment.
“She’s pushing,” Shaun says softly. “That’s all. She always does this before something big. You know that.”
Lewis nods, but it’s an empty gesture. Hearing the reasoning over and over didn't make him feel better anymore. “I just… wish she’d let me in. Even a little.”
“Maybe she’s scared of what happens if she does,” Shaun says.
Lewis glances up, a little defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shaun shrugs, honest. “You represent calm. Balance. The thing she doesn’t know how to be.”
Miles adds, gently, “That’s what you love about her, isn’t it? The fire.”
“Yeah,” Lewis admits, barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t expect it to burn this far from me. Not after we spent so much time together. Didn't think it would hurt this much. I just feel so fucking stupid, man.”
It’s late by the time they part. Miles lingers long enough to pull him into a quiet, wordless hug before heading out. Lewis stands there for a moment after the door shuts, head bowed, letting the silence settle in like his stomach.
He’s not angry, he wishes he was. Just hollow. When he finally crawls into bed, he stares at the ceiling until his eyes blur, replaying the sound of her voice from that last call. The smile he misses so badly, audible in her tone. The promise she’d made.
It hurts. He can’t even pretend it doesn’t. It's not even the broken promise that's making him cry. It's the void. He’s always been terrible at pretending when it comes to actually being in love. He wears his heart on his sleeve. Too transparent, too earnest. He loves like he drives: full throttle, late on the breaks.
Yet she’s somewhere on a mountain, silent. Completely fine without him. He dreams in white noise. When he wakes, the room is pale with early light. His phone is facedown on the nightstand. Six missed calls flash on the screen. All from Shaun. He doesn’t even blink before calling back.
You can’t remember when the rhythm stopped feeling human.
Somewhere between the championship and the next sunrise, the world narrowed to a single, unblinking line. Wake. Train. Recover. Train again. Eat because Rhea’s watching. Sleep because Ana threatens IV fluids if you don’t. Repeat until everything else is a blur.
Dom calls it “focus.” You know better. It’s obsession. Pure, distilled, merciless. You don’t want balance; you want precision. You want to erase error until there’s nothing left but the perfect line through air.
You’ve done this your whole life, but something’s shifted. The stakes are louder now. You feel it every time you look at the medal rack. The gleam of gold that’s already starting to look dull next to what you still haven’t achieved. The Winter Olympics loom like judgement day. You can feel the weight before you even set foot on snow.
You tell yourself it’s not fear. It’s purpose. Purpose keeps you clean. Purpose keeps you alive. Ana keeps saying you’re pale. Rhea keeps saying you’re cold. Dom keeps saying rest.
You keep saying later.
Ella and Noa hover around the edges like twin ghosts. Whispering to each other in the mornings, watching you with that quiet dread only teammates can have. They’re too respectful to intervene and too loyal to leave.
“Dom says you’ve already landed that trick,” Noa offers gently one afternoon.
“Not clean,” you answer.
“It looked clean to me.”
“It didn’t feel it.”
You push off before she can argue, heart already hammering for the next run.
The repetition becomes religion. The cold, the breath, the sound of your board scraping through the first carve. That’s all that makes sense in your head. You chase milliseconds. Angles. Symmetry. You dream in rotations.
Ana starts following you down to the slope, arms folded, watching the way you grind through pain like it’s noise you can mute. She logs your heart rate and mutters under her breath every time it spikes too high.
Rhea hides protein bars in your pockets, pleading silently with her eyes. You throw them away when no one’s looking.
Dom’s voice sharpens. “You’re pushing too hard.”
“I’m training.”
“You’re bleeding yourself dry,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s no language for what’s inside you. This quiet, trembling need to prove you’re not a fluke. That Switzerland wasn’t luck. That Lewis didn’t fall for something fragile.
Lewis.
You haven’t said his name in weeks. You’ve read his messages, every one. Listened to every voicemail like a prayer you’re not supposed to believe in. You tell yourself silence protects him. That he deserves someone balanced, not this spiralling version of you that can’t sleep unless every fibre burns.
He’s kind. He’s patient. And you’re selfish, too selfish to drag him down into this noise. So you don’t reply. You don’t call. You just keep training until your lungs feel like glass and your mind starts floating six feet above your body.
By the third week, Ana’s stopped asking. Rhea’s stopped smiling. Dom’s stopped joking. They’re all just watching, waiting for the sound of something breaking.
You don’t care. You’re chasing gold. Gold, gold, gold, like it’s oxygen. You can see the Olympic rings in every reflection. You can feel your parents’ pride like a hand on your throat. You can hear the commentators, the headlines, the legacy.
You can’t let them down. You can’t let yourself down. You were born to do this. You’d rather die than not.
So when Dom calls for a rest day, you don’t even pretend to listen.
“Two runs,” you promise. “Then I’ll stop.”
He sighs, defeated. “You said that yesterday.”
“And I landed it yesterday.”
He looks at you then, really looks. You see the flicker of fear in his eyes you’d been selfishly chasing. The type that makes you feel like you're working hard enough. “You scare me sometimes.”
You smile without humour. “Good.”
The slope is as quiet as it always is. Blue sky stretched too thin. Light too sharp. Wind cutting just enough to keep you awake. You strap in with hands that don’t shake. Your heart is calm. Your mind hums like electricity, tuned so tightly it almost hurts.
You know the risk. You always do. You lean into it anyway.
Ana’s voice carries through the air, thin and strained. “You’re done for the day.”
You don’t answer. One more run. Just one. You can't stop yet.
The takeoff feels wrong before your board even leaves the snow. Not wrong enough to stop you. Just wrong enough that something deep and instinctive flares too late. Your body commits before your mind can intervene. Muscle memory takes over, stubborn and obedient, forcing rotation through air that suddenly feels heavier than it should. Gravity feels heavier than it ever has.
You’re off‑axis almost immediately.
There’s a sickening clarity in that half‑second. The way the mountain tilts. The way the landing rushes toward you too fast, too close, wrong in every possible direction. Impact.
A sound cracks through the air. Sharp, ugly and unmistakably final. Followed only by a thud that knocks the breath clean out of you. The world drops away, as if someone’s pulled the plug.
For a moment, there is nothing. Then pain arrives.
It’s not gradual. It’s not negotiable. It’s a white‑hot surge that rips through your leg and floods upward, blinding and absolute, so intense your brain refuses to name it at first. You taste snow. Adrenaline. Something metallic and wrong. You can't breathe. Can't focus your eyes.
“I’m fine,” you try to say, but the words fracture on the way out. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”
Dom is already running. Ella’s voice breaks somewhere above you. Noa stands frozen on the slope, board half‑turned, unable to move. Ana’s calling for a medic, her tone frighteningly calm, the kind of calm that means she knows exactly how bad this is.
You hear the sled before you see it.
You see Dom’s face before the pain fully catches up. The way all the colour drains from him, the way his mouth tightens like he’s holding something back. He looks… broken. That’s when it hits you, harder than anything else.
The pain blooms outward, electric and relentless, your body trying to shut itself down and failing. A sound tears out of you before you can stop it. Raw, animal, nothing like the voice you recognise as your own. You realise dimly that you’re crying. That everyone is watching.
The unbreakable girl, unravelled in the snow. The humiliation burns almost as badly as the pain.
You stare up at the sky, endless and white and uncaring, and for the first time in years, there’s no noise in your head. No calculations. No angles. No next run. Just your own breath, shallow and ragged, and the terrifying certainty settling in your chest.
You’ve ruined everything.
The pain is searing through your body, blinding and hot. But all you can think, stupidly, cruelly, is Please don’t let Lewis see.
The sound you make doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. It rips out of your throat without permission. High and feral, followed by something deeper, duller, like a door slamming shut inside bone. The sky tilts again. Snow explodes at the edges of your vision.
Pain detonates. Again. And again. You can’t tell anymore whether you’re awake.
“Don’t move her!” Dom’s voice shatters somewhere above your head. “Don’t—hey—look at me, kid. Look at me. Jesus Christ…don’t fucking touch her!”
You can’t look at him. The cold is a fist around your lungs. You try to push yourself up and your leg refuses to exist, refuses to be yours; when you see the angle it’s taken, the scream that rips out of you is bright and raw and animal again. The mountain answers with silence. You taste iron, bile, fear.
Hands. Someone’s hands, pin your shoulders gently. Ana’s face swims into view, too calm, too steady. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Breathe. In, out. Again. That’s it—”
“It’s fine,” you spit, shaking, trying to wrench away. “I’m fine—I’m fine—”
You aren’t. Every breath makes the snow brighter, the sky louder. Noa’s voice breaks on your name. Ella’s swearing, crying, begging someone to hurry. The whine of a snowmobile grows until it’s everything, then the world jostles and slides as they get the sled under you. Pressure clamps around your leg. Pain blooms like lightning. You throw up; Ana catches it, wipes your mouth, says “good girl” like you’re not already falling apart.
“Steady!” Dom snaps, running alongside as they drag the sled downhill. “Careful with the leg—watch the ice—Christ, easy!”
You try to fight them. You try to sit up. You try to beat the pain with motion, with will, with the discipline that’s always saved you. It doesn’t. Your body has become an alarm you can’t shut off. You scream until your voice shreds. You scream until even the trees seem to shrink away.
Hospital light is a blade. The corridor smells like chemical lemons and something sweeter beneath it, plastic and saline and panic. You float, sinking and rising through morphine. A pair of scissors eats through your compression layers. Cold air lands on your skin with a slap. Someone says mid-shaft tibia, someone else says check the knee, and then your mind tries to fold in on itself to get away.
“Don’t touch me,” you say through your teeth, shaking. “Don’t—don’t.”
“Easy,” a nurse says, already bracing your calf above the fracture. “We’re stabilising—”
The splint bites. White explodes behind your eyes again. You try to tear your hand free and Ana tightens her grip, palm slick with your sweat. “Stay here,” she murmurs and she's crying. She's fucking crying. “Stay here with me, sweetheart.”
Rhea stands in the corner with a protein shake clutched to her chest like a bible. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Noa is white as chalk behind the curtain; Ella is praying in the language of breath, lips forming please, please to no one.
Dom hovers at the end of the bed like a storm, eyes red, jaw locked, voice soft the way fury sometimes is. “You took off wrong,” he says, as if data will hold you together, trying to get through to you in the only language you’ve spoken for weeks. “That’s all. An inch. We’ll fix it. We’ll—” He swallows, voice trembling into a choked sob. “We’ll fix it, I promise.”
The brace inflates. The pressure swallows your leg. The pain shifts, sharp to crushing, and something inside you shatters. You scream. Full-bodied, full-throated. It ricochets off tile and metal and people. The nurse flinches. Dom closes his eyes. Ana wipes your mouth when you gag and presses a kiss to your temple, like tenderness might override agony.
When the world finally returns, it’s thinner. Muted. The beeping monitor is a lullaby you hate. Your leg is encased in a frame that feels like a coffin. Your face is wet. Your mouth tastes like blood and shame. There's a plastic cup on the tray table. Your fingerprints are smeared across it like a crime scene.
“I have to go back up,” you say, desperate and delirious. Your throat is scratched raw from the crying. “We have to. Dom, please. Just one more run."
“No,” Dom says, and the word hits like a verdict. It’s raw with pain, soft anger, and love. “You’re done for today. For this week. For—” He can’t finish. He can't say it. His hands are shaking. He jams them into his pockets like he can hide it. “You need to rest.”
The word hits like a slap. Rest. The dirtiest word you know.
Rest is surrender. Rest is soft. Rest is what they say to athletes they’ve given up on. Rest is what people say when they don’t understand what it costs to be you. Rest is for people who lose.
You lunge clumsily for the bed frame, half-crazed enough to try to sit up. The leg shifts. The pain becomes a siren. Your scream rips the air again; the monitor panics; the nurse is there, and Ana, and Dom, all hands and voices. You try to bat them away, sobbing, furious.
“Sedation,” someone mutters.
You thrash violently. “Don’t you fucking touch me—”
You snarl. You beg. You fight. You shout. You sob so hard your whole body convulses You gulp air like it might be a different thing on the next breath. It isn’t.
“Look at me,” Ana whispers, close enough that you see the freckles you’ve never noticed under her eyes. “In. Out. That’s it. You’re here. You’re safe. Please, sweetheart.”
You aren’t safe. You’re pinned alive inside a nightmare of your own making. Because you did this. To yourself. Now all you can think about is who’s watching.
The humiliation is its own heat. The cameras. The sponsors. The kids you signed boards for. Your parents watching you on every podium. Shaun who’d supported you through it all.
Lewis. The man who stayed up on race weekends just to hear your voice. The man you'd been ignoring. Who kissed you like you were something divine. Who’d told you to rest and meant it. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.
And now you’ve gone and made this of it.
The word Olympics looms in the white space above the bed like a sentence you can’t finish anymore. You can't even begin to comprehend the possibility of not making them. You can’t even think straight.
You eventually roll to face the wall, shaking, and hold perfectly still while tears soak into a pillow that smells like bleach and losing. The room continues to spin, you stare at the wall until it turns into shapes and colours and–
“Love,” Ana says gently. “Try a sip.” The straw taps your lip. You don’t open your mouth.
“Come on,” Rhea says from the foot of the bed, voice small. “Just a little.”
“Leave me alone,” you croak. “Leave. Me. Alone.”
They don’t. When the lights dim, a shadow stays in the chair. You pretend to sleep so you don’t have to see the pity and the pain you've caused anymore.
Hours later, the corridor outside your room has its own weather. Fluorescent and stale and humming, the air thick with the aftershock of everything that’s gone wrong.
Dom paces it like a metronome knocked loose. Up. Down. Stop. Start. His hand keeps raking over the stubble on his jaw until the skin burns, raw and red, like pain might anchor him to the present. He presses his fist to the wall and breathes through his teeth, counting in a language that used to work. It doesn’t now.
“She’s refusing treatment” Ana says. She drops into a plastic chair like gravity finally won, shoulders slumped, eyes stinging with tears again. Her hands are red with antiseptic, with cold, with the day. “Won’t eat. Won’t sleep. She pulled the drip out twice. If I touch the brace, she panics. Her pain response is through the roof. She’s spiralling..”
She exhales, slow and controlled. “I can keep her stable. I can’t bring her back to herself.”
Rhea sits on the floor, legs folded under her, meal plan crushed in her fist. “She’s lost nearly ten pounds in two weeks,” she whispers. “And I thought I had it handled. I thought—” Her voice shatters. “I didn’t.”
Noa is pacing. Ella hasn’t spoken in twenty minutes. Her nails dig crescents into her palms.
“She’s going to blame herself,” Ella says finally. “She’ll say we should have stopped her. She’ll say it’s our fault.”
“We did try,” Noa murmurs. “But she doesn’t listen. Not when she’s like this.”
“You can’t stop lightning,” Ana says quietly. “You can only stand clear.”
Dom exhales. It sounds like a death rattle. “She’s not even angry,” he mutters. “Not really. She’s just… gone.”
“We need someone she can’t shut out,” Ana says. “Someone she won’t fight.”
“She’s not letting anyone in.” But even as Dom says it, he knows the truth. His thumb is already hovering over one contact.
He dials. It picks up on the second ring.
“Dom?” Shaun says. Background noise echoing, the reverberation of a halfpipe, music, laughter, boots on snow. “What's happened? Everything alright?”
“No.” The word is thick. Final. He's holding back a sob already. “She’s down, Shaun. It’s bad.”
The silence that follows swallows everything. Shaun steps out of the noise. The wind cuts in. Quiet.
There's another pause. Just a shaky breath. Then, softer than it should be, Shaun says, “Was it the rotation?”
“Takeoff,” Dom replies, voice wrecked. “Off-axis before she even cleared the lip. I saw it too late.”
“I heard it,” he adds. “I heard it fucking snap. I’ll be hearing it for the rest of my life.”
There’s a quiet grunt on the line. Then Shaun speaks. Not as the legend, not as the pro. Just as someone who’s cared about her too long not to feel this like bone splintering.
“She was seventeen the first time I saw her crash,” he says, low. "Mid-season. She over-rotated, slammed hard, got up with blood in her mouth and didn’t say a word. Didn’t let anyone say a word. I watched her walk it off like nothing happened. Ana was white as a sheet. She said later it hurt to breathe. She competed anyway.”
Dom’s throat works. “Yeah.”
Shaun’s voice goes quiet. “I didn’t know what I was looking at back then. Just thought, holy shit, she’s tough as nails. Didn’t realise it was something deeper. Something colder.”
“I’ve watched her chase perfection so hard she’s forgotten how to rest. She’s forgotten how to want to rest. She only knows how to push until something breaks, and now something finally has.”
“She still thinks rest is failure,” Dom says.
“She thinks failure is death,” Shaun corrects. “And pain is proof she’s still worthy of winning.”
Neither of them speaks for a long moment.
When Shaun does, it’s full of a terrible kind of love. Older-brother love, mentor love, helpless love.
“She won’t hear me,” he says. “Not now. She won’t hear anyone.”
Dom is already nodding. “There’s one person left.”
“Lewis.”
“Yeah,” Dom says. “Lewis.”
Shaun's voice cracks. "I'll call him."
Dom pulls the phone away for a second so Shaun doesn't hear him cry. “Tell him to be quick, Shaun.”
Maranello is still dark when the phone skitters across the bedside table. Not a gentle buzz. Not a single call. It rattles, urgent, angry, insistent. Six missed calls stacked like a threat. Lewis is upright before his eyes can adjust, heart already racing like it knows something his brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
Shaun White. The name punches the air out of his lungs.
He calls back with shaking fingers. “Shaun?”
“Lewis.” It barely sounds like him. Shaun’s voice is stripped thin, all bravado scraped away. Just a man trying not to fall apart. “It’s bad, man.”
Lewis’s feet hit the floor hard. Cold shoots up his spine. “Tell me.”
“She crashed. Training.” Shaun swallows, audibly. “Compound tibia. They think the knee’s involved. Interlaken General.”
Lewis’s vision tunnels. The room tilts, like he’s stepped out of the car too fast. “Is she—”
“She’s alive,” Shaun says quickly. “She’s alive. But—” The word hangs, heavy. “She’s not okay.”
Lewis drags a hand through his braids, breathing too fast now, too shallow. His chest hurts. Actually hurts. “What do you mean not okay?”
“She’s refusing treatment. Ripping out lines. Screaming one minute, completely gone the next. Dom says she won’t let anyone touch her. Ana can’t get through. No one can.” He pauses just enough to breath. Then a whisper that comes out completely devastated. “She’s scared, Lewis. Properly scared.”
Lewis’s body is already moving, muscle memory taking over where his mind can’t. Jeans dragged on with shaking hands. Passport yanked from the drawer. Shoes kicked aside, then grabbed again. He feels nauseous. He feels lightheaded. He feels late.
“I should’ve been there,” he says, the words tearing out of him before he can stop them. “I should’ve been there.”
“This isn’t on you—”
“It is,” Lewis snaps, immediately softer, breaking. “I knew she was pushing. I knew. She stopped calling and I let myself believe it was fine. I told myself to give her space. I—” His voice cracks. He swallows hard. “I should’ve gone sooner.”
Shaun exhales on the other end, long and rough. “Dom asked me to call you because… because she won’t hear anyone else.”
That hurts him more than hearing about the injury.
Lewis closes his eyes. Images crash through him uninvited . Her laugh in London, barefoot in his kitchen. Her voice saying Lew like it belonged to her. The way she’d softened, just for him. The way she’d pulled away again, brick by brick, and how he’d let her because he loved her too much to cage her.
“She hates being weak,” he whispers. “She hates being seen like that.”
Lewis grips the edge of the dresser until his knuckles burn. His heart feels too big for his chest, like it might split him open. “Text me everything. Hospital, ward, doctor. I’m coming now.”
“Lew,” Shaun says, and this time it’s not the athlete, not the icon. It’s the man who’s watched too many people break themselves in half. “Brace yourself.”
Lewis stills.
“She’s in pieces,” Shaun continues gently. “Physically, yeah. But it’s worse than that. It’s… hard to watch.”
Lewis presses his forehead to the cool wood of the dresser, eyes squeezed shut. For one terrible second, all he can picture is her alone in a white room, in pain, convinced she’s ruined everything. Convinced she deserves it.
“I won’t let her be alone,” he says, voice low, ferocious, shaking. “Not this time.”
“I know,” Shaun replies. “That’s why we called.”
The line clicks dead. The room tilts sideways again. Too bright, too loud, he wants to cry and scream and he's desperately trying to stop his head from spinning. He grabs his passport, his phone—nothing else matters. His heart’s moving faster than his body can keep up with.
Then the door opens. Miles stands there like he sprinted the whole corridor, curls wild, hoodie askew, phone clenched so tight his knuckles are bloodless.
“Don’t look online,” he says, and his voice is broken.
Lewis freezes. “What?”
“It’s out,” Miles says, words tumbling fast and jagged, like if he spits them quick enough they won’t stick. “The crash. Someone filmed it—posted it. It’s—Christ, Lew—don’t watch it. I saw the still. I wish I hadn’t.”
The floor goes out from under him. He doesn’t ask to see. He doesn’t need to see. It’s already playing behind his eyes: the impossible angle, the flash of white, the silence after. He imagines the sound. Imagines her body folding. Imagines what it must’ve looked like to someone who didn’t love her.
His palm finds the doorframe. He presses until the nerves in his hand scream, until there’s a sharp, controllable pain.
“She’s alive,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a lifeline they can both cling onto.
Miles nods, barely holding it together. “Dom confirmed. She’s in hospital. Ana’s with her.”
He breathes through it. In, out, way too shallow. “Flights?”
“Booked,” Miles says. “Zurich. Two hours.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Shut up,” Miles cuts in, quiet but firm. “You’re not doing this alone.”
They move fast after that. Like men in a fire drill. Essentials, zips, chargers, passports. The choreography of crisis. It feels mechanical, almost dreamlike. But Lewis’s body is a mess of betrayal. His hands shaking, breath uneven. When he bends to grab his jacket, he knocks over the cup on the nightstand. The soft clatter is enough to make him flinch like a shot’s gone off.
He holds perfectly still, shoulders rigid, trying to keep it all inside.
But halfway down the corridor, it slips out again.
“I should’ve been there.”
Miles stops. Turns. “Lew—”
“I should’ve been there,” he repeats, softer this time, voice catching on itself. “Not five countries away. Not texting her when I should’ve—” His throat locks. “Fuck. I should’ve known.”
Miles’s expression shatters a little. He steps in, one hand on Lewis’s shoulder, steadying. “No. You don’t get to do that. You could’ve been standing right there, and she still would’ve taken the run. You know her.”
Lewis stares at the carpet. The pattern blurs. He can't cry. Not here. Not now.
“You could’ve loved her the exact same amount in person,” Miles says, gentler now, “and it still would’ve happened.”
Lewis doesn’t answer. His jaw is locked so tight it aches. Behind his eyelids, the scene won’t stop replaying: her silhouette at the top of the pipe, impossibly poised, terrifyingly brave. The moment of takeoff. The angle off by a breath. The sky. The fall. The sound.
He swallows hard, stomach turning. “Let’s go,” he says, and doesn’t stop moving.
The car cuts through wet streets that haven’t woken yet. Traffic lights blink to no one. The city rolls by, asleep and unaware. Inside the car, it’s all silence and glow. Flight confirmations load on Miles’s screen. On Lewis’s, the last message she ever sent him sits like a ghost.
He doesn’t touch it. Just stares. He swallows. His thumb hovers over their thread and then retreats like the words might burn him. Outside, dawn struggles to climb the sky. The clouds don’t care. The world goes on pretending nothing’s wrong.
“I’m scared,” Miles admits quietly, staring at the flight app as if he could make time speed up. “Not for the bone. For her. You know?”
Lewis nods once. It takes effort to speak. “I know.”
The words have to climb through something tight in his chest to make it out. “She’ll come back. We’ll help her.”
He says it like a vow. Like he’s trying to convince the universe.
He sounds steadier than he feels. He holds the pieces together the way he’s always done: one breath, then the next; one step, then the next. He thinks of Switzerland. Of her hand in his. Of the streetlit snow on her hair. The weeks he’d held her close every night, able to protect her.
He thinks of what it means to be beside someone when they lose the thing they built themselves from. He remembers it happening to himself. When his own sport failed him. He’s lived that. He’s stood in that ruin.
He’s fallen a thousand times and learned only one thing: how to rise. And now, he’ll rise for her. Again. And again. Lifting her up with him. He’ll carry her through the smoke, through the silence, through whatever pieces are left.
The airport slides into view like a solution. Miles squeezes his shoulder once, a promise disguised as pressure. “We’ll bring her home.”
Lewis nods, jaw set, eyes bright and hard. “Whatever it takes.”
The plane is too warm and he can’t get enough air.
Lewis sits by the window with his hood up and his hands steepled against his mouth, elbows digging into the armrests. The cabin trembles, the wing flexes, a child kicks the back of a seat somewhere behind them; it all feels far away. His stomach has been riding the crest of nausea since the call. Every time he closes his eyes, his mind supplies a white field, a wrong angle, the sound of her breaking. He hasn’t stopped shaking. It’s not visible. But it’s there. In the way his foot won’t still, the way his breath stays high in his chest, never full enough. Like his body won’t believe her heart is still beating until he sees it.
He keeps his eyes open as much as he can, because when he closes them, he sees snow. An angle too high. A landing too fast. The sound. Not the crash itself, but the silence after it. The kind of silence you don’t come back from. He tries to breathe through it. Doesn’t work.
Next to him, Miles is restless energy and grief barely contained. His leg taps out a panic Morse code. His fingers rake the stubble under his jaw. He gets up. Sits. Stands again. A flight attendant recognises them, asks something gentle about water or tea, and both men nod like they’re trying to remember how human interaction works. Neither drinks.
Miles breaks first. “Tell me the minute you need anything,” he murmurs, low and hoarse, like they’re in a church. Like grief might echo.
Lewis doesn’t look up. “I need to be there,” he says. It’s not anger. It’s not fear. It’s something purer. More hollow. “I need to see her breathing.”
They don’t speak after that. The engine climbs. Altitude rises. Time stretches until it feels like glass. Thin, fragile, waiting to shatter. Lewis holds his breath, because maybe if he doesn’t breathe, nothing else can break.
Zurich is grey.
The rental car’s heater works too hard and not at all. The motorway glares with spray and too many headlights, smearing the world into white and shadow. Lewis keeps his eyes locked on the vanishing point, jaw set tight. Beside him, Miles works the phone like a surgeon. Calling Dom, then Ana, then the hospital desk from a side number when no one answers fast enough.
“Room 212,” Miles says at last, voice sheared down to purpose. “She’s sedated.” He pauses long enough to look for Lewis's reaction. There is none. “They had to. She wouldn’t stop fighting.”
The last hour of road winds along a black lake that swallows the sky. On the far bank, the hospital rises out of the snow like a ship.
They park crooked. They don’t notice.
Inside, it’s all glass and white and the particular hush of places that know too much grief to allow noise. The corridor to orthopaedics stretches like something built to test faith. At its midpoint: two figures on a plastic bench, coats still on, Team GB stitched into their beanies like proof that they're family. Noa’s fingers twist the hem of her sleeve. Ella’s cheeks are raw, eyes shining with tears that have stopped but not settled.
Miles sees them first. He stops dead, and something in his body recognises what Lewis has not let himself admit yet. This is more than a bad day. For all of them. This is worse than a bad fall. This is the kind of break that rearranges people.
“Hey,” he says, kneeling into their line of sight rather than looming over them. His voice drops into a register he saves for kids and friends bleeding out of their pride. “Look at me.”
Noa looks up. She tries a smile that can’t come out. Her voice shakes. “Hi, Miles.”
“You two look done in,” he says, so gently it isn’t a scold. “C’mon. I’ll get you home.”
“We should stay,” Ella whispers. “She’ll wake up and—”
“I know,” he says, and the softness holds. “But she needs you tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that. Right now, you need a bed.” He tilts his head toward Lewis without looking away from them. “He’s here. He won’t leave her.”
Noa glances past him to the closed door. “She’ll be… angry.”
“I can handle angry,” he says with a crooked smile. “Ask Lew.” He takes a deep breath. “Please. Let me get you home.”
They fold with relief disguised as protest. When they stand, both of them hug him like they’re falling. He holds on like he’s a handrail.
As he straightens, he squeezes Lewis’s shoulder once. A brief pressure, but the exact anchoring he needs. “Text me when she wakes,” he murmurs. “You’ve got this, brother.”
Miles walks away, tall and solid between Noa and Ella, a shadow guarding two others down the corridor’s sterile light. They vanish around the bend like something precious being carried home.
Silence returns. The kind that weighs more than noise. Lewis stands alone, facing the door. His hand hovers near the handle.
Everything in him screams not to open it until he can promise her more than just presence, until he can offer something whole. Right now he feels too broken to steady her. But love doesn’t wait for perfection. Love shows up. So he opens the door anyway.
The first thing he notices is the stillness. She’s never been still. Not even in sleep. Even in rest there’s the hum of charge, the twitch of a dream, a foot flexing itself into a landing. He’d know. He’d memorised how she slept next to him. Now the room holds a single, careful quiet. Her leg is suspended in a frame that makes his throat close up. Clear lines thread from the back of her hand to a pump that clicks. The monitor speaks in patient syllables.
Ana sits in the corner with her elbow on her knee and her hand against her mouth, a posture that says she has learned to hold herself together for the sake of everyone else in the room. Rhea stands at the window with a paper cup she hasn’t sipped. Dom is upright and unmoving, as if he has forgotten how to sit.
They all look up at the same time. The tension in the air yanks taut, then releases an inch.
“You came,” Dom says, and the two words break something in him he’s been keeping under a lid for hours.
Lewis nods. “Of course.”
They step away from her bed as if they’re making space around a sacred thing. The explanations come out in low threads. How she refused everything; how the staff had to sedate her to stop her from tearing the lines out; how she didn’t cry until the room emptied and then wouldn’t stop; how the last time she slept without drugs was before the crash.
“She stopped replying a couple of weeks ago,” Lewis says quietly, not as accusation, just as a fact he needs them to know. “I heard it before that, though. In her breathing. In the way she was texting. The tunnel she was in.”
Ana nods once, solemn. “We all did.” She looks at him with a kind of tired compassion that doesn’t patronise. “You were right to come.”
He doesn’t trust his voice. He steps closer to the bed instead.
Up close, the details rearrange him. Dried salt tracks in the fine hairs at her temple. A bruise blooming at the edge of her jaw where a helmet buckle might have kissed. The stubborn angle of her mouth even in sleep. Her hand looks smaller with tape and tubing, but it’s still hers. A little scar near the knuckle from some older winter she'd told him about once. He reaches and stops, then reaches again, placing his palm lightly over hers, not enough pressure to wake, just enough to promise.
“Hey,” he whispers to the stillness, because he cannot bear to not say it. “I’m here, baby.”
Dom rubs his face hard, blinking back another round of tears. “We’ll grab coffee,” he says to no one in particular, to give Lewis space. “Ana? Rhea?” They hesitate. Ana touches the IV pump, checks the line, sets the cup down, and the three of them slip out, their absence as gentle as their presence was.
The door hushes shut. The monitor ticks. The snow on the windowsill jobs like static.
Lewis sits in the chair and lets the weight of the day land in his chest at last. He bows over their joined hands and breathes until the shaking leaves his fingers. For a long time, that’s all the room contains: the metronome of machines, the quiet of someone who has used up the word fight.
Time passes. He doesn’t count it.
Her lashes tremble first. Then the muscles in her cheek jump once, twice. She draws a breath like a swimmer breaking surface. Her eyes find the ceiling, flick and focus, and then narrow as pain reminds her who is in the room with her body.
“Hey,” he says, lifting his head, making his voice as soft as he knows how. “Don’t move.”
Her gaze cuts to him, glassy and sharp at once. Shame lands before anything else. He watches it hit. Watches it ricochet into anger so she can survive it.
“You shouldn’t…” The words scrape. She swallows. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m exactly where I should be.”
Her jaw clenches, but it's trembling too. That itself breaks Lewis's heart. “I can handle this.”
“I know you can.” His tone never moves from calm. “You don’t have to do it alone.”
Her breath shortens, the way it does when she’s about to ignore a pain signal and go anyway. Reflex. Pride. Fear, wearing its armour. She shifts a fraction and the brace answers with the smallest change; the pain slams through her in one clean, merciless sheet. She gasps. He’s already bracing her shoulder with one hand and holding tight to her fingers with the other.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Stay with me, angel. Eyes on me, yeah?”
Humiliation burns hot enough to bring tears she does not want to give anyone. She squeezes her eyes shut. “This is my fault.”
He doesn’t argue. He never makes that mistake with her. “You pushed,” he says, and the words carry no judgement. “That’s who you are.”
“I went too far.” She forces it out like a confession. “I didn’t stop. I never stop. I thought—” A breath stutters through her ribs. “If I kept moving… I wouldn’t break. If I kept moving…nothing could catch up to me.”
“You’re not a machine,” he says. “You don’t have to be one to be great.”
She lets out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a sob. “Tell that to the world.”
“I’m telling it to you.” He tilts closer, not crowding, just making sure she can see the truth on his face. The wreckage he’s holding in so she doesn’t have to. “You didn’t lose yourself today. You got hurt. Those aren’t the same thing.”
“They feel the same.” Her voice threads itself thin, trembling. “And I did this. I did it to them.” Her eyes flick toward the door as if it could contain everyone she’s let down. Dom, Ana, Rhea, Noa, Ella, her parents, the flag. Him. “To you.”
He holds her gaze, voice so soft she barely hears it. “You didn’t do anything to me.”
Silence. The monitor clicks on, unbothered by the weight of it.
She swallows again. “I’ve been… awful,” she says, each word deliberate, as if naming it is a job she wants to do correctly. “With you. With everyone. I shut it all off. I thought I was protecting the thing that makes me me. I was just… disappearing.” Her throat works. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t tell her she doesn’t owe him an apology. He nods once, because he knows her. Because owning the wreckage was always going to be her way through it. “Thank you.”
That undoes her more than comfort would have. She blinks fast and fails; a tear tips, another follows. She tips her head away, angry at everything.
“Don’t—” she starts, because kindness feels like salt when pride is skinless.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says simply.
She breathes. It’s ragged. He keeps his hand where it is, steady and warm. After a long time she lets the tension leave her fingers; they settle against his skin like they were always meant to be there. He watches the fight drain out of her face, not gone, never gone, just… set down for a minute.
“It hurts so much,” she admits, in the smallest voice he has ever heard from her.
“I know, baby.” The three words hold everything he can’t fix. His hand tightens around hers. “I’m here.”
They stay like that while the light outside fades from grey to blue to the particular dark that falls early in winter towns. Somewhere in the middle of the hour, her breathing evens toward sleep. He doesn’t move when she goes. Kisses her forehead, uses his thumb to try and wipe the crust of tears on her cheek. He lets his head tip back against the chair. His eyes sting, and he lets them. He wants to sob. For her, for her team, for her parents. It feels like a long exhale he’s been denying his lungs since Shaun’s first call.
The door whispers. He doesn’t look up. He knows the rhythm of Miles’s footsteps like music now. Miles stops just inside the threshold and leans a shoulder against the wall, not intruding.
“She’s out again?” he asks softly.
“Yeah.” Lewis’s voice is hoarse, thinner than he means it to be.
“How are you?”
Lewis considers lying and finds he can’t. “Holding on.”
“That’s good.” Miles looks toward the bed and then away quickly.
“I… couldn’t come in here earlier,” he admits, a little ashamed. “Saw her from the hallway before. She looked so… still. Not sure I can stay in here long, man. I took the girls home. They’ll be back in the morning.” He swallows hard. “Dom’s getting coffees. Ana’s giving him a target so he doesn’t explode. I told Rhea to go home and eat.”
Lewis nods once. “Good.”
They stand in that small, shared silence, a silence that says everything love can’t tidy up. Miles blows out a breath, then cuts a glance at her in the bed again. The sight seems to make his decision for him. He straightens.
“We’ll bring her home,” he repeats, tone turning into a plan.
Lewis doesn’t look away from her. His fingers close more securely around hers, his jaw finds its set, the flare of devotion returning to his eyes.
“Whatever it takes.”
When you wake again, the first thing you notice is quiet.
Not the hum of machines, or the faint rattle of the IV, or the steady click of a monitor. A human kind of quiet, soft and safe. The kind that feels like someone has been holding the noise back for you.
Your eyes open to low light. The clock says 3:17 a.m. Miles is curled in a chair near the door, one leg thrown over the other, head tilted back at an impossible angle, mouth slightly open. A blanket, probably stolen from a nurse, has slid halfway off him. His phone rests on his chest, screen black.
Next to you, Lewis.
He’s slumped forward in the chair pulled tight against your bed, chin angled toward the pillow like he meant to stay awake but lost the battle. His arm is folded awkwardly along the mattress, his hand touching yours. His braids have come slightly undone; the faint crease of exhaustion lines his brow. Even asleep, he looks like he’s listening. He looks beautiful.
It breaks something small and stubborn in you.
These men, one who never stops moving, the other who’s mastered stillness, they just love. They give without being asked, without needing it to be deserved. You wonder when they learned how to have space for that. You wonder what part of you never did.
You shift slightly, breath catching when pain pulls sharp down your leg. Lewis stirs at the sound instantly, eyes blinking open, soft brown in the dim light, instinct already alive.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep. “Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse? You okay?”
You nod before you even think about it. “You should sleep.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You say that like I haven’t been trying.”
“Go back to the hotel.”
“Not a chance, angel.”
It’s a whisper, but it’s enough. You turn your head toward him. He looks wrecked and gentle all at once, a man running on fumes but still making room for you. That kindness is unbearable.
Your throat is still raw. Still, you speak. “I don’t know how to stop.”
He blinks slowly, waking up more. “Stop what?”
“This.” You gesture vaguely at the cast, the IV, the wreckage of your world. “Any of it. I don’t know how to not be working toward something. How to not be earning the right to exist.” Your voice wavers, then steadies. “Even now, I’m calculating how long until I can walk again. How soon I can train. How fast I can fix what I broke. It’s like… like my brain’s stuck on repeat.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you, eyes warm and unflinching.
You keep going, because stopping feels impossible. “I built my whole life on the idea that if I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse. There’s no middle ground. I don’t know any life but this, Lewis. I think that if I stop, I disappear.”
He responds with a moment of silence. But it doesn’t hurt. He shifts in the chair, turning his body fully toward you now, elbows on his knees. The light from the hallway finds the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He’s thinking, processing. No trying to fix, but understand. Trying to answer you with something that will keep you open.
“You won’t disappear,” he says finally, quiet but certain. “You’ll breathe.”
You look away, throat tight. “I don’t know how.”
“Then we’ll learn how,” he says simply. “Together.”
That word. Together. It spreads warmth through parts of you that had been cold for weeks. You don't know how he does it. He just does.
He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the bedrail. “You’ve spent your whole life building control, right? Every muscle, every second, every thought. You’ve trained yourself to be unbreakable. But control isn’t the same as peace, love.”
You close your eyes, the truth of it almost painful. You know he’s saying this from experience and somehow that hurts even worse.
He keeps going, softer now. “You’re allowed to stop measuring everything. To rest without earning it. To just… exist, and let people love you anyway. You could never win a medal again and we’d all still be here, baby.”
A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. You hate that it feels like surrendering. You hate that it also feels like relief.
“You make it sound so easy,” you sniffle. “I’m not like you, it’s not that simple. I–”
He smiles faintly. “It isn’t easy. But neither is what we do, right? Being the best in the world at something isn't easy. Neither is learning when to give yourself a break from it.”
His hand finds yours again, naturally. The warmth of it grounds you, and you feel the first deep breath you’ve taken in days move through your chest like something foreign. He kisses your knuckles gently and doesn’t say anything else.
For a while, neither of you speak. Miles shifts in his chair and mutters something incoherent in his sleep. Outside, snow drifts down the windowpane, pale and constant. Lewis’s head lowers again, half-asleep, nose barely brushing your shoulder. He leans down to kiss it before drifting into a half-sleep state.
You stare at their sleeping forms. One exhausted, one awake but barely. Suddenly, it hits you that they’ve both crossed oceans, paused entire lives, just to sit in this sterile room. For you.
You don’t know what to do with that kind of love. So you hold his hand tighter, close your eyes, and let yourself believe for a second that maybe you don’t have to be unstoppable to be worth loving.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: you know that moment when your f1 world champion situationship shows up unannounced at your competition, watches you win, hugs you in front of your entire team, and says “i missed you” like it broke him to wait?? yeah. same.
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Pro Snowboarder!Reader
wc: 11.5k!!
summary: months of holding back finally snap. she wins, and FINALLY...she reaches for him.
warnings: MDNI, phone sex, smut, mutual masturbation, suggestive texts, slow burn tension, emotional intimacy, mildly (compared to normal) explicit content, lewis yearning, professional athlete discipline, praise kink undertones, reader in deep denial about being in love, Lewis not in denial at all
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Nothing explodes into existence after Los Angeles.
It just… keeps going. Messages passing back and forth between training blocks, flights, and the thin spaces where neither of you are fully anchored anywhere. You were focused, of course. Structured. Disciplined. But you’re replying. Not letting the texts die. Not shutting him out like before, either.
His jacket follows you across borders and mountains, folded into bags, slung over chairs in hotel rooms that all start to blur together. It still smells like him. Still carries the memory of that easy closeness. The warmth, the laugh, the kiss pressed to your cheek like it meant something but wasn’t asking for anything more, either.
It leaves you just a little less guarded. Just a little more curious about keeping in touch.
Maybe. After training, of course.
For Lewis, life also keeps its structure. Races. Briefings. Airports that blur into one another. Miles turning up everywhere with coffee and commentary. The calendar stays full; the routine holds. It always has.
But now there’s a quiet fracture in it. Between debriefs, late at night, in the narrow minutes before sleep, his phone lights up.
It’s always you. you. Not long messages. Not anything he could justify overthinking. Just replies. Dry. Precise. Unmistakably you. Enough to keep the line warm. Enough to make his chest tighten every time. She’s answering. The realisation hits him every time like it’s new.
He keeps himself on a leash because of it. Waits before replying. Types things out, deletes them. Forces his thumb to slow down. Anything that sounds too eager gets cut. Anything too revealing never gets sent.
Because he already knows what this is. Has known since Gstaad. Since the way she looked at him like she’d already decided something and was waiting to see if he could keep up.
He’s excited by her, stupidly, helplessly so. Walking into meetings with that restless energy humming under his skin. Checking his phone more often than he should. Lying awake in hotel rooms staring at the ceiling, replaying the last thing she said like it might change if he thinks about it hard enough.
Miles clocks it immediately. He’s half giddy every time Lewis picks up his phone now.
“You’re smiling at your phone,” he says one morning, smirking. “That’s new.”
Lewis doesn’t look up, a soft smile on his lips. “It’s nothing.”
“Uh huh,” Miles says. “She texted again, didn’t she?”
Lewis doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
Because the truth is simple and dangerous. She’s still there. Still choosing to reply. Not pulling away. Not shutting him out. Not ghosting him.
Lewis, who could push, who could rush, who could so easily want more… he does none of it.
He waits. Careful. Barely contained. He takes what she gives, happily.
It’s not flirtation, not yet. It’s something quieter, a sort of care disguised as curiosity. The friendship you’ve built has a pulse now, a language that doesn’t need explanation.
When your texts come through, his body knows before his mind does. His thumb unlocks his phone before he realises what he’s doing. He tells himself it’s not dependency, just… connection. A good, pure, connection based on a mutual understanding of what it’s like to be at the top. But it’s getting harder to tell the difference.
And for you, in the noise of travel, training, camera, he’s become a constant you didn’t see coming. Calls that last twenty minutes but feel like five. His voice, low and grounded, threading through the white noise of your discipline.
Sometimes he calls late, hotel lamp on, voice warm with fatigue. Sometimes you answer in the gym, hair damp from the mountain, board leaning against the wall beside you.
“You’re still up?” you say.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but I’m paid to be obsessive.”
“So am I.”
“Difference is, mine looks cooler.”
“You think racing at 200 miles per hour isn’t cool?”
“It’s cute.”
He laughs every single time. The kind of laugh that sounds like a release. Your routines become mirrors. Two people who live by rhythm and pressure, finding comfort in someone who understands it without translation.
When Lewis races in Miami, you watch his qualifying lap from a hotel treadmill in Norway. When you train at sunrise, he’s the first name lighting your screen at 5:00 a.m. from Italy.
He sends you photos of circuits at night. You send him snow filled silence at dawn. Somehow, it feels like the perfect balance.
Miles has a running commentary now. “Look at you, texting your wife again,” he says, glancing over at Lewis’s phone during breakfast.
Lewis doesn’t look up. “Not my wife. It’s just a check in with a good friend, Miles.”
“Right, and I’m just an introvert.” Miles grins. “You’re whipped, mate. I mean that in the healthiest way possible.”
Shaun’s worse. When they meet up in between packed schedules, he just smirks. “You calling her tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“You already did, didn’t you?”
Lewis doesn’t answer, and Shaun’s grin just widens.
Because somewhere between Gstaad and now, his affection turned into a gravity that kept him grounded. No matter where he is, what time zone, what country. He’s gently orbiting you as much as you'll let him. Willingly, hopelessly, quietly.
Training feels endless. It’s the kind of grind you love. Repetition until you blur into motion, until the pain in your legs becomes the rhythm of purpose. The FIS World Championships consumes every minute, every second of your days. Gold, gold, gold. Win, win, win.
Dom has the schedule pinned to the wall of the gym: six-day blocks, rotating between strength, air awareness, and trick mechanics. Noa times your runs. Ella films so you can watch it back later. You fall, swear, get up again. The ritual is simple: precision first, pain later.
“Remember to breathe,” Dom calls when you’re halfway through another dry run.
“I am breathing,” you answer, gasping.
“You sound like a dying engine,” Ana adds helpfully, tossing you a towel.
You grin, pushing damp hair off your forehead. “That’s the sound of progress.”
Later, when you’re stretching, Ella plops down beside you. “He seems nice,” she says casually.
You glance over, confused. “Who?”
“Lewis.”
You roll your eyes. “He’s just…Shaun and Miles’s friend.”
The way you add Miles to the list without thinking about it, like he belongs there now, isn’t something you stop to examine. He has a way of doing that. Loud, intrusive, impossible to ignore. He’d inserted himself early on with commentary, unsolicited opinions, bad jokes, and a complete disregard for personal boundaries. Somewhere between his comments on your instagram, late-night group chats, and him turning up to the Red Bull gym when he knew you'd be there, he’d stopped feeling like Lewis’s friend and started feeling like yours.
He remembers your training schedule better than he should. Knows when to distract you and when to leave you alone. Calls you out when you’re overdoing it. Makes you laugh when you forget to. You don’t trust easily, but Miles never asked you to. He just stayed.
You hadn’t noticed the shift when it happened. Only that when you think of Lewis now, Miles comes with him. Built into the picture. Non-negotiable.
“Uh huh,” she says, drawing out the syllables. “The sexy world champion who texts you good luck before every session. Totally just a friend.”
Noa looks up from her phone. “Also the guy who watched your training clips last night. Miles sent a picture. There’s literally a group chat about you now. Do you ever check your phone?”
You groan. “Oh, for the love of—”
They’re already laughing.
The group chat starts out as Pipe Chat. Miles’s idea, obviously. He thinks he’s hilarious. You were added without consent or warning.
It lasts about twelve minutes before Lewis changes the name to This Was Miles’ Idea.
Miles: HEY.
Shaun: I was wondering how long that would last.
Lewis: I’m protecting everyone involved.
Miles: Coward.
Miles: Alexa, play Pipe by Christina Aguilera feat. XNDA
Lewis: Miles. Fuck off.
The chat settles into its natural state after that. Miles sends memes, Shaun sends unsolicited motivational quotes, and Lewis occasionally chimes in with practical advice that no one asked for but everyone listens to.
Miles: Y/N just did a 1080 like it’s nothing at 8am??
Shaun: Queen behaviour.
Lewis: Ella and Noa, tell her to stretch her left side after. Shaun said it looked tight last run.
You: I am RIGHT HERE.
Miles: Noted, your highness.
It accompanies you everywhere. Fills you with warmth you didn’t know you could handle alongside the rigorous monotony of training.
Miles: She’s been training for SIX HOURS.
Miles: This feels illegal.
You: I’m literally stretching.
Ella: That’s what you said three hours ago.
Noa: She also said “one more run” eight times.
You: Betrayal by my teammates.
Shaun: Accountability is important.
Lewis: She needs to get off her feet.
You: Since when are YOU my coach?
Lewis: Since you stopped listening to Dom.
Dom: I can SEE THIS.
Miles: OH MY GOD HE’S MULTI-PLATFORM COACHING.
Ella: This is how it starts. One calm British man telling you to rest.
Noa: Slippery slope.
Shaun: Next thing you know, he’s managing her load.
You: Do NOT phrase it like that.
Miles: I will phrase it exactly like that.
Lewis: Ffs Miles. I stand by changing this group chat name. I take no responsibility.
Miles: Pipe Chat died for THIS??
Ella: A tragic loss for immature adults everywhere.
Noa: Speak for yourself. I’m immature professionally.
You mute the chat.
Miles: She muted us.
Shaun: Fair.
Ella: She's boring.
Lewis: Stretch. Hydrate. Then you’re done.
You don’t reply. But you do exactly that.
Noa: She stopped.
Ella: Oh my God.
Miles: SHE’S LISTENING TO HIM.
Shaun: That’s actually impressive.
Lewis: Please don’t encourage this.
Miles: Too late. I’m planning the wedding slideshow.
Ella: I call maid of honour.
Noa: I’m officiating. I’ve watched enough TikToks.
You mute it again, properly this time, laughing into your towel, pulse still racing, thighs burning, and your phone warm in your hand.
You mute it most days in all fairness. But never permanently. Between sessions, when Ana works on your knee and the ache settles in, you find yourself scrolling back through the messages. You don’t reply every single time. You don’t need to. They make you laugh, something you haven’t done this easily in years.
Still, when the gym empties and the lights dim, you’re alone with the thing that never changes. The need to be better. To stay better. Lewis might be a distraction, but he’s also the only one who understands what that pressure costs. He doesn’t try to fix it. Just listens. Knows when to joke and when to leave silence alone.
You tell yourself it’s fine, That it’s all just timing and friendship and shared discipline. Nothing more, nothing less.
Then there’s a shift. Subtle, at first. Almost. It happens slowly. Like most dangerous things do. The messages start the same way. Updates, jokes, the usual rhythm, but they begin to stretch longer, into hours, crossing time zones without either of you noticing. The messages don’t change in content so much as duration. What used to be check-ins stretches into hours of conversation. Replies come faster. The pauses mean more.
Lewis: Training done?
You: Almost. Still got legs.
Lewis: You’ve ALWAYS got legs.
You: That was dangerously close to flirting, Hamilton.
Lewis: Only close? Damn.
You laugh when you read it, head shaking, thumb hovering over your phone longer than necessary before typing back. He replies too fast. He always does now.
Then one afternoon when you’re half-asleep in a hotel room, sheets twisted around your legs, brain foggy with altitude… your phone lights up. A photo.
Lewis, post-gym. Cap low. Shirt clinging, pushed up just enough to expose the sharp lines of his stomach. Sweat darkening the fabric. Shorts sitting criminally low on his hips, thighs still pumped from effort. Monaco sunlight spilling across him like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
You stare. You roll your eyes to convince yourself your stomach didn’t just flip, like it could make you ignore the hear pooling in your stomach. That you weren’t staring at the sweat on his abs.
You: Hm.
Lewis: Miles said it’s motivational content.
You: For who, exactly?
Lewis: You, apparently.
You: Tell Miles to stop managing your PR.
Lewis: You replied though.
You: Unfortunately.
You stare at the message for a second, then type again, because hormones are a funny thing and impulse is dangerous when you're tired and honest.
You: Your thighs look rideable.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. You can practically see him freezing mid-thought. When his reply finally comes, fifteen whole minutes later, it’s restrained to the point of comedy.
Lewis: I’m glad you think so x
You laugh so hard you drop your phone directly onto your face.
Noa looks up from the other bed. “You good?”
“Fine,” you say, voice too high. “Just…uh, stretching.”
From that point onwards, he’s relentless in a quiet, careful way. Never crossing a line, just leaning on it. Voice notes sent after workouts, his voice low and relaxed, breath still warm from exertion. Short shirtless videos from hotel balconies. The sound of his laugh, unguarded and warm and bright. A photo after nearly every shower, apparently for morale.
And then one evening, after a brutal training day, you cave. You send a photo. Nothing too dramatic, just you in a sports bra and gym shorts post shower. Skin still damp with steam. Your expression unreadable. Confident. Tired. Very aware of what you’re doing. The caption: better motivation?
You forget about it until your phone vibrates three minutes later.
Lewis: That’s not fair.
You: You started it.
Lewis: I regret nothing.
Lewis: Jesus you know exactly what you’re doing.
You: And?
Lewis: And I’m exercising restraint.
Lewis: Barely.
What you don’t see is Lewis sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, phone in his hands, breathing a little faster than usual.
Miles calls fifteen minutes later, his usual FaceTime.
Lewis answers immediately.
“You look like shit,” Miles says, by way of greeting.
Lewis exhales with a grin. “Hello to you too.”
“That wasn’t an insult,” Miles replies. “That was an observation. You only look like this when you’re in trouble.”
Lewis hesitates. “She sent something.”
“Oh,” Miles says instantly, eyebrows shooting up. “So that’s the vibe.”
There's a moment of silence where Miles is trying not to laugh.
“…Something bad?” Miles asks.
Lewis huffs a quiet chuckle. “No. Worse.”
“Worse how?”
“I had to put my phone down,” Lewis says. “Like. Physically walk away from it.”
Miles lets out a giggle, followed by a whistle. “Jesus. Okay. That’s serious.”
“I’m trying to be patient,” Lewis adds, almost defensively.
Miles snorts. “You? Patient? I need this documented.”
“I mean it,” Lewis says. “I don’t want to scare her off.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Miles says. “You’re in love. We’ve established this.”
Lewis doesn’t bother denying it. He never does anymore.
“I want this to last,” he says instead. Quieter now.
That sobers Miles, just a little.
“Alright,” he says. “Then listen to me.”
Lewis does, nodding.
“Don’t rush her,” Miles continues. “But don’t do that thing where you pretend you don’t want her either. She’ll clock that and get pissed.”
Lewis smiles faintly. “She already clocks everything.”
“Exactly,” Miles says. “That’s why she’s dangerous.”
Lewis glances back at the photo on his screen. “I’ve been fucked since Gstaad.”
Miles laughs. “Oh, mate. We KNOW you have.”
There's a second where they're both just grinning at each other.
“Look at you. Fucking lovesick idiot.” Miles grins.
Lewis exhales, smiling and shaking his head. “I can't stop smiling like a complete twat.”
“Good,” Miles says immediately. “About time. You’ve been doing that whole lone wolf thing for years.”
Lewis rolls his eyes but is still smiling.
“Just—” Miles adds, softer now. “Be good to her. And don’t fuck it up.”
Lewis’s voice drops, serious. “I won’t.”
“Cool,” Miles says, cheer back in place. “Now hang up so I can stop picturing whatever she sent you.”
"MILES–" Lewis groans just before Miles giggles again and hangs up.
The calls start shifting too. Less banter, more quiet, more peace.
He calls when he’s back in a hotel room after a race, still wound up on adrenaline. You call when the world is asleep and your body’s too sore to move. It becomes a habit, those still moments where neither of you needs to perform for anyone or anything.
Sometimes it’s just breathing, shared silence across bad connections. Sometimes you talk until you forget what started it.
“Long day?” he asks once, voice low.
“Dom says I’m overdoing it.” You shift, propping the phone against your ear, your body still humming from the exertion of the day.
“Is he wrong?”
You pause, staring at the ceiling. “He’s never wrong. But I can’t stop.”
There’s a small sound on the other end. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know that one.”
He doesn’t tell you to rest. He just stays, voice warm and steady. Until you’re both slightly delusional with exhaustion. Until his composure slips, and your restraint does too.
“I liked your Instagram story today,” he mumbles into the phone, voice low and rough with exhaustion. You can hear the rasp that only shows up when he’s fighting sleep, choosing to stay awake for you. The way his voice deepens into something low, warm and intimate.
The way he says it feels like a confession. You ignore the coil of warmth that spreads through your stomach. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You looked… uh…” He trails off, and you turn to grin into your pillow like a teenager.
“I looked?”
“Pretty?” he tries.
You laugh softly. “Right…”
A couple second of silence. Then, completely seriously he huffs out, “i’m lying. You looked so hot I nearly made Miles unfollow you.”
You laugh brightly, completely disarmed by his honesty. He giggles in response, actually giggles, and the sound hits you strangely deep in the chest.
But then the mood changes. It shifts into something quieter, more intimate. Heavy. Both of you feel it. Both of you remember.
Your mind flickers back to that night. The heat of the hot tub, the steam rising off his skin, his hands gripping your hips, his voice breaking as he came inside you the first time and didn’t stop, the balcony railing, the shower, his cheek on your stomach afterward.
The night he lost every shred of control he’d built his entire life on. The night you let him see parts of you that no one ever really does.
You try to shake the memories out of your head. It doesn’t help.
“You still awake?” he murmurs, quieter now, like he knows exactly where your mind just went.
“Barely,” you whisper. “You? Still wired from the race?”
“Mhm.” A soft rustle as he turns in bed. “Can’t shake it. Thinking about stuff.”
Your heart rate lifts, slow and dangerous. “What stuff?”
Another rustle. A breath that catches in his throat.
“Like...uh, that night,” he says softly. “The one you completely ruined me.”
He chuckles in a way that's almost shy. It wasn't something either of you had spoken about since.
Heat flares low in your belly. He’s never said it out loud before. Not like that. But the memory rushes in: his hands shaking as he lifted you onto him in the hot tub, his voice cracking on your neck, the way he asked, nearly begged, the way his body gave out and kept going anyway.
“Yeah,” you murmur quietly. “It was… a lot.”
“Intense,” he echoes, voice dipping warm. “I think about it more than I should, you know?"
Your breath hitches, words spilling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “What part?”
He hesitates for only a second before letting a quiet, honest hum into the receiver.
“All of it. But starting with you on top of me in the hot tub.” His tone goes softer, deeper. “You rode me like you knew exactly how I’d fall apart for you. I didn’t stand a chance.”
Your thighs press together at the sound of his voice. You shouldn't respond, shouldn't urge him to continue. You knew exactly where this was going. “Felt so good. You were so hard,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself. “Could feel you twitching inside me.”
A quiet groan breaks through the line. Warm, contained, him.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “God, yeah. I can still feel it sometimes. The way you sank onto me… the way you squeezed around me…” His voice trails off, thick with memory. “I’ve never felt anything as good as you.”
You swallow. He continues, voice even lower now, almost shy in how honest he’s being.
“And then you turned around when we got to the bed,” he murmurs. “Offered me your ass like you owned me. I lost the plot. I think about you every night.”
You let out a soft sound at that. The thought of him thinking about you every night, on his back, one hand behind his head–
“And the balcony,” you whisper, needing more.
He huffs out a soft laugh that’s disbelieving and wrecked.
“Jesus Christ, that balcony… you bent over the rail and I swear I almost came just from watching you arch for me.” His voice drops to a whisper. “You looked unreal in that cold air. Gorgeous.”
Your fingers drift lower without thinking, brushing heat through your shorts. Lewis hears it somehow, like a sixth sense.
“You touching yourself?” he asks, soft, not pushy. The same gentle curiosity he used that night.
“Maybe,” you breathe.
He exhales hard, like he’s gripping the edge of the bed.
“I am,” he admits, voice thickening. “Just… reacting to you like I always do. You have that effect on me. Make my brain just stop working.”
Your stomach flips. “What are you doing?” you whisper.
“Stroking myself,” he murmurs. “Just like in the shower. Remember? Too sensitive to stand, but still needing you. Always needing you.”
Your fingers slip under your waistband, circling softly.
“And you?” he asks quietly. “What are you doing, angel?”
Your breathing picks up pace. The words come out unfiltered, lustful. “Fingers on my clit,” you whisper. “Slow. Like you would.”
A rough sound escapes him. You can imagine him perfectly. Head tipped back against the pillow, chest rising too fast, hand moving slow because he’s trying not to finish too soon.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, voice strained.
“You,” you admit. “Your mouth on me. How you were half asleep but still wanted to give me more. You looked so good between my thighs, Lewis.”
He groans. A full-body sound that makes your stomach clench.
“God, I'd do it again tomorrow,” he whispers. “I’d hold you still and lick your pretty pussy until you cried for me, angel.”
Your breath breaks. Your fingers move faster.
“Lewis—”
His breath shudders.
“I want to be inside you so bad,” he whispers. “Right now. Slow at first, just to feel you stretch around me again.”
“Then hard?” you breathe.
He moans gently at the thought. “Hard enough you forget your own name again.”
You gasp, fingers slipping inside yourself.
“That what you’re doing?” he asks gently. “Fucking yourself on your fingers?”
“Yes…” you breathe, voice thin with pleasure.
His breathing changes then, still steady and controlled, but like that image is enough for him to lose it.
“I’m close,” he whispers. “You gonna come with me?”
You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yes.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, warm and soft. Not filthy like on the balcony, but intimate. “Come with me, angel.”
Your orgasm hits firs. Sharp, quiet, all breath and tension and pleasure curling tight. A soft moan escapes into the phone.
Lewis follows seconds later, a rough grunt muffled into his pillow, breath catching as he spills over his hand.
Silence returns then. Warm, sweet, sleepy.
“That was…” he starts, voice dazed, softer than you’ve ever heard him.
“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling. “Good.”
He laughs, the sound drenched in affection.
“Get some sleep, ice angel,” he murmurs. “You’ve got training tomorrow. I’m not letting you blame me if you wipe out.”
You laugh, but neither of you hangs up. You fall asleep like that, phones pressed to ears, breaths syncing, oceans apart but curled around the same memory. You try not to read into how quickly you manage to fall asleep listening to the sound of him breathing on the other side.
It becomes something you don’t have words for. You still train the same, still chase perfection, still go to bed with your body bruised and your mind buzzing…but now, he’s threaded through all of it.
You’ll be mid-run, mid-flip, and his voice will flicker through your mind. A low murmur reminding you to breathe, to trust the air. It’s unsettling, addictive, dangerous.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself this is just comfort. Habit. That it’s all just timing and friendship and shared discipline and release. But sometimes, when you catch yourself replaying his voice in your head mid-run to ground yourself, you start to wonder if you’re lying. When you call him after a bad day and he always answers, or makes a point to call you back within ten minutes every single time, you start to wonder if you’re lying. When you try to sleep and you can smell him, even if he’s across the world, you start to wonder if you’re lying. When the phone calls shift to you coming undone to his low moans like you’ve formed some sort of codependent mutual phone sex routine...you wonder if you’re lying.
He stops hiding it as well. His texts get softer, the phrasing looser. Training clip looked sick becomes proud of you. How’s training? becomes Wish I could see it in person.
The night before Switzerland, he sends one that makes your stomach flip.
Lewis: You ever think about slowing down?
You: No.
Lewis: Didn’t think so.
You: Why?
Lewis: Just curious what you’d do if you had to.
You: Probably explode.
Lewis: Yeah. Thought so.
You stare at it too long. You don't know what to make of it. This is the first time it's feels like he's pushing you a little. You type back something that deflects the focus off you.
You: You’d hate it too.
Lewis: Hate what?
You: Stillness.
Lewis: Not if it’s with the right person, stillness can be good sometimes.
You don’t reply. You can’t. But the thought follows you. Onto the plane, into the snow, right to the top of the mountain where the world finally goes quiet again.
Lewis’s calendar looks impossible again. Simulator sessions, races, debriefs, sponsor meetings, media commitments, repeat. Every hour plotted like a map he’s been following for two decades.
Still, his mind keeps slipping elsewhere. To snow, to silence, to her.
They haven’t seen each other in person since LA. Nearly two months. Not long, but long enough that he feels the gap like a physical ache some nights.
She’d texted earlier that week, in one of those dry, mid-training bursts of energy that always make him smile.
You: Shaun’s flying out next week for Worlds. Haven’t seen him in ages.
Lewis: Tell him to behave.
You: He’s Shaun, Lewis.
Lewis: Exactly my point.
Miles reads that text exchange over his shoulder while they’re sitting in his kitchen. “You’re doomed, bro.”
Lewis doesn’t look up. “Why?”
“She said she’s excited to see Shaun,” Miles says. “She didn’t say she’s excited to see you.”
Lewis shoots him a dry look. “Maybe because she doesn’t know I could be there.”
“Oh my god,” Miles says, sitting forward, eyes wide. “Wait. Are you thinking of going?”
“I’ve got commitments,” Lewis says quickly. “Press, training, the usual.”
Shaun, walking past with his smoothie, catches the tail end. “Going where?”
Miles grins. “To see your favourite snowboarder win another title.”
Shaun’s face lights up immediately. “Oh, hell yeah! You should come dude. She’d lose it.”
Lewis frowns, even though his chest tightens at the thought. “She’s focused, man. I don’t want to distract her.”
Shaun barks a laugh. “Mate, she’s been landing tricks that look like physics malfunctions. She’s not getting distracted by you.”
Miles raises an eyebrow. “You’ve called her every day for the last month. You think showing up changes anything?”
“I don’t call her every day,” Lewis says, though his tone betrays him.
“Bro,” Miles deadpans. “You call her so much I know her training schedule by heart because when she’s not training…you never pick up my calls.”
Shaun nods solemnly. “You and that girl are like two fucked up athletic lab rats wired to the same caffeine drip.”
Lewis laughs quietly, but he ducks his head out of slight embarrassment. “You’re all dramatic.”
Miles leans forward. “She told you she’s excited to see Shaun. You’re really gonna let him get all the hugs and hero worship while you’re sitting here pretending you don’t care?”
“I do care,” Lewis says. “That’s the problem.”
“Then come,” Miles says simply. “Shaun and Nina are already going. We’ll blend in, wear hats, do the whole mysterious-supporter thing. She’ll never see it coming.”
Shaun grins. “She’ll see it coming. But she’ll like it.”
Nina appears in the doorway like she’s been summoned. “What’s this?”
Miles answers before Lewis can. “We’re getting him to Switzerland. Operation Romantic Idiot.”
Nina smirks. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for this subplot to pay off.”
Lewis groans, leaning back in his chair. “My love life is not a subplot.”
Miles crosses his arms, triumphant. “You’re gonna sit here, call her before bed like you always do, watch her win from a hotel room... when you could be there?”
Shaun shrugs. “You’d love to see her run in person, man. Trust me.”
Lewis stares down at his phone, thumb hovering over their last message thread. Her sending a blurry photo from training, goggles crooked, smile easy. He really did miss her.
“She’s fine without me,” he says eventually.
“Of course she is,” Miles replies softly. “That’s not the point.”
The silence stretches, long enough for Shaun to finish his smoothie and Nina to swipe his fries.
Finally, Lewis exhales. “You’re all mad.”
“Yep,” Miles says. “And right.”
Lewis glances between them, resigned. “You already booked the flights, didn’t you?”
Miles grins. “I booked them while you were denying your feelings. Efficiency, baby!”
Shaun laughs. “You’re welcome, by the way. Nina and I already have your chalet sorted.”
Lewis rubs his temples, but he’s smiling now. “You all need new hobbies.”
Nina sips her coffee. “We have one. It’s called watching you finally find yourself a wife.”
Miles slaps him on the back. “Switzerland, brother! You can’t love her over FaceTime forever.”
Lewis sighs, shaking his head, half annoyed, half grateful. “You’re all ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously loyal,” Miles corrects.
He mutters something that sounds like agreement, already picturing snow, the crowd, the way she looks when she’s about to drop in.
By the time they leave for the airport, he’s stopped pretending he doesn’t want to go.
The car glides through a valley that looks like a painting someone decided to live in. Sharp white peaks, the kind of cold that feels ancient.
Lewis sits in the back, hood pulled up, watching snowflakes race each other down the window. Miles is asleep beside him, headphones on, mouth open. Shaun and Nina are in the front, sharing a packet of crisps, arguing about whose playlist gets control.
It’s a rare stillness. The kind he should enjoy. Instead, his mind won’t settle. He’s not competing, not going to a briefing, not strategising. He’s just waiting, and that is SO much worse.
“Relax,” Nina says, turning slightly. “You’re pacing in your seat.”
Lewis blinks, caught. “Am I?”
Shaun laughs. “Mate, you’re worse than before any race we've ever attended. It’s adorable.”
“I’m just—” he stops, smiling and exasperated. “—I want her to be okay. The course looks icy from the photos I’ve seen. She doesn’t need ice, she needs good snow, you know?.”
Miles stirs awake at that, yawning like a lion. “Oh, God. We’re back on that topic. You’ve said the words ‘pipe conditions’ like ten times today.”
“They matter,” Lewis says simply, his voice quieter than usual. He stares out the window.
Miles looks at Shaun, whispering very loudly. “He’s worse than I thought.”
Nina laughs softly. “It’s sweet. You can tell it’s real when he starts analysing snow texture.”
They reach the resort mid-afternoon. The air is thin and brilliant, the crowd already gathering. The flags of a dozen countries line the fences, and the speaker system hums with some german commentary.
Lewis tugs his hat lower, zips his coat up like that could help camouflage him. He’s used to being recognised everywhere. Airports, paddocks, restaurants, shops. But this feels different. Here, he doesn’t want attention. Doesn't want to take away from her. He just wants to watch.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Down the slope, through the blur of colour and motion, he spots her. Bright jacket. Board balanced casually in one hand. The competition helmet he remembers holding months ago in Gstaad on her head. That easy grace she carries even when she’s just walking. The rest of the world fades into background noise.
“Yup,” Miles says, following his gaze. “There it is. The look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you forget how to function as a human being.”
Lewis side-eyes him, smiling despite himself. “Grow up.”
“Never.”
She doesn’t see him. She’s deep in conversation with Dom, gesturing toward the half-pipe, nodding at something Ella’s saying. Focused, sharp, completely in her element. He feels something in his chest shift instantly. Pride, affection, maybe awe.
They stand near the barrier, the four of them bundled like overgrown tourists. The cold stings their faces, but no one complains. Miles is halfway through a bag of popcorn he absolutely wasn’t supposed to bring. Definitely not in his meal plan.
And then—
“Excuse me,” says a warm Northern voice behind them, “is this the area for athlete families?”
Lewis turns.
An older couple, wrapped up in heavy coats, both wearing the same expression. A mix of excitement, nerves, and calm pride. Her parents. He knows it instantly. The resemblance isn’t in their features exactly, but their eyes. They have the same clear, cutting focus, softened by kindness.
“Think so,” Miles answers quickly, instantly welcoming, smile already turned up to max. “You here for—”
“Our daughter,” her mum says proudly. “She’s competing today. You might’ve seen her.”
“Oh, we’ve seen her,” Miles says, hand to heart. “We’re her biggest fans. Well, second biggest.”
Her dad chuckles. “She told us about some new friends from her weekend in Gstaad. One of them a fencer, one a racing driver. You’re them, aren’t you?”
Lewis freezes for a second, the quiet shock of it hitting him in the ribs. She told them about us.
Miles lights up like it's Christmas morning. “Yes sir!” he says, sticking out a hand. “Miles Chamley-Watson. Your daughter’s new bestie. This is Lewis.”
Her mum shakes their hands warmly. “Oh, she mentioned you both! Said you were bad influences but made her laugh.”
Miles cackles. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”
Lewis smiles, quietly. “She laughs easily,” he says before he can stop himself. Then, softer, “You saw her before she went out there? She doing okay?”
Her dad beams like the answer never had any doubt. “She’s never not doing well. Been like this since she was a kid. Never sat still, never did anything by halves. Once she sets her mind on something…”
“Nothing gets in her way,” Lewis finishes softly.
Her mum nods. “Exactly. You get it.”
He does. More than he can say. They chat for a few minutes. Easy warmth, laughter, the kind of conversation that hums with genuine affection.
Her mum asks where they’re from. Her dad asks Lewis what it’s like racing in the rain. Miles, somehow, is already telling a story that starts with “So anyway, your daughter absolutely destroyed us at the arcade—”
“She did what?” her mum laughs.
“Humiliated us,” Miles says proudly. “Publicly.”
Her dad shakes his head fondly. “Sounds like her.”
Miles has already declared himself “honorary son,” while Shaun jokes that he’s taking credit for her sense of humour and her parents laugh like they’ve heard it all before from him. They adore them both instantly.
They’re humble. Lovely. Grounded. The kind of people who make Lewis feel steadier just standing near them. When her mum says, “She’s been like this since she was 7, you know. Obsessive. Brilliant, but exhausting,” he can’t help but laugh softly.
He gets it. Entirely.
When her name comes over the loudspeaker, the whole group goes quiet. The crowd erupts in cheers. British flags waving. Lewis spots a young girl clutching a beanie with your name and the red bull logo on it, her eyes widen just at the sight of you. Lewis’s stomach does a funny thing. Your parents grip the barrier, their faces lighting up like a sunrise.
Her mum presses a hand briefly to her chest. Her dad leans forward, eyes shining already. “That’s our baby.”
Lewis doesn’t blink. You’re at the start gate now, helmet down, gloves tapping against your board. The commentators are rambling about perfection and precision, about the best female snowboarder the world has ever seen...but Lewis doesn’t hear a word. All he can think is how small you look up there, and how the second you move, the whole mountain will remember you.
The world stills before it begins. You’re standing at the top of the half-pipe, board angled, gloves tight, wind clawing at the edge of your clothes. The crowd hums below. A loww, nervous murmur that disappears the second you lower your goggles.
Breathe in. Out. Once more.
The cold bites at your lungs, sharp and clean. You want it that way. You’ve spent your life chasing this feeling. The instant before the drop, when the noise of the world narrows to nothing but geometry and air.
Somewhere in the distance, the commentator says your name. The sound barely registers. You’ve trained this silence into existence. One last tap of the board. One last flex of your knees. Go.
You drop in. The world flips. Snow explodes beneath you, white against white, gravity bending to your rhythm. The first air time feels like recognition, the second like freedom. Every spin, every grab, every breath exactly where you need it to be.
Control. Precision. Art disguised as flight. Dom’s voice, buried somewhere in memory: make it look effortless like you always do.
You do. By the third rotation, you know it’s clean. By the last landing, you know it’s perfect. You hit the final trick, a trick that too many said was impossible, and stick it like it was written in the snow all along. When your board meets the ground, you can feel the vibration up your spine. You look up. The world erupts.
From Lewis’s seat, it’s complete chaos. Bright, echoing, overwhelming. He’s on his feet before he realises it, one gloved hand clutching the barrier, breath caught somewhere between a prayer and a shout. Miles yells so loud a kid in front of him jumps.
Shaun’s next to him, practically vibrating, shouting, “THAT’S MY GIRL! THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!”
Nina’s filming on her phone, eyes wide and shining.
Lewis can’t even speak. His jaw is slack, heart hammering, every muscle in his body wired to her movements. He’s watched her runs before...a hundred times, a thousand if he’s honest with himself and how his phone lights up his face in the dark, but nothing compares to this. The way she moves like she’s rewriting physics. The way her landing looks like grace and defiance at once.
He’s seen greatness. He’s been greatness. But this, this is something else entirely. Next to him, her parents clutch each other, her mum’s hand over her mouth, her dad laughing and crying at the same time.
“She did it,” her mum whispers, voice breaking. “She actually did it.”
A Cab Double Cork 1080. Lewis barely processed it til he heard your mum’s voice. Shaun is screaming with his hands on his head in disbelief. He’d heard you talk about it a thousand times. Heard shaun tell you it was borderline impossible, you grumbling over the phone about the fact that Dom said it was too risky.
Lewis turns to them, eyes still wide, unable to stop smiling. “She’s...she's incredible.”
Her dad nods, pride raw in his voice. “Always has been.”
Below, Dom and the team are losing it. Dom with his hands in the air, shouting something that’s definitely not PG for broadcast. Noa and Ella are a blur of movement, helmets off, screaming, crying, hugging.
Ana, has both hands pressed to her chest; Rhea, is hugging her so tight they almost fall over. The staff around them are clapping, laughing, already calling for the score. The whole slope feels alive.
Lewis laughs, full, unguarded, pure joy. He throws his arm around Miles’s shoulder and shakes him like a proud parent. “Did you see that?”
Miles is yelling back, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER MY OWN EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN! WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!”
Nina’s crying now too, laughing between tears. Shaun’s filming the scoreboard like he’s directing a movie, hands shaking with pride.
When the numbers flash up — 97.6, a new record — the noise from the crowd swells into something transcendent. The flags blur. The cameras swing. Snow flurries through spotlights like confetti just for you.
Up on the screen, you pull your goggles down and press both hands to your helmet, quiet disbelief giving way to a slow, stunned grin.
At the base, your team charges forward. Arms around you before you’ve even unclipped from your board. Dom lifts you off the ground, yelling something about perfection, you lunatic, while Ella’s sobbing outright into your shoulder.
You let yourself laugh. Just once, full and real. The medal hasn’t even been hung yet, but the victory already feels complete.
Lewis watches from the barrier, hands shoved deep into his pockets now, chest still heaving. There’s a calm settling over him, the kind that comes after witnessing something pure. Something beautiful.
Her mum touches his arm, smiling through tears. “You look proud.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
Miles, beside him, scrubs at his face with his sleeve, blinking hard. There may or may not be actual tears on his face. “Don’t mind me,” he says hoarsely. “I think I’m just… in awe of her.”
Lewis doesn’t take his eyes off the slope. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
"Jesus, I get you mate. I'd be in love with her too if you didn't call dibs."
"Fuck off, Miles," Lewis grins, almost giddy.
Below, cameras flash. You raise your board in one hand, wave once, and smile up toward the stands, toward no one and everyone. For a split second, Lewis swears you’re looking straight at him. The moment burns itself into his memory. His heart beating so loud he can hear it in his ears. The sound, the snow, the look on your face. Always so calm, unshakable, divine. You’ve done it again, and he’s never been prouder to lose himself in someone else’s victory.
The noise doesn’t stop. It just changes shape. Reporters crowd the finish zone, cameras flashing in bursts that make the snow glitter. Dom’s still wiping at his eyes, laughing and swearing. Noa and Ella are vibrating beside him, chanting your name like it’s a national anthem.
You’ve done this before, of course. The medals, the interviews, the chaos. But it still hits the same way every single time. The weight of the moment presses against your chest until it almost hurts.
“Cab Double Cork 1080,” one commentator says into a mic, voice trembling. “The first one landed on a half pipe.”
Dom chokes on a laugh. “She made me cry over a rotation,” he mutters, rubbing his face.
A small group of kids squeeze through the barrier, boards tucked under their arms, eyes wide like they’ve just seen a superhero step off of a screen. A security guard moves to usher them back, but you wave him off.
“It’s alright,” you say, kneeling down so you’re at their level.
The smallest girl, maybe eight or nine, holds out a board covered in stickers. “You’re my favourite,” she blurts.
You grin, eyes always kind for the kids. “That’s a lot of pressure, you know.”
She giggles. “You don’t fall.”
“Not when cameras are watching,” you whisper conspiratorially, and the whole group bursts out laughing. You sign every board, take every photo, hold every mittened hand.
Dom’s somewhere behind you, pretending not to cry again. Miles is filming the whole thing on his phone from the barrier, whispering to Shaun, “She’s unreal. Like… actual sunshine. I didn’t know she was good with kids. She's so warm with them.”
Shaun laughs, shaking his head. “That’s not sunshine, man. That’s legacy.”
When the kids finally run off, clutching their boards like treasure, you stand and exhale. Your breath fogs in the cold, and you can hear the click of camera shutters multiplying around you.
The medal ceremony blurs. Podium, anthem, the feel of cold metal against your skin. You raise the gold for the photographers, wave once at the crowd. Calm. Composed. Your default setting.
But when you spot your team below, there’s no pretending. Ella’s waving both arms like an air-traffic controller; Noa’s crying openly. Dom’s still on his phone, probably texting everyone he’s ever met.
You jump down and immediately disappear into them again. Hugs, laughter, screams. It’s all a blur of jackets and gloves and tears.
Dom’s voice rises above the noise. “THE CAB DOUBLE CORK 1080! YOU MADWOMAN!”
You laugh so hard you nearly drop the medal. “Told you I’d land it.”
“Not like that!” he says, clutching his chest. “Do you know what you just did to my heart rate?”
Noa’s jumping up and down beside him, shouting to anyone who’ll listen, “That’s our girl! That’s our GOLD!”
Ella joins in, waving the British flag she somehow grabbed from someone.
Your head’s spinning, heart hammering. Then Noa tugs your sleeve and nods toward the family and friends section. “Go on,” she says, grinning. “They’re waiting.”
You follow her gaze. Your parents, front row, both crying and laughing at once. You don’t think. You just run.
The cameras flash as you reach them. Your mum’s already reaching over the barrier, pulling you in, kissing your cheek despite the snow on your helmet. Your dad’s right there too, hands on your shoulders, voice rough.
“Proud doesn’t even cover it,” he says, laughing through tears.
You blink hard, smile wobbling. “You’re gonna make me cry on TV.”
“Good,” your mum says. “Let them see what it means.”
For a moment, you don’t move.
You just hold them both. Your mum’s arms warm and familiar, your dad’s hand steady at your back. The noise falls away. The crowd, the cameras, the cold. All of it dissolves until the world narrows to breath and heartbeats and the quiet certainty of being held.
It’s grounding in a way nothing else is. Familiar. Foundational. This is where it all started. Long drives, early mornings, frozen fingers lacing up boots while the sky was still dark. A lifetime of pressure and expectation held together by this.
You don’t mean to cry. It just happens. A few tears slipping free before you can stop them. Not from sadness, from release. From carrying the weight every day and finally setting it down, just for a second. Worth it. All of it.
Your mum wipes the tear away with her thumb, smiling through her own, and your dad kisses your cheek again, lingering like he doesn’t want to let go.
Lewis has to turn away. The tightness in his chest comes far too fast, far too sharp. He blinks hard, jaw set, focusing on the snow at his feet until the feeling settles enough to breathe through. Beside him, Miles makes a small, broken sound, scrubbing at his face without even pretending he’s fine. It shouldn’t have hit them as hard as this. But you’re untouchable in their minds. Disciplined, composed, almost mechanical in your devotion to the sport. Watching you break open, even for a second, is something else entirely. It’s human. It’s beautiful. It leaves both of them aching with pride, with affection, with the quiet awe of knowing they’ve just witnessed something rare.
Dom’s voice cuts through again, calling for you to come back, but before you can turn, you spot Shaun and Nina a few feet away, both clapping and grinning.
“Wonder kid does it again,” Shaun says when you reach them, pride shining behind the joke. He kisses the top of your helmet like an older brother. “Still making the rest of us look bad.”
Nina smiles, pulling you into a quick hug. “You’re incredible, sweetheart!”
You grin, flushed and breathless. “You’re both saps.”
“For good reason,” Shaun says.
Then...chaos again. Miles appears out of nowhere, arms wide, yelling, “SHE DID IT! SHE ACTUALLY DID IT!” and scoops you up off the ground before you can protest.
“Miles?!” you shriek, laughing as the medal clinks against his jacket. “What are you doi– Who let you in?! Miles! Put me down!”
“Never!”
“Put me down or I swear—”
He finally does, still laughing so hard he nearly stumbles. “I told you I’d see you win one in person!”
You're eyes crinkle as you smile at him, patting his shoulder gently.
The world spins around you. Press, flashes, voices calling your name...but when you turn back toward the barrier, the noise dulls suddenly, like someone’s reached over and turned the volume down.
There he is. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating. You blink once. Then again. But he doesn’t disappear.
Lewis. Standing right there at the edge of the crowd, bucket hat pulled low, shoulders relaxed like he hasn’t just detonated your entire nervous system. Still somehow composed, even as his eyes find yours and soften in that way that makes your chest go tight. You forget how to breathe.
He notices the exact moment it clicks, sees it on your face, and steps forward. Slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you time to process him being real. Miles slips aside with a grin so smug it should be illegal.
“Surprise,” Lewis says quietly, when he’s close enough for only you to hear.
You laugh. A short, breathless sound that escapes before you can stop it, disbelief bubbling up and spilling everywhere. “You’re supposed to be in Italy.”
He shrugs, ducking his head just a little, like this wasn’t a huge thing. Like he hasn’t crossed borders for this moment. “I took a detour.”
Something in you breaks open. It’s too much. The snow, the lights, the adrenaline still vibrating in your bones. Before you can overthink it, before you can reassemble your composure, you reach for him. Pure instinct. Muscle memory. Relief. He catches you immediately, arms wrapping around you like it’s always been this way, like he’s been waiting for this exact second for months.
This hug isn’t careful. It’s warm and solid and real. Human. You fit against him without trying. Your gloved hand finds the back of his neck, fingers curling there like they know the place by heart. Somewhere behind you, cameras flash, people shout something about Lewis Hamilton. You don’t care. Not even a little.
Lewis exhales against your hair, a sound that’s half laugh, half wrecked. Just for you. You feel his jaw work, his mouth open and close a couple of times like he has a thousand things to say but doesn't trust himself to speak. Eventually he pick something safe and mutter a quiet, “you were… fucking insane.”
You pull back just enough to look up at him, still smiling like you can’t quite believe your own eyes. Still breathless. Still buzzing. “You came all this way just to say that?”
His smile is soft, unmistakably fond. The kind he never gives the cameras. His hand lifts and swipes a snowflake from your eyebrow. “I’d have come twice as far for you.”
Your chest does something strange at that. Tight and light all at once. You shake your head, laughing again, like this is ridiculous. Like it doesn’t mean anything. Like you’re not absolutely glowing.
But there it is. The thing that’s been circling the two of you for months. The unspoken gravity. The patience. The want. No longer contained in late-night calls or careful messages. Caught, finally, in daylight.
Your parents stand a few feet away, still smiling through tears, watching the two of you with an attention that sharpens into something else entirely.
Your mum tilts her head, eyes narrowing just a little. Not out of suspicion, but recognition. “Do you see that?” she murmurs.
Your dad follows her gaze. The way his smile shifts is subtle, almost disbelieving. “I do,” he says softly. “She doesn’t do that.”
Miles hears them and lets out a sharp, startled laugh. Not teasing, not loud. “Oh,” he says. “Oh wow.”
He drags a hand down his face, eyes flicking between you and Lewis like he’s just watched a law of nature bend. “Yeah,” he adds faintly. “He's only gone and done it.”
Behind him, your team has gone quiet.
Dom’s arms are crossed, but his jaw has softened. A familiar mix of protectiveness and reluctant approval settling in. Noa watches with a small, stunned smile, like she’s just realised she’s seeing something she never thought she would. Ella nudges her gently, eyes bright, not teasing for once. Ana’s hand is pressed to her chest, lips parted, like she’s holding back a comment she doesn’t quite trust herself to say. Rhea just nods once, slow and satisfied. They'd all noticed it, but here it was. Obvious as anything.
Shaun exhales a low whistle. “Huh,” he says, impressed.
Nina’s smile is gentler, knowing. “She trusts him.”
Lewis doesn’t react to any of it. Doesn’t pretend not to hear. Doesn’t look away. He’s still looking at you like the rest of the world has blurred into background noise, like he’s carefully memorising the way you feel here. Warm, real, unguarded.
For once, you don’t rush. You don’t deflect. You don’t pull away.
You just stand there, gold medal heavy around your neck, his hands still warm at your waist, and let it exist. For the moment, you aren't thinking about your next medal, the next competition, the next training block. You're smiling straight back at him, and the world feels exactly right.
The bar is loud. All glass and golden light, the air thick with laughter and the faint sting of champagne. The kind of night that hums with the energy of a win.
Dom’s already halfway through his first pint, retelling your run to anyone who’ll listen, embellishing every rotation like a poet. “The Cab Double Cork 1080,” he declares, hands in the air. “She stuck it like she was born in zero gravity!”
Ana raises her glass. “To genius,” she says, and everyone cheers.
Noa and Ella are still in their competition jackets, hair messy from helmets, smiling so hard their faces ache. Rhea’s got her phone out, filming everything, already planning a huge carb load for tomorrow to aid your recovery.
You’re in the middle of it. Flushed, glowing, a gold medal still glinting faintly under the lights. But what really makes Lewis’s chest ache is that you’re laughing. Properly. Not the quiet, controlled smile you give cameras. Real laughter, head thrown back, eyes bright.
He’s seated beside you, your fingers laced through his without either of you meaning to. At some point you hooked your arm through his, tugged him closer, and he hasn’t moved since. He wouldn't dare. Every time you lean in to speak, he feels his heartbeat in his ears.
Miles watches from across the table, grinning like he’s been waiting months for this. Which, in all honesty, he has. “Would you look at this? Domestic bliss, sports edition.”
Lewis kicks his shin under the table. “Shut up.”
But he’s still smiling. He can’t help it.
Shaun and Nina arrive late, champagne in hand. Shaun sets the glasses down and shouts, “TO THE QUEEN OF THE HALFPIPE!” The table erupts again, Dom wiping his eyes, Ella banging on the table like a drum.
“You’re all so annoying,” you say, trying not to laugh and failing.
“You’re welcome,” Shaun grins.
When the music picks up, bass heavy, nostalgic, someone yells for the DJ to play something good. A beat later, Drake’s NOKIA slides through the speakers, and Miles freezes mid-sip, eyes going wide.
“Oh my God,” he gasps, already standing. “You’re not ready.”
“Miles—”
He ignores you, starts swaying his hips with alarming dedication, arms raising and pointing at you like he's in a music video. “BABYGIRLLLLLL LET ME SEE YOU DO YOUR DANCE, LET ME SEE YOU TWIRLLLLLL!”
The table loses it. Noa’s doubled over, crying with laughter; Dom’s filming; Nina’s choking on her drink.
You’re shaking your head, cheeks hurting from smiling. “You’re insane!”
Miles points dramatically at you. “You’re the gold medalist, ice angel! Get up!”
You groan, still laughing, but when he grabs your hand and pulls you up, you go.
The two of you are joy personified. Miles spinning you like he’s auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing, shouting the lyrics at the top of his lungs while you stumble, laughing so hard you can barely breathe.
“HIT THE DANCE FLOOR, GET NASTY, IMPRESS ME! BABY GIRLLLL”
Lewis is watching, grinning, warmth spilling through him like light. You look free, really free. For once, there’s no composure, no calculation, no thoughts about training. Just pure, beautiful joy. Watching you like that with his best friend makes his chest feel warm and his stomach flutter.
He lets his eyes drop to your ass for a single second. Maybe two. Images of that night in Gstaad, the sounds of your breathy moans over the phone, the way he wants his hands all over you...
Then he snaps out of it and his eyes go straight back to your beaming face. He's gotten incredibly good at restraint.
Shaun leans toward him, smirking. “Never seen her like this. She’s happy, man. You did good.”
Lewis shakes his head, eyes still fixed on you. “That’s all her.”
When the song ends, Miles drops into an exaggerated bow, dripping literal sweat. You’re breathless, cheeks flushed, hair messy from spinning.
You make your way back to the table, drunk on laughter, and collapse into the seat beside Lewis again. He wraps an arm around your waist automatically, steadying you, his hand warm against the curve of your side.
“Show off,” he murmurs, smiling against your hair.
“Peer pressure,” you shoot back, leaning into him anyway.
Miles points at the two of you, overwhelmed with happiness and the 7 cocktails he’s had. “That’s love right there. Mark my words.”
Ella groans, shaking her head for your sake. “Miles, you say that every time someone shares an Uber.”
But there’s a knowing look that passes around the table. It's small, unspoken. Everyone sees it now. The quiet way you reach for Lewis’s hand again. The way he looks at you like he’s memorising something beautiful. How the two months of distance had only seemingly made you closer.
The night goes on. Champagne, stories, music. It’s loud, messy, beautiful. A celebration that feels like something bigger than a medal.
Through it all, Lewis keeps catching himself smiling. Because tonight, for once, all of his patience feels worth it.
The night winds down the way all perfect nights do. Too fast. By the time they spill out of the bar, the air is cold enough to sting, the world muffled in falling snow. Music thuds faintly through the walls behind them, laughter echoing down the street.
You’re the last two out. Lewis holds the door, lets it swing shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the quiet. For a moment you just stand there, breath misting in the air, the glow of the streetlights catching in the snowflakes that settle in your hair.
He tucks his hands into his coat pockets. “You look happy,” he says.
You smile, a gentle one that softens everything. “I am. It’s been a good night.”
“More than good,” he says. “You were—” he stops himself, laughs lightly. “There aren’t enough words.”
You nudge him with your shoulder, attempt a small deflection. “You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “But I’ve earned the right to be.”
You huff a quiet laugh, eyes on the snow. “I didn’t think you’d come. Didn’t even let myself think that you could…”
He shrugs, smile warm and affectionate. “Didn’t think I could stay away.”
It’s said easily, but something in the way he looks at you makes it heavier than he means. You both feel it.
You start walking, boots crunching against the ice-packed street. He falls into step beside you. When you slip on a patch of snow, his hand finds your elbow, steadying you, then doesn’t move away. You don’t ask him to. His hand trails down your arm to find your hand.
For a while there’s only silence. The good kind, the one that hums with everything unsaid. Then, quietly, he says, “I’ve waited weeks for this.”
You glance at him. He's so impossibly beautiful. The gentleness in his brown eyes, his long lashes, the smile on his face that hasn’t left all night. “For what?”
“This,” he says simply. “Just being here. With you. Seeing you like this. Happy.”
It’s the kind of honesty that doesn’t demand anything back. It just sits between you, warm in the cold air.
You stop walking. He does too. The world around you feels suspended. The snow, the faint hum of music, the breath between you. You can feel his eyes on you, soft and certain.
“Lewis,” you start, but the word fades. You don’t even know what you were going to say. Some sort of deflection, a reestablishment of the no boyfriend boundary. An I’m too busy and can’t afford to let you distract me. It vanishes before it even forms when you see the way his eyes sparkle as he looks at you.
He steps closer, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted to. You don’t. His hand comes up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he murmurs. “But I needed you to know, I really have been waiting.”
Your chest tightens, equal parts warmth and ache. “You’ve been very patient,” you say, trying for lightness but failing.
He smiles again. Honest, small, sincere. “Worth it.”
You look up at him then, the snow melting against your lashes. He’s close enough that you can see the reflection of the lamplight in his eyes. You can feel the heat of him even through the cold.
So, stupidly, you lean in, just enough to close the distance.
The kiss is slow, quiet, nothing like the noise inside. It feels like exhaling, like something that’s been waiting months for its own moment. His hands find your waist beneath your coat and pull you closer, thumb drawing circles through the fabric of your sweater. He tastes exactly how you remember. Mint, sweet, with a slight hint of the singular glass of champagne he let himself have in your honour. When you pull back, you’re both smiling. A smile of relief.
He laughs under his breath, low and amazed. “Jesus,” he says softly, shaking his head. “I really have been waiting for that.”
You grin, eyes sparkling in return now. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“Everything with you is,” he says. “In the best way. Since I met you my whole world has been tilted on its axis I swear, ” he huffs in disbelief. His eyes flicker over your features reverently, drinking you in like a man that hasn't had water in months.
You nudge his shoulder again, too scared to say much more, and he catches your hand, threading his fingers through yours as you start walking back through the snow. You’d already decided he was coming back with you, you didn't even have to ask.
The door clicks shut behind you, soft and final, muffled by the low hum of the city beyond. Artificial light from the street lamps spill through the half‑drawn curtains in thin white lines, brushing across your floor, your bed. The quiet evidence of your life mid‑season. Board bags at the door, a shaker bottle on its side, resistance bands over the chair.
Lewis doesn’t speak. You don’t either.
It’s not silence. It’s something denser. Loaded. Like the air between you is stitched with all the things you haven’t touched on yet. All the messages, the calls, the photos sent across months and continents. All the nights where he came apart alone, thinking of you. The nights you did the same. The nights you did it to the sound of each other over the phone.
When you turn to look at him after taking your jacket off, his eyes are already on you. Steady. Intent. His hands flex once at his sides like he’s reminding himself not to reach for you yet. He looks like he’s barely holding it together.
It's not in the wild, frantic way he did that first night in Gstaad. This is something far deeper. Controlled. Devotional. Like he’s admiring the moment, scared that moving too fast will break it.
You take a step toward him, and that’s all it takes. His breath catches, a quiet, rough sound escaping his chest, and his hands are on you before you can think. One at your waist, the other hovering like he wants to cradle your face but doesn’t quite dare. His touch is warm and trembling with restraint.
“I missed you,” he says softly, voice thick with everything he's holding back. Then again, quieter. Like it costs him something to admit it and he's terrified you're going to pull away. “I really did. So much.”
It disarms you quicker than you would have liked. The closeness is unbearable, not because it’s overwhelming, but because it’s finally happening. You can feel the weight of his need in the way he exhales through his nose, the way his thumb presses a little harder into your hip like he’s grounding himself.
If he had less pride, he’d drop to his knees. He wants to. You can see it in his eyes. The ache. The pull. Like being this close to you hurts. Like he’s been hungry for months and now you’re in front of him and he’s not sure where to begin. He leans in, slow, like he’s memorising the air around your mouth. His nose grazes yours.
But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. Instead, his voice drops lower, almost rough with desperation. “Can I touch you?”
You nod and it’s all the permission he needs.
His hands slide up, reverent. Over your sides, your ribs, your back, like he’s mapping a body he’s dreamed of too many times. He mouths at your jaw, not quite kissing, just breathing there. You feel him hard against your hip already, straining with the effort it’s taking not to ruin this with need.
“Fuck,” he murmurs into your neck, voice breaking at the edges. “You feel like—” He cuts himself off. Shakes his head like the thought is too much. Like he’s right there, one word away from falling apart.
You tilt your face toward him, hand moving to gently cup his jaw. “Say it.”
He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. “You feel so good, angel. Like...like the exact feeling I've been chasing since I last saw you. Nothing feels like you.”
It's the way he says it. Raw, gentle, so Lewis. It makes every wall you keep around yourself go soft.
You don’t kiss him. Not yet. But your spare hand curls in the front of his shirt like a promise that you're going to.
You're both still standing. Still clothed. Still teetering at the edge of something that’s not just want, not just heat. It's worship. Dependency. Something that could burn you alive. Still, he holds back. Just enough. Because tonight, he’s not here to fuck you like he did before. Tonight, he’s here to love you.
Whether you ever admit it or not.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: idk how this chapter became 90% sexual tension and 10% athletic excellence but honestly that feels correct. miles needs to be arrested, lewis needs to breathe, and the reader needs therapy but instead she won the x games so who are we to judge. enjoy, angels xx
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Pro Snowboarder!Reader
wc: 10.7k!!
summary: LA training gets interrupted by chaos incarnate (miles), an arcade night that absolutely should not be that intimate, and the return of a man you’ve been avoiding. feelings happen. denial happens louder. then the x games arrive, and you drop the run of the season while lewis unravels watching from another time zone.
warnings: intense training, physio/taping, sexual tension, references to past sexual activity, pining, competitiveness, miles being miles, reader avoiding feelings, thirst traps, public flirting, athlete discipline
previous chapter ⇆ next chapter
Los Angeles hits like a floodlight. The sky is a hard, saturated blue; the palm trees look unreal; the air smells faintly of warm rubber and sun cream even though it’s barely 9 a.m. By the time the van slides off the freeway toward Red Bull HQ, you’ve already checked your calendar twice and dragged two blocks fifteen minutes earlier. Jet lag isn’t a problem if your day is pre-measured.
The performance centre rises out of the concrete like a spaceship. Glass, steel, giant banners snapping in the morning wind. Your face is twenty feet high on one of them, a captured moment from last year’s gold: board tucked, chin tipped, eyes somewhere beyond the horizon. The caption reads ICE ANGEL. STILL ASCENDING. Someone in branding is having fun.
“God save us,” Ella mutters, craning her neck. “You’re going to start signing babies soon.”
Noa snorts. “As if she’d touch a germ.”
You shoulder your bag, deadpan. “I’m allergic to PR stunts that cry.”
“England’s ice princess,” Ella sings, doing a little curtsey with her water bottle.
“Absolutely not,” you say, but you can’t help the smile. It’s a running joke now, how the press turned you into a winter deity because you refused to cry on camera at fifteen. The truth is simpler: you were stunned. Then you were hungry. The smile didn’t know where to fit.
Inside, the machine wakes to your presence with a kind of polite roar. Access passes scan. Doors open with soft hydraulic sighs. You can hear the gym before you see it: the thump-thump of plyo boxes, the tight clack of barbells re-racking, a trainer’s clap. There’s an entire wall of screens looping footage. Snowboarders, Red Bull cars, surfers, cliff divers. Your highlight reel makes a brief, blinding cameo before it flips to endurance cycling stats.
Ana intercepts you like a guided missile, eucalyptus and efficiency. “Hi, love. Ankles first,” she says, already steering you toward the treatment room. Her hair is up; her expression says don’t argue. “Plane swelling?”
“Minimal,” you answer, climbing onto the table. “Compression boots for an hour. Walked the aisle. Hated everyone.”
“Good,” she says, as if hating everyone is a vital metric. She palpates your ankle with practiced thumbs, finds exactly the place you’d been ignoring, and raises one eyebrow. “Hmm.”
“Don’t hmm at me.”
“I’ll hmm if I want.” She tapes quickly, clean lines. “Your talus loves to misbehave when you travel.”
“Whose doesn’t,” you say, deadpan.
Dom leans in the doorframe, tablet in hand, glasses crooked. “Schedule checks out. We’ll start light,” he lies. “Dry land air awareness, rail refreshers, then test the heavier spins once you’ve acclimated.”
“You say that every time,” you reply, watching him swipe between blocks. “You mean it for an hour.”
Dom gives you a look over his glasses that says, I invented your cynicism. “I mean it until you start getting cute.”
Rhea ghosts in with a breakfast box. “Eat,” she commands cheerfully, pushing oats with berries into your hands. “Protein’s in the shake. Coffee is an option if you promise me water first.”
“Water,” you recite, taking the bottle she’s already opened. “Then caffeine. Then victory.”
“Order of operations is sexy,” she approves with a wink.
You shovel two mechanical bites and scan your watch. HRV is green. Sleep: 6:19. You’ll make up the difference later. Maybe. You tap the app: AM: breathwork 10, ankle prehab, hip CARs, 5g creatine, 20g collagen. Tick, tick, tick. There’s comfort in that rain of checks. Everything you can control, you do. Everything you can’t, you plan for twice.
The small camera crew materialises exactly on time. A publicist in soft trainers offers a rehearsed smile. “We’ll keep this painless,” she promises. “Ten minutes on your X Games prep, five minutes on ‘inspiration,’ three setups for stills.”
You set the oat box down, wipe your hands, and slide your press face on like a well-fitted helmet. It isn’t fake; it’s just the version of you that knows how to be seen without being taken. The questions are familiar: What does the X Games mean to you? How do you handle pressure? What would you say to young girls watching? Your answers are too: It’s the best playground in the world. Pressure is a privilege. Believe in your boring. Your routine is your superpower. The publicist lights up like you’ve invented a slogan. You’re bored of your own sincerity, but it photographs well.
Photos next. Red Bull board, sponsor hoodies, two outfits you would never wear unprompted. The photographer is excellent, knows your angles, paints with light. You give them the clean lines they want, the untouchable posture, the easy half smile. Between flashes, you roll your ankles, circle your wrists, and feel your focus drop into place like a gear catching.
“Still surreal?” the photographer asks between shots, not unkindly, nodding at your own face twenty feet high outside the window.
“No,” you say honestly. “Just expensive.”
He laughs, surprised. You let him. The shutter clicks. The image of you looks like a brand made human; the actual you quietly calculates whether you can fit a second mobility block in before lunch.
Back in the gym, the lights feel cooler. A fluorescent clarity, nothing to perform for here. You warm up hard, move through your sequence with no spare motion. Ana’s voice drifts from a corner: “Keep the breath slow on the eccentrics.” You do. Dom watches from his tablet and mutters to himself like a coach praying in spreadsheets. Noa and Ella sneak in ten minutes late, hair up, eyes bright.
“Lovely,” Noa says, stretching her hamstrings dramatically as if she’s on a beach. “Princess has already done a full day before breakfast.”
Ella yawns. “Glad it’s you, babe. I’d throw myself off the mezzanine if I had to do morning press then heavy legs.”
“Same,” Noa adds, then tilts her head with mock reverence. “Bow before England’s frostbitten monarch.”
You flick a wrist as if dismissing a court. “Peasants. Count your reps.”
“God, she’s insufferable,” Ella says fondly, then to Dom: “What are we doing?”
“Nothing cute,” he lies again. “You’re spotting her on single-leg eccentrics.”
You grind through the set, breath low, eyes soft, every muscle streaming toward function. Your lungs burn in just the right way; your legs shake like truth. This is the part that still feels like home no matter what country you wake in: the ache you earn. It means you’ve paid something and bought yourself the next attempt.
During a break you scroll your phone. Emails stacking like a deck of cards: sponsor logistics, comp schedule, a cheeky message from Team GB using too many emojis, your mother forwarding an article you won’t read. You drop the screen face. down. Later.
On the far wall, a reel of you from Gstaad plays silently. Someone’s pulled a holiday fun clip into a hype cut. You don’t watch it long. It’s too bright with the wrong kind of memory.
You’re not thinking about him when you lace your shoes for plyos. You’re not thinking about the porch or his smile or the warm steadiness of his hand. You are thinking about takeoff angles and ankle stiffness and the exact taste of the protein shake you have to finish before noon. It’s a relief to be so singular. It’s also a lie you’ve trained into truth.
“Ready?” Ana asks, tapping the stopwatch.
You nod. “Always.”
You leap.
By mid-morning, the Red Bull performance lab is a living engine: steel clanging, treadmills roaring, trainers barking cadence like a war chant. You’re balanced on a Bosu ball with a med ball tucked under your chin, stabilising through the ankles while Dom logs micro-movements on his tablet.
“You’re loading your left again,” he says without glancing up.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he replies, monotone. “Again.”
You reset. Breathe in, spine tall, gaze fixed on the mirrored wall until the noise of the room blurs into white static. For those few seconds, it’s just geometry and breath.
“HELLO, MY FAVOURITE HUMAN AVALANCHE!”
The voice is so loud you almost fall off the Bosu. You catch yourself, exhale slowly, and turn.
Miles Chamley-Watson stands in the doorway like a walking exclamation mark, fencing bag slung over his shoulder, grin set to maximum wattage. He’s wearing a Red Bull hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, gold chains catching the light. Chaos in human form.
“You again,” you say, flat as a plank, then step off the Bosu as Ana makes a noise suggesting no broken ankles on social calls please.
“You again,” Miles parrots, hand pressed to his heart. “Back at HQ, bringing international frost, humiliating us in front of the squat racks. I assume you’re here to crush souls and foam roll.”
“Both,” you admit, passing him with a smirk to pick up your towel. “Who let you in?”
“I’m sponsored, baby,” he sings, kissing two fingers and touching the logo on his chest. “Also, I’m here to get bullied by my performance team and cry in the cold plunge.”
“That sounds about right,” you say.
Ana, rolling out cables nearby, mutters, “Lord give me strength,” but she’s smiling.
Miles sweeps into the room, all movement and charisma. “Look at this! The machine herself! Do you ever relax or do you sleep in ice baths now?”
“Depends,” you answer, grabbing a towel. “Do you relax, or are you just permanently caffeinated?”
“Yes,” he says cheerfully. “To both.”
Noa looks up from a mat in the corner and grins. “Miles! I thought I recognised that noise.”
“Ladies!” He opens his arms like a cartoon prince. “Reunited at last. How are my Alpine heroes?”
Noa hugs him quickly; Ella waves from a foam roller. “We still haven’t forgiven you for that slope side karaoke in Gstaad.”
“Tragic oversight,” he says, hand to heart. “But you all look fantastic. Meanwhile, I’ve been eating Italian food and pretending to train.”
“You’re here to train, not chat up my athletes.” Dom says, deadpan, without looking up from his tablet. Not even his coach.
Miles points at him. “See? That’s why I missed you, Coach Doom.”
“Dom. And we’ve never met, Miles” he corrects automatically. He says his name with a tone that inexplicably says that the girls have mentioned him.
“Sure thing, Doom. Shaun’s told me enough about you.” Miles grins, then turns back to you. “So. LA treats you well, I see. Still terrifying. Still gorgeous. Still terrifying.”
“Pick one,” you say.
“Can’t. They’re a combo deal.” He leans on a weight rack, eyes scanning your setup. “I’m serious though, you’re unreal. That landing from your Norway camp run? Cleanest thing I’ve ever seen. I showed it to my coach and he cried.”
You roll your eyes, wiping your palms on the towel. “He did not.”
“Okay, maybe he sneezed. But emotionally, it was tears. And what does he know about snowboarding anyway? He’s a fencing coach.” He gestures to the screens overhead, where a highlight reel is looping. “There! That’s the clip! Look at that—board flat, eyes locked, like, ‘gravity who?’”
You glance up despite yourself. The frame freezes on your mid-air form, body tight, expression unreadable. Dom calls it your competitive mask. The press calls it arrogance. It’s really just concentration, distilled until nothing leaks.
Miles whistles low. “That’s artistry.”
“It’s landing,” you correct.
“Same thing,” he says softly, and for once, there’s no joke under it.
“You look like a man who’s going to be asked to do hamstring flossing and pretend he likes it,” you shoot back, deflecting the softness in his tone. There's a subtle smirk on your face though, an unmistakable, grudging fondness.
His grin stretches. “Oh, we’re bantering. Look at us…friends.”
You arch a brow. “Are we?”
“We shared a mountain and several personality-defining moments. You also slept with my best friend,” he says solemnly. “We’re basically trauma-bonded.”
Your mouth gapes for a second at how blunt and loud he just was before you school your expression back to neutral.
“You got traumatised by a hot chocolate,” you remind him, deflecting again.
“That drink was nuclear,” he says gravely, then drops his voice a fraction, softer. He leans down so he's eye level with you, which is quite frankly a ridiculous sight considering his height. “You alright?”
It’s not a casual question with him. He’s loud until it matters, then he’s surgical. You know that he knows you’ve ghosted Lewis. You nod once. “Working.”
He accepts that as the full answer and straightens back up. “Good. The world is safer when you’re employed.”
Dom clears his throat, breaking the moment. “She’s got sled pushes next, Miles. If you’re staying, stand clear or sign a waiver.”
“I’ll spectate respectfully,” he says, backing up a step. “From a safe, worshipful distance.”
You grab the sled handles, plant your feet, and drive. The rubber floor resists like it’s daring you to stop. Your quads scream; your pulse steadies. At the far end you pivot and push back. Miles jogs alongside, half-applauding, half-commentating.
“Ladies and gentlemen, behold the eighth wonder of the world. The British snow terminator! I’m sweating just watching!”
Ana throws him a look. “Please don’t distract the athlete.”
“Can’t help it,” he says, smirking. “The athlete’s distracting me.”
You finish the set and step off, breath cutting through your chest like wind on a ridge. Miles hands you your water bottle before you ask. You take it, nodding thanks. He’s annoyingly intuitive sometimes.
“So,” he says between your sips, “does this mean you’ve forgiven me for saying snowboarding isn’t a real sport?”
“I never forgave you,” you reply. “I simply re-evaluated your intelligence level.”
“Ah, so still zero,” he says, mock-hurt. “Fair. You did nearly decapitate Lewis, though, so I call that karma.”
The mention of his name lands sharp but brief, like a static shock that makes you pull away. Your chest does a strange tightening so quick you mask it as adjusting your stance. You cover it with a dry: “He was in my way.” You hope Miles didn’t notice. He did.
Miles barks a laugh. “He still tells that story. Calls it his near-death enlightenment. My guy can face down Verstappen but one British snowboarder and he’s rewriting his will.”
You know Miles is hinting at the night you spent together. You pretend you’re just talking about the crash on the mountain.
You shake your head, hiding the ghost of a smile. “Tell him I said sorry again.” You don't just mean the crash.
“Oh, he knows,” Miles says, grin softening. “Trust me, he knows.”
Dom claps once, signalling the next block. “Enough chat. Balance drills. Miles, out of the way before she turns you into a cautionary tale.”
Miles backs toward the door, hands raised in mock surrender. “Message received. I’ll go do something less dangerous, like sword fighting.”
“Please do,” Ana mutters.
He salutes you lazily. “Don’t break gravity while I’m gone.”
“Never,” you reply, grinning at him. It's infuriating how easily he makes you friendly.
He leaves in a burst of kinetic energy, the door swinging closed behind him. The gym exhales. Dom taps his screen; the metronome beeps. You refocus.
The world narrows again to line, breath, rhythm. Each push, each wobble, each exhale a negotiation between your body and the laws of physics. That’s the real addiction, the silence that comes when you balance on the edge of control.
Outside, your face still stares down from the banner, flawless and frozen mid-air, promising the world another gold. Inside, you know the truth: perfection isn’t something you reach. It’s something you rehearse, every day, until the world believes it’s easy.
You wipe the sweat from your neck, glance once toward the door Miles disappeared through, then reset your stance. The only thing you trust is the work. And you are very, very good at work.
Even in Italy, she’s everywhere.
Maranello hums with the low growl of engines and late evening light that turns the track gold before disappearing behind the trees. The air smells like fuel and iron and the kind of devotion that can’t be explained to anyone outside this world. It’s a different kind of cathedral. Louder, faster, hungrier.
Lewis stands in the simulator bay, half-zipped in his team jacket, fingers flexing absently against the wheel. The run’s over, but his mind hasn’t stopped turning. He should be reviewing data. Instead, he’s replaying conversations that ended too soon.
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Gstaad. Since the porch, the cold air, her saying goodnight, Lewis like it meant both stay away and come closer if you dare. She’d texted, sometimes. Little things. Replies that were polite, a bit teasing, always perfectly measured. Enough to keep him tethered, never enough to pull him closer.
Training. Alive. Tired but good.
You still sleeping at 4 pm?
Don’t crash the sim.
They weren’t nothing. But they weren’t enough. Never a conversation, never more than one text. It was slowly, but surely, driving him insane.
It gnawed at him because this wasn’t how his life worked. He was the one who ghosted, neatly, cleanly, when things stopped making sense. Who let things fade when they stopped fitting into his life. He was the one people waited on, not the other way around.
Lewis Hamilton didn’t get left in the quiet. He didn’t get ignored.
He didn’t get… whatever this was. Women didn’t disappear on him; they followed, they lingered, they wanted. He was good at letting things drift when they needed to. Good at being the one who stepped away first.
And yet here he was. Letting her take her time, letting her choose the distance. For the first time in a very long time, he wanted something he couldn’t just reach for. He kept checking his phone like a man learning humility for the first time.
Now it’s been five days since the last message, and the silence has grown teeth. He’s trying not to overthink it. He’s trying not to be that man. The one who sits around wondering why someone hasn’t replied. But every time he glances at his phone, the ghost of her name stares back.
He’s not built for waiting. Never has been. But for her, he’s been patient. Deliberately, almost painfully patient. Because he knows what it’s like to be consumed by something bigger than yourself. He knows the cost of focus.
Still, the ache doesn’t fade. It just folds itself into the rhythm of his days.
Evenings like this are the worst. The factory empty, the air thick with afterburn. He leans back in the simulator seat, head tilted, eyes half-shut. Sometimes when he drifts, she’s there. Laughing in the snow, goggles off, the sun turning her hair white at the edges. He can feel her. He can smell her. Then he blinks, and reality hums back into place, and he’s alone again. His hands settle on the wheel the same way they’d settled on her hips, and the muscle memory betrays him. Pressure, placement, need. A deep aching, desperate need. He exhales sharply, like it’s a sin to remember. He doesn’t mean to think of her, but want has a way of crawling into the quiet.
His phone buzzes once. He doesn’t move. Then it buzzes again. And again. Six. Seven times. Rapid fire of buzzing that won't stop. He frowns, glancing down at the screen. Miles. 7 missed calls. He sighs, wipes a hand down his face, and hits redial.
The line connects with the sound of Miles already mid-sentence. “—BRO. BRO. YOU’RE GOING TO LOSE YOUR MIND.”
Lewis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Evening to you too.”
“No, no, don’t zen-voice me. Listen. Guess who I just saw?”
“Can I guess tomorrow?”
“Guess!”
Lewis groans, shifting in the chair. “If this is another story about you meeting someone who once looked at Beyoncé, I swear to—”
“It’s her, Lewis.”
That stops him cold. Miles doesn’t even need to say her name. The word her carries enough weight to still the whole room.
Lewis’s tone changes. “Where?”
“Red Bull HQ. LA. Training. She was doing—” Miles makes an explosion sound into the mic. “—some kind of science-defying balance drill that made everyone else in the room rethink their life choices. I swear to God, she’s not human. She says hi. Actually…no she didn’t, but I could tell she meant it.”
Lewis stares at the floor, heartbeat speeding up so quick he hears it in his ears. “She’s in LA.”
“Yup. X Games prep. Whole team there. She’s insane man. Just pure, terrifying discipline.”
He can hear Miles pacing through the call, trainers squeaking against polished floors, the sound of Red Bull’s gym echoing faintly. It feels surreal, hearing her world in the background from halfway across the world.
“She looked good, man,” Miles continues. “Strong. Calm. Focused. Happy. I think she actually likes me now”
Lewis exhales slowly, a smile ghosting his lips. “That makes one of us.”
Miles doesn’t stop. “And get this! Noa and Ella are here too. They actually hugged me, which, honestly, I think means I’m forgiven for Gstaad karaoke.”
“Bold assumption,” Lewis says, but his voice has gone softer, the edges gone. He’s leaning back in his chair now, eyes unfocused. “What’d she say?”
Miles snickers. “About you?”
Lewis’s silence is an answer.
“She said…” Miles draws the word out for dramatic effect. “…that you were in her way.”
Lewis laughs, low and warm. “I was.”
“She said it deadpan, too. Like she didn’t nearly kill you. Ice cold. Respect.”
“She’s like that,” Lewis murmurs, still smiling. “All precision. All control.”
“Yeah, well, I told her she broke you,” Miles says brightly.
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, I absolutely did. Told her you’ve been walking around like a man who found religion and lost the manual.”
Lewis drags a hand down his face, laughing quietly. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
“She laughed,” Miles says quickly, triumphant. “I swear she did. Little smirk, maybe an eye roll, but that counts.”
Lewis’s chest tightens unexpectedly. A weird mix of relief and longing. He can picture it: her rolling her eyes, lips tugging in that reluctant, maddening half smile that has completely haunted his late nights. It hits him square in the ribs, and other places.
Miles keeps talking. “Dom nearly threw me out of the gym, by the way. Said I was corrupting his athletes. That's her trainer. Ana, her physio, told me to leave before I became a hazard.”
Lewis listens intently, fascinated. Like every scrap of information he can get he's going to store away for later. It's moments like these where Miles's hyperactive tendencies were a relief. He could listen to him talk about her for hours.
“Probably good advice. She has a big team, huh?.”
“Yeah, loads of people. All nice though. Also, side note,” Miles adds. “You’d lose your mind seeing how dialled in she is. Supplements labelled, minute by minute schedule, everything colour-coded. I thought you were obsessive until I saw her binders.”
Lewis chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I warned you, her chalet was like a training facility, man.”
“You undersold it, bro. It’s Olympic level psychopathy. And yet? Kinda inspiring. I need to catch up. You two are the same level of insane.”
He goes quiet after that, like the air itself has shifted. When Miles speaks again, it’s softer. “You miss her, huh?”
Lewis doesn’t answer for a moment. He’s staring at the glowing screens, listening to the steady click of cooling metal. “I don’t know what to call it.”
“Call it being gone,” Miles says. “Because that’s what it looks like from here.”
There’s a second of silence between them. Then Lewis sighs. “She’s not… she’s not ignoring me to be cruel. I know her type. I used to be her type. Still am, sometimes.”
Miles frowns. “Meaning?”
“Focused. Ruthless with herself. Afraid of what happens if she lets anyone close.” He hesitates. “When you live that way, any kind of love feels like sabotage to the work you're putting in.”
Miles exhales. Lewis is right. Miles had watched him push away the idea of committing to a woman for years. “Damn. That’s poetic and depressing.”
Lewis huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s true, though.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Miles admits. “But for the record, you’re handling it well. I think?”
“She hasn’t replied in days,” Lewis says, half to himself. “And I’m still… hoping she does.”
“You’re whipped,” Miles says, grinning audibly. “Like, artisanally. Handcrafted. Like cream–”
Lewis groans, leaning his head back. “I’m hanging up.”
“No! Wait, wait, don’t you dare. Listen, you should see her. She’s laser focused, man. But I don’t think she’s cold. She’s just—”
“Protecting herself,” Lewis finishes quietly.
“Exactly,” Miles says. “Focused on her comps, you know? Still, though...she’s in LA. You’ve got meetings in LA next week, right?”
Lewis’s silence stretches long enough for Miles to start laughing again. “You’re thinking about it. I can hear you thinking about it. You want to! Let me make it happen.”
“I have pre-season prep,” Lewis says weakly.
“And yet…”
Lewis chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a dickhead.”
“And you’re in love,” Miles replies, sing-song, before the line fills with excited laughter and the clatter of a dropped phone.
Lewis sits there long after the call ends, the empty sim bay echoing around him. He stares at his reflection in the glass. Same calm face, same steady hands, same eyes that give nothing away, and yet…
he’s already in LA in his head. Anything to be closer to you.
Later that night, Maranello is asleep. The lights are out, the streets are slick with mist. Lewis sits on the couch, notebook open, trying to log his thoughts about braking zones and tire wear...anything that isn’t her.
He writes three bullet points before his mind drifts anyway. LA. Training clips. That smile she hides like a secret she isn't sure she should give away. The way she sounded when she fell apart under him. The silence between messages that feels longer than it should.
The phone buzzes once on the table.
Miles: You need to remind her you exist. Post something. Shirtless maybe. Just a thought.
Lewis exhales through a laugh, thumbs a reply.
Lewis: Ffs Miles. Get a grip. You’re so annoying. Won't work on her.
He sets it down again, but the suggestion lodges in his head like a song you can’t shake. Ten minutes later, he’s somehow standing in front of the mirror, towel at his hips, steam curling up from the shower. He catches his reflection and laughs quietly to himself.
He’s actually doing this. Forty years old, seven time world champion, reduced to whoring himself out on Instagram for the attention of one woman who won’t text him back.
Not the usual crowd. Not the roster he usually rotates through without thinking. Not the fans who’d eat this up, or the exes who’d pretend not to. Only her.
It should be pathetic. It feels… worse. And better.
He takes the photo anyway. Mirror shot. Towel as low as decency allows.
He posts it and tosses the phone facedown on the counter like it might bite him. Goes back to journaling. Pretends not to care.
Twenty minutes later, he checks. Just to “see how the story looks.” It has thousands of likes. Some women he hasn't spoken to in a while have text him. He doesn't look twice. Two hours pass. He showers again, stretches, makes tea, tells himself he’s not checking again. Fails. This time, though, there’s a message waiting.
ynrides: Subtle.
He reads it twice. It’s not a flirt, not quite. But there’s amusement there. Dry, knowing, the kind of tone she’d use leaning across a table, eyebrow raised. He can’t help it: he grins. Fully.
A millisecond passes before he picks up the phone and calls the only person who’ll understand why this feels absurdly victorious.
“Miles,” he says when the line connects.
“Oh no,” Miles says immediately. “You did it.”
Lewis laughs. “I might’ve.”
There's a moment of silence and the sound of Miles fumbling with his phone before he clearly clicks on Lewis's story and cackles.
“You did! Tell me she saw it.”
“She saw it.”
“Did she—”
“She swiped up man.”
A sound like Miles falling off his bed echoes through the speaker. “I’M A GENIUS. I’M A GOD. I SHOULD TEACH THIS.”
Lewis leans back, laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What’d she say?”
Lewis sighs, half smiling. “One word. Subtle.”
Miles wheezes with laughter. “Oh, that’s British for I’m impressed but pretending not to be. You’re in.”
“Or she’s laughing at me.”
“Both things can be true, Romeo. Either way, progress.”
Lewis shakes his head, still smiling. “You’re the worst influence.”
“You’re welcome, man. Sleep well knowing you’re back on her radar.”
Lewis Hamilton recently added to their story
ynrides replied to your story
ynrides: subtle
lewishamilton: I plead the fifth.
ynrides: pathetic.
lewishamilton: Blame miles
ynrides: you posted it.
lewishamilton: It worked x
ynrides: whatever
lewishamilton: You airing my texts on purpose?
ynrides: i’m busy
lewishamilton: not busy enough to ignore my abs x
ynrides: correct
lewishamilton: text me back then
A few days later the call comes between mobility and a cold plunge. You’re sitting on the edge of a mat in the Red Bull gym, calves humming, compression sleeves still on, when Ella wanders over with her phone held like evidence.
“He begged,” she says, deadpan. “I folded.”
You squint, confused. “Who?”
Before she answers, your phone buzzes with an unknown LA number. You stare at it; Ella’s mouth curls. Noa’s already grinning like she knows the punchline of a joke you didn't anticipate coming.
You answer. “Hello?”
“SNOW QUEEN!” Miles booms, so loudly Ana looks up from across the room and mouths volume.
You close your eyes. “Miles. You could’ve DM’d me.”
“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “You would’ve aired me. I know you. Don’t lie.”
You consider this and, annoyingly, can’t argue. “What do you want?”
“Community service,” he says. “Your government has assigned you to two hours of recreational joy. Casual mixer. Neon. Tickets. No training talk allowed. Come be human.”
“I’m in compression,” you inform him, like the fabric is a court order.
“Bring the sleeves. Make it a look.”
You glance at Ella, who’s fighting a smile, and Noa, who’s already nodding like a traitor. “For fucksake Miles. Text me the address.”
“Sending. And hey—” his voice dips, falsely casual— “there might be a guest. Don’t panic. You like him.”
Your eyes widen. Heart rate quickens. “Miles.”
“A guest,” he insists, as if syllables can protect him. “See you in an hour, Your Frostiness.” He hangs up before you can threaten violence.
You stare at the phone. Ella raises her brows. “We going?”
“We,” you repeat flatly. “Apparently we are.”
Noa claps once, delighted. “At last. Culture.”
Ana doesn’t look up from her notes. “Back by ten. Hydrate. Wear compression socks.”
Dom calls from the mezzanine without turning his head. “No heroics, no heavy lifting, no lawsuits.”
“Nice to be trusted,” you mutter, and go find your shoes.
The arcade is a riot of colour after the antiseptic calm of the gym. Neon signs buzzing, ticket dispensers chattering, the soundtrack a mash of 8-bit music and human chaos. Athletes spill across the floor in sweats and slides, all of you wearing the same expression: permission to let go for a little while.
Miles finds you at the entrance like he’s been waiting there since 2009. Red Bull hoodie, chains, grin turned up to eleven. “You made it!” He throws his arms wide. “And you brought the girlband.”
“No autographs,” Ella warns, already clocking the claw machines.
“I only sign souls,” he says solemnly, then breaks into a beam. “Right. House rules. No training talk. No macros. No HRV. And if anyone says ‘ankle stability’ I’m confiscating their laces.”
“Cruel,” Noa murmurs, delighted.
“Needed,” he chirps, then leans toward you as he starts to shepherd the three of you inside. “There’s also a rumour…totally unconfirmed, do not panic…that a certain someone might be here.”
You give him a look that could kill. “You invited him.”
“Technically, I told him where the fun's at. Whether he shows is God’s will.”
“Where is he?” Noa sings, too interested.
“Not a Red Bull athlete,” you remind them briskly. “He has no business at our claw machines.”
Noa and Ella share that long-suffering smile teammates perfect after years of you. “Uh-huh.”
It takes three minutes to forget the gym. Miles throws tokens like confetti, buys you all neon wristbands that beep on the card readers, and announces an Air Hockey Tournament Of The Century. You crush him 7–3, then 7–1, then mercy-call it when he begins narrating his own demise like a sports commentator who loves himself too much.
“You’re cheating!” he cries.
“You’re loud,” you counter, bank-shotting the puck past him while he gestures.
Noa records the final point and adds a glitter filter that makes you look like a glowing angel. “Caption: England remains a monarchy.”
“Blocked,” you say. “On all platforms.”
You’re laughing when it happens. Unguarded and bright for the first time in a while. Turning from the table, breath high in your chest. You glance across the corridor of machines and freeze.
He’s almost nothing to look at if you don’t know how to look. Cap low. Baggy T over firm muscle. Hands in his pockets. No one else with him. Effortlessly gorgeous. Just that stillness that makes rooms tilt around him like he’s a centre of gravity pretending not to be.
Lewis lifts a hand in a small, helpless wave.
Then, you see it hit him.
The shock. The relief. The want he tries to swallow and fails to hide. His posture shifts before his expression does, a subtle, involuntary thing. His shoulders easing, breath stalling, like his body recognises you before he lets himself process it. His mouth parts just slightly, not a smile yet, more like he forgot how to breathe for a second.
He doesn’t move toward you. He never pushes. But there’s a flicker in his eyes, sharp and warm, the kind of look that holds a thousand unsaid things and all of them start with God, finally.
He looks at you like he’s been waiting without admitting he was waiting. Like the distance since Gstaad has been a weight he couldn't wait to get rid of. Like seeing you knocks something in him loose.
He lifts his hand a second time. Tilts his head, letting himself smile. Smaller, slower. Not a greeting, more of an acknowledgement. A beautiful, stunned: there you are.
Your pulse sky rockets and then pretends it didn’t. You walk over like it means nothing because that’s the only way you know how. Like you’re not counting the steps. Like your chest isn’t doing that traitorous flutter it does only for him.
“Miles,” you say, not taking your eyes off Lewis, “is on thin ice.”
Lewis’s mouth curves, trying to hide a sheepish smile. “I’ll speak to him.”
He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to. The space between you feels like it knows both your names.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, aiming for neutral and landing on quieter than you intend.
“Meetings,” he says, true enough to not be a lie. “Miles said there’d be… fun.”
“And you decided to research it.”
He huffs a laugh. “I thought I’d observe.”
“You look very undercover.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Doesn’t work.”
He glances away, embarrassed, amused. “How’s prep?”
You make a face on principle, try to scowl at him like you're telling him off but can't get rid of the stupid smirk on your lips. “No training talk.”
“Right,” he says, grinning. “Of course there’s rules.”
Miles materialises like a game host who’s been waiting for his cue. “Team!” he cries. “Racing game. Two seats. Pride on the line. Losers buy slushies.”
“Pride?” Ella echoes. “Dangerous word.”
Miles points at you and Lewis like a man casting a rom-com. “You’re up. GOAT vs. GOAT. Let’s witness a cultural exchange.”
“No pressure,” Lewis says under his breath as you follow Miles towards the arcade game.
“None,” you agree, locking in, “unless you blink.”
The countdown beeps. You drop into focus without trying—hands light, eyes soft, engine-whine replaced by the clean logic of a line. He’s good. Of course he is. He’s too smooth through the early corners, too tidy on exit. You adjust, find the extra inch on entry, and pass him with a laugh he can hear.
“You cheated,” he says, laughing too.
“You blinked.”
“Sabotage.”
“Skill, Lewis.”
Lewis lost because his eyes kept flickering to you. That was the truth of it. You'd somehow even managed to fuck with his competitiveness. Fantastic.
The run ends with your name 1 hundredths of a second ahead. Miles screams like he’s won a lottery. Noa whoops. Ella claps with operatic sarcasm. You get out your seat. He does, too, shaking his head, smiling in that quietly impressed way that makes you feel seen without being pierced.
“Rematch?” he asks.
“Later,” you say, already stepping away because you're too close and your pulse is doing the wrong kind of fast. “There’s a basketball machine with my name on it.”
You make for it. He follows, a half-step behind without question.
The arcade is a storm of sound. Bells, chimes, kids shrieking, adults pretending not to care that they’re losing. You tap your wristband and the machine lights up, countdown blaring. The first ball hits your palms and everything drops into that clean tunnel vision you know too well: bend, lift, release, net. Over and over. The score climbs. The rhythm is a drug.
“Okay,” Miles says from somewhere to your right, watching the numbers flip, “this is no longer recreational. This is a public shaming.”
You beat the high score by a stupid margin. The machine screams. Tickets spill out in a delirious ribbon. Ella bows to you, cackling. You collect the paper tail and loop it over Miles’ neck like a feather boa.
“For your performance,” you say sweetly.
“I’m beautiful,” he preens, blowing you a kiss.
Lewis is leaning on the next machine, watching with that softened gaze you’ve learned not to look at for too long. There's a quiet awe flickering there as he takes in how easy you are with Miles, how bright you get when you forget to protect yourself. You’re about to make some deadpan comment about his undercover cap again when Miles claps his hands like a director.
“Shooting game,” he declares. “Couples mode.”
“No,” you and Lewis say in unison.
“Yes,” Miles insists. “Teamwork! Trust falls with plastic rifles!”
“Absolutely not,” you say, picking up a blue gun anyway because you’re a fool for competitive targets.
The game boots. Paper ducks, tin stars, cartoon bandits jerk into motion across a fake saloon. You square up. The first three targets go down clean. Tap, tap, tap, before the recoil throws your fourth just wide.
“Here,” Lewis says, very quiet, far too easy, and steps in behind you.
It isn’t invasive. It isn’t anything, not really. That’s what you tell yourself as you audibly hear Miles elbow Noa in the ribs. Lewis's hand finds your waist like an anchor and rests there. Light pressure, a point of contact. His other hand hovers near your wrist. He steadies you without even touching your balance.
“Breathe out as you squeeze,” he murmurs against your ear. “Not before.”
You’re about to tell him you know how to breathe when the next target pops and you follow his timing without thinking. The shot lands centre. His breath brushes your cheek. You hope it doesn’t show in the score. It does, it gets higher. Clean. The line from shoulder to wrist tightens into a metronome you didn’t know you wanted.
“Better,” he says, almost proud, and you hate the flutter in your chest like you’re sixteen and you just landed a new trick.
You can feel his smile on your neck, hear him inhale against your skin through his nose, his thumb draws a small circle over your t-shirt and you thank God that you learnt composure at a young age. For a breath, you imagine him lowering his head, mouth finding the spot that made you arch off the sofa in Gstaad, and the want hits so hard your fingers tremble on the rifle. Lewis must notice because he gives your waist a gentle squeeze and refocuses your wrist on the targets.
The round ends with a ridiculous score. Tickets spit out in a hissing waterfall. Miles throws both hands up and yells something about weddings.
“Shut up,” you call back, but your voice is laughing, and Lewis’s hand doesn’t move for one extra second that both of you notice and neither of you mention.
You step forward, out of the circle of him, and the night widens again, bright and absurd. He moves with you like he’s learned your pace already.
From there it’s easy. Too easy. Miles is loud and theatrical, trying to win you a plush toy the size of a small horse from a rigged claw machine. Noa and Ella act like security with anyone who aims a phone in your direction. Someone starts a dance off near the Dance Dance Revolution pads that Shaun would have won by accident if he were here. You make fun of Lewis’s cap, again. He makes fun of your ruthless approach to skee-ball (“Why are you doing warm-up throws?” “Because I’m not a heathen, Lewis!”).
Every now and then, when you forget to police yourself, you laugh. Every single time, Lewis looks over like the sound pulled a string inside him. Like he wasn't sure he'd ever hear it again. His eyes flick to your mouth, quick and helpless, before he masks it with a smirk.
You bump shoulders as you reach for the next ball. Neither of you steps away. You throw it a little harder than necessary, keep scoring points, act like your pulse isn’t knocking against your ribs.
“Okay,” Miles announces at some point, voice hushed like he’s discovered a conspiracy. “Am I the only one seeing the chemistry here?”
“Always,” you say, flipping him off without looking.
Lewis snorts, eyebrows raising up. “Rude.”
“You invited him,” you tell Miles.
“And aren’t you glad,” he sings.
You’re not going to answer that. You fail by smiling.
Later, with hands full of tickets and sugar water Miles calls a slushy, you and the others spill out onto the pavement. LA is warm and a little sticky; the air smells like street food and city electricity. A group of skateboarders clicks past. Somewhere a car stereo argues with a siren. The world is vibrantly ordinary in a way you rarely allow it to be.
Miles is still narrating the night like a man afraid silence will catch him feeling something. “—and then she murdered me at air hockey, and then she performed a ticket heist, and then—”
“Taxi,” Noa interrupts, pointing. “We’re turning into pumpkins.”
Ella hugs Miles, quick and fierce. “Don’t teach her any more chaos.”
“No promises,” he says, hugging back, then salutes you with two fingers. “Snow queen.”
You arch a brow, grinning anyway. “Dickhead.”
He beams, blows you a kiss, and trots away to harass a claw machine into submission.
It leaves you and Lewis under a neon sign that hums like a shared breath. The others wait a few paces behind to call a car and pretend you don’t exist for a minute.
He looks at you like he’s learning where to rest his eyes. “You had fun.”
“I tolerated it,” you say, failing to hide the smile at your mouth.
“Good,” he says, and you don’t think he means your words at all.
There’s a wind that doesn’t deserve to be called wind brushing along the street. He steps closer without crowding and, because you’re still wearing compression under your hoodie, you pretend you don’t notice how warm he is in a city that runs on heat.
“Thanks for… not making it weird,” you say finally, which is a stupid sentence that means thank you for coming to see me and not asking for anything I can’t give.
He simply nods, dimples flashing. “Anytime.”
There’s a silence then that engulfs you both. Eyes locked. For a second you feel the heat that curled low in your stomach in Gstaad. You watch as his eyes flicker to your lips and dart away. He wets his lip with his tongue and reaches for another way to keep the conversation going. He's making it easy for you.
“You still training like it’s a religion?” he says, clearing his throat.
“It is,” you reply easily. “Difference is, mine gets judged by airtime and how clean my landings are. X games soon.”
He smiles, eyes crinkling. He looks excited for you, enthusiastic in his support, and it hits you somewhere in your chest that you can't ignore anymore.
“I know, I’ll be watching." He smirks and tugs at the sleeve of your hoodie, black compression band visible at your wrist. "And you’re ridiculous, you know? Compression bands in an arcade, huh?”
“Says the man who posts thirst traps to get my attention.”
He grins, too pleased with himself. “That was Miles.”
“Sure it was.”
You tilt your head, arching an eyebrow thats supposed to be a subtle don’t push it, Hamilton, but the corners of your mouth curve anyway. There’s fondness in it now, warmth he's somehow earned in such a small amount of time. Warmth he basks in like its oxygen.
A small breeze snakes down the street, lifting the ends of your hair. You shiver once, barely visible, but he notices. He notices everything.
“Here,” he says, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders before you can protest. The weight of it is soft, warm, and smells like sweet and subtle spice. It gets under your skin because for a second, an image of him being on top of you, your lips against his neck flashes in the far corner of your brain. It's exactly how he smelt that night. Your inhale is too soft to hear, too sharp to deny. Warmth blooms under your skin in a place you swore you'd sealed off.
“Lewis,” you start, but his hand brushes yours as he adjusts the collar, and both stay there for a second longer than necessary. He squeezes your hand just once, a silent gesture of: i know, you don’t have to say it. Neither of you fills the silence that follows.
At your car, you turn back to him with a quiet, knowing smile. “You’re so...impossible.”
“So are you,” he murmurs. There's no hiding the way his eyes sparkle with gentle affection.
He leans in, slow and deliberate, careful like he’s touching something sacred, and presses a kiss to your cheek. It’s nothing, barely there, but it hits with the weight of everything unsaid between you.
Noa waves you toward the car. You take a step, then another, and he matches for two before stopping on purpose like he knows his line.
“Goodnight,” he says, smirk back in place. He has the audacity to give you a wink, for good measure, of course.
“Goodnight, Lewis,” you answer, shaking your head. You hate that it sounds like an echo and a promise that he's got himself back into your head.
Behind you, Miles who magically reappeared to watch you both like you were an episode of a rom-com whisper yells to Ella, “I’m just saying, THIS IS CHEMISTRY,” and you flip him off over your shoulder without turning again, which makes Lewis laugh quietly, which makes your chest hurt in a way you will not examine.
In the back of the car, Noa nudges your knee, subtle with a giddy smile. Ella watches the streetlights smear across the window and says nothing out loud, but you can see the way she’s got a knowing smirk on her face. God, they all watched him kiss your cheek.
You look down at your hands, still sticky from slushy, still steadier than they should be after a day like this, a day of him, and think: oh, that didn’t knock me off balance too much.
Then you look out at the neon, and for a rare second, you let yourself be exactly what you are. Finally admit the thing you’ve been dodging.
You’re not the gold medalist right now, not the one held together by routine and discipline so fierce it makes you unbreakable. Just young, brilliant, terrified, alive. Just a second. You let yourself be.
Too aware of the man who just kissed your cheek, too aware of the wanting that now sits warm and sharp in your chest. You let yourself feel it for one reckless, honest second.
The morning of the X games arrives quicker than you'd anticipated. Hotel room, blinds cracked just enough to let the pale Aspen light blur into the edges of the bed. You wake into ritual without thinking: breath in fours, slow exhale; feet to floor; hands to face; the quiet, private thank you you never say out loud. Ankles circle. Hips. T-spine. A body made ready.
You move through the checklist like it's muscle memory. Mobility first: bands looped around knees, glutes lighting one by one. Foam roller along quads until the burn becomes truth. Ana knocks precisely at 7:02, eucalyptus follows her in like a second shadow. She tapes your ankles with clean, exact lines you could navigate by; checks range of motion with a thumb that never wastes pressure.
“Hydrated?” she asks.
You tilt the bottle, make a show of it. “Drowning.”
“Good,” she says, proud smile. “Keep drowning.”
Rhea appears after, armed with oats, protein, a two line lecture on electrolytes and no hero caffeine. You eat because she’s watching. She smiles because you do what she asks without argument, which is her favourite type of morning.
Dom arrives last. Clipboard. Calm. The person who taught you how to put nerves in a drawer and lock it. “We’re not chasing,” he says. “We’re collecting.”
“We’re collecting,” you echo. Call-and-response for people who don’t need luck. Never need luck.
At the venue, the world is louder, brighter, bigger. Posters everywhere, cameras everywhere, that strange mechanical cheer of production trucks and pop-up booths. You put your hood up. You move between fans and fences like water, Noa and Ella protecting both of your sides with a competence that reads as affection.
The pipe looks exactly as it should. Clean-cut, blue shadow along the lip, crowd pressing in with a hungry hush. You run your glove along the edge and feel the cold read you back. Hello, old friend. Your heart rate lifts, not in panic but in readiness. This is the place where time thins.
Warm-up is technical and private. You don’t perform here; you calibrate. A few easy hits to wake the line, knees soft, breath keeping your chest from doing anything heroic. Dom’s voice comes through the air, gentle but grounding. “Good. Don’t float the third. Put the energy into the fourth. Arms quiet. Eyes on the wall before you land. Trust your feet.”
You do. They’ve held you this far.
Finals crowd layers in. Banners, horns, someone with a drum who doesn’t deserve it. You slide into the start gate and the world goes narrow, mercifully. The cameras are behind you now. Ahead: a length of white logic you know better than the inside of your own mouth.
You tap the board twice. Knees bounce. In, out. For half a second, a face flashes behind your eyelids. Dimples, warm brown eyes, a porch light in the snow. You exhale. Lock it away.
The horn goes.
Drop.
You’re nowhere and everywhere. The first hit draws the horizon up to meet you; the second pulls the light into your chest. Rotations aren’t maths to you, not anymore; they’re grammar. You speak in them cleanly: one, two, breathe, three. Every grab lands your fingers exactly where they should, a punctuation mark that makes meaning out of movement. The world is slow here, snowflakes big as coins, sound dull as if you’re underwater. You feel the edge bite and hold, feel the tiny alignment corrections stacking through hips-spine-shoulders-fingers until the universe agrees you are allowed to be where you are.
On the fourth hit you land the thing you’ve been rehearsing in your sleep, a rotation that used to taste like fear and now tastes like comfort. You land so softly the board sings. There’s a noise at the bottom like a crowd finding out what silence is for.
Out of the pipe, the world rushes back in—the announcer’s voice cracking a little, the camera bam-bam-bamming on a crane, Dom somewhere yelling like a man who won a bet with God. Your lungs burn; it feels like prayer. You don’t pump your fists. You don’t scream. You breathe once, shake your arms out like you’ve just set a bag down. Noa slams into you half a second later anyway, her laugh a small explosion in your ear.
“Ridiculous,” she says, already crying without shame.
Ella’s just behind her, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “Goddess behaviour,” she says wetly. “I’m actually unwell.”
Dom pushes through, face doing that rare, dangerous thing. Cracking. His hands land on your shoulders, heavy with pride he’ll only let out in private. “Yes,” he says, voice thin, like it costs him to keep it together. “That’s you. That’s all you.”
Scores take forever because television needs time and worship needs choreography. The commentators are filling the air. You don’t listen until they say the phrase you didn’t know you wanted until it hits you square in the sternum: the cleanest final run in X Games history. There are lots of sentences that people say when you're at the top of your sport. That one lodges like a permanent bright thing in your chest, lighting you up from the inside out.
When your name hits the top of the board and stays there, the noise rises like a tide. The camera catches your face and doesn’t know what to do with the stillness it finds; you smile with the smallest part of your mouth, the part that belongs to you and a few people you chose. You nod like this was inevitable.
Podium. Flowers. Weight of medal, familiar and always new. Flashbulbs. The sky doing its fake Collarado blue. You look out at the crowd and anchor your eyes on your team. Dom’s jaw tight, Ana’s hands clasped at her chin like she’s praying to tape, Rhea shouting at no one about glycogen and glory, Noa and Ella, teammates always graceful in inevitable defeat, holding each other like they’re keeping their joy from floating away.
The mic is cold against your glove. You thank the mountain first because that feels right. You thank the team because they are your lungs. You thank the programme that paid for your first board without naming it; your parents, who taught you to love big and quietly; the kids pressing their faces to fences who need to see that the impossible is possible if you work hard enough.
“And,” you say, measured, eyes sliding towards the lens because it feels true to see it, “everyone who keeps me honest.”
Somewhere in a different room, someone who knows you will hear the line under the line. You lift the medal to your cheek and the gold is cold and heavy. You let it rest there a second longer than you meant to. For the photos, yes. But also because it’s still astonishing: that something you chase can become something you hold.
You step down and the world becomes human again. Noa’s jacket around your shoulders, Ella pressing a hand to your hairline, Ana squeezing the back of your neck in the way that slots your spine. Dom doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. He just nods once with a small smile, like a man witnessing the end of a sentence he’s been writing with you for years.
You look up towards the rigging, the camera blinking red. You don’t wave. You don’t wink. But you let your mouth give that small, private smile, the one few people ever earn. If he’s watching, you know he’ll see it. You want him to, and you're not sure what that means anymore.
Miles’s apartment is a museum of chaos with good lighting: plants that shouldn’t be alive thriving in corners, art leaning instead of hanging, a kitchen island covered in snacks like an altar to sport. The blinds are half-open, LA bleeding yellow shadows into the room. The TV isn’t big so much as it is confident. Shaun has somehow found a spot sprawled across the rug; Nina tucks into the corner of the couch with the calm of someone who has seen every version of competition nerves and still chooses love. Miles is everywhere at once.
Lewis watches on his phone anyway. Habit, proximity, superstition. His elbows on his knees. Head bowed enough to look like he was praying if you didn’t know him.
The run starts and the room changes temperature. Even the apartment breathes quieter. On the TV the commentators are doing their dance; on Lewis’s screen, you are not quite human. He feels it from the first hit, that unshowy absolute control, the way you make violence in the snow look like a dance. He doesn’t speak. He forgets to breathe in the middle and then remembers at the landing like he’s taking the breath from you and not the other way around.
“Holy shit,” Miles says reverently, pawing at Shaun’s shoulder.
Shaun is grinning with the feral pride of someone who knows what it costs to make the hard look inevitable. “That’s my girl,” he says, voice gone rough with joy. “That’s my motherfucking girl.”
Nina laughs into her hands, eyes shining. “She’s always been a problem,” she says fondly. “I’m obsessed with her. Ridiculous.”
The score comes through and the room detonates. Miles launches himself into a lap around the sofa as if cardio will express it better; Shaun just smacks the floor and yells. Lewis doesn’t move. He can’t. He is smiling in that quiet way he does when something finally calms inside his chest and stops running. He doesn’t know if he wants to kiss you or kneel.
On the screen you are up there, still as winter, letting the noise bounce off you like weather. When you thank your team he nods without meaning to; when you say everyone who keeps me honest and glance at the lens, he feels seen from a continent away and has to look down like the light’s too bright.
Miles is already filming stories, front camera on, yelling into the lens like the proudest menace alive. “SHE DID IT AGAIN! SHE DID IT AGAIN! ICE ANGEL SUPREMACY!” He tags you, tags everyone, tags God.
Lewis watches you press the medal to your cheek and something in him softens in a way he doesn’t have language for. It isn’t the win. He’s watched many wins. It’s the stillness afterward, the part that belongs to no one. The tiny smile. The proof that joy can be quiet and still be true. No one should be allowed to look that powerful, that invincible, and still be so beautiful. No wonder he hasn't slept right in weeks.
Later, the apartment looks like celebration without the alcohol. Food everywhere, playlists fighting for dominance, Shaun arguing with Miles about whether a fist pump counts as choreography. Lewis has drifted to the edge of the couch, phone in hand, replaying the run again because he can’t quite believe the same body exists in his life and on his screen.
“She posted!” Miles hollers from the kitchen, like a town crier. “Caption… oh my God she’s insufferable.”
Lewis already has it open. Photo: the medal in your hand, gauntlets of light along the edges, you look so happy, eyes steady. Captioned: Still chasing the edge.
He likes it without hesitation. Fingers hover over the keyboard. Type, delete. Type, delete. He hates this part of himself. The teenager who has returned, weirdly careful, weirdly earnest. He breathes once, and chooses the line that says everything and nothing, the only thing that won’t embarrass either of you in the morning.
Unbelievable. Proud of you.
“Let me see,” Miles demands, vaulting the sofa in a move that should be illegal at his height. He reads over Lewis’s shoulder like an auntie. “Classy. Respectful. Romantic subtext. I approve.”
Lewis rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. On the screen your notifications bloom and then collapse; a minute later, a tiny heart appears beside his comment. You’ve liked it. It makes his stomach flip in a way that it really shouldn't.
Miles cackles. “Progress, mate. That’s good progress.” He is actually giggling, all limbs and joy. “Oh my God, I’m invested. I’m so invested.”
Nina peers over from her corner. “What’s happening?”
“He’s being normal,” Miles reports, shocked. “And she liked his comment.”
Nina’s mouth softens. “Of course she did.”
Shaun, who has been pretending not to care about the phone bit, throws an arm around Lewis’s shoulders and squeezes hard enough to mean it. “Told you she’s special,” he says, voice low. “Not just on a board.”
Lewis nods because anything else would break the skin on his face where the smile lives now. He doesn’t open their texts. He doesn’t expect a message. He just sits there with the afterglow and the ache, both true, both allowed.
When Miles’s comment goes up, something unhinged and all-caps about monarchy and physics, you like that too. Another little heart. Lewis feels ridiculous for how much it means to him that Miles is the only one you seem to let tease you.
The apartment hums around him, Music, laughter, the clink of glasses, the thud of Shaun’s feet doing a victory lap to nowhere because he's just so proud. He leans back into the sofa and watches your run one last time, thumb pausing on the moment before the fourth hit when your face empties into perfect concentration. He knows that feeling too well to call it anything but holy.
Control vs. vulnerability. You holding it together like a science. Him unspooling like a quiet thread and letting it happen.
He types another message and doesn’t send it. You looked happy. He deletes it. Another: Knew you would. Deletes that too. The comment is enough. For now.
Miles drops down beside him and nudges his knee, softer than he gets credit for. “Look at us,” he says, mock-sentimental. “A tiny family of freaks obsessed with your little snowboarder.”
Lewis laughs, head tipping back. “Speak for yourself.”
“I am,” Miles says smiling, then lowers his voice, suddenly sincere. “She’s letting you orbit. Just barely. Take the win, man.”
Lewis looks at the screen again. Your medal, your mouth, that small private smile that belongs mostly to you and, tonight, a little to him. He nods once, a promise to no one but himself.
“I will,” he says.
Outside, LA keeps being loud. Inside, the room feels, briefly, like stillness you can live in. He presses the phone to his chest for a second, an old habit no one’s allowed to tease him about, and breathes.
He’s not fine. He’s something else: a very self-aware man learning, imperfectly, how to quietly love someone who keeps the world at just the distance she can survive. Someone who reminds him far too much of himself. Someone who he can’t let go of, no matter how hard he’s tried. Someone he’ll keep showing up for, as long as she lets him. He closes his eyes. Attempts to force down the realisation that he is so, so gone for her.
Across the country, under stadium lights and camera lenses, the ice angel keeps her crown with steady hands and a heart she still swears will forever belong to the mountains.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: chapter 5 is here… norway focus mode activated, emotional availability deactivated. lewis is spiralling, you’re avoiding, and miles is enjoying every second of it ❄️ includes a lil SMAU too!
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Pro Snowboarder!Reader
wc: 5k!!
summary: You vanish into training camp. Lewis vanishes into emotional chaos. One of you becomes the most disciplined version of yourself; the other becomes a man who googles “how long is normal between texts.”
warnings: pining, delusion (lewis), ghosting (you), mentions of previous smut, avoidance, overthinking, miles being iconic, swearing, intense training habits, mentions of strict nutrition/routines
previous chapter ⇆ next chapter
You land early enough that the light still makes the world look like undeveloped film. Norway always feels like a peaceful winter wonderland. Quiet, pale and always fully awake. By the time the doors hiss open at the training centre, the cold has done what it always does: cleans the noise out of your head.
They’re already here. Obviously
“Finally,” Ana, your physio says, and you get pulled into a hug that smells like eucalyptus gel and tape. She knocks her knuckles against your calf like she’s greeting a racehorse. “You slept on the plane?”
“Two hours,” you say. “Neck’s fine.”
“Neck will be my decision,” she replies, deadpan. “We’ll test range after first session.”
Ana was a lovely lady, shorter than you, hair greying. Soft features and a motherly touch.
“Hi, menace,” Dom, your long term coach adds, not looking up from a tablet. He’s been with you since you were a teenager, back when every new trick felt like a secret you had to smuggle through customs. “Rails first. Then air. We’ll stay conservative until I see your feet.”
You laugh once. “You say ‘conservative’ like you mean it.”
He doesn’t blink. “I mean it for thirty minutes. Then we’ll negotiate.”
You smirk at that, eyes lifting to his face. Dirty blonde, messy hair, analytic eyes. A grown man who never quite got out of the habit of looking like a skater. Slight crow feet wrinkles near his eyes now that you would bet you were the reason for.
Rhea, your nutritionist, materialises at your elbow with a Tupperware that could probably bench press you. “Oats with chia, protein at thirty grams, berries are weighed, and there’s a baggie of salt for your water. Don’t fight me.”
“I never fight you.”
Rhea gives you the kind of look only someone who’s known you since braces can. “You try.”
You drop your bags where they belong. Charging cords coiled; helmet cases stacked; board bags propped carefully against the wall, three boards zipped in like sleeping dogs. The familiarity clicks into place and you feel that tiny internal release: a system rebooted without fuss. You take off your trainers and lace your boots the way you always do. Two fingers between tongue and shin, tug, knot, double-knot, breathe.
Noa and Ella arrive with the clatter of personalities you’ve missed in the past 6 hours. They're way younger than you, still upcoming, insanely talented. You always chose to fly separately from them. Not out of spite, more for the calm. Noa clips you across the shoulder with her knuckles. “You made it.”
“Barely,” you say, but you’re smiling.
Ella takes in your face, then the line of your shoulders. “You’re already thinking about the second session.”
“I’m thinking about landings,” you correct, hearing Dom’s quiet snort from three feet away.
The mountain is a routine you can run with your eyes closed. You don’t, your eyes are the point, but everything else is instinct pinned to muscle memory. Warm-up: roll ankles, hips, T-spine; switch balance; pops on the flat. Rails: two clean, then progressions. Edge, slide, exit; watch the shoulders; no hero lines on day one. The ache arrives on schedule: front of shins, deep in the hip flexors, between ribs. You check the ache, log it mentally, decide it’s useful. Pain is information. You’re fluent in it.
Dom watches, silent, until you land a line so clean the board sings. He lifts two fingers: Again. You do it again. Third time, he nods, the smallest shift of face that means good enough to move on.
You feel fine. Not fine. Right. Exactly where you should be.
On the air line, the world slows. You’ve spent years teaching your body to be a metronome: approach, sight, weight over centre, compress, release, let the board do the work, arms quiet, knees soft, eyes on the horizon. The jump wakes your lungs like cold water. You land switch, heels carving out a narrow clean line, knees absorbing the truth of gravity. Dom’s voice comes through the air. “Hold it. Good. Out.”
On the lift back up, Noa’s glove knocks yours, easy. “You’re calmer than last week.”
“I’m just working,” you say, as if that answers anything more complex.
It does, for her.
Between runs, you drink. Rhea will ask, so you make sure the bottle is lighter when you hand it back. Ana checks your ankles with gloved hands, thumbs pressing in that way she knows won’t make you flinch. “How’s the head?” she asks quietly. “Travel always scrambles you.”
“Clear,” you say. “It’s quieter here.”
“Good.” She tucks a heat pack into your jacket pocket like you’re still fifteen. “Use this on lifts.”
Your phone vibrates once. It’s absurd how fast your brain tries to place who it could be. Who it hopes it might be. You let it buzz out. If you open it, you’ll think. And you can’t afford thoughts today, only precision. Dom calls your name. You push the phone deeper into your pocket and tighten your binding.
You lose track of time on good days. Today is a good day.
Session two is air awareness and restraint, which is its own kind of work. Dom keeps you in a narrow groove, no rotations you can’t wake up from tomorrow. When he finally calls it, the light has cooled into evening and your legs have that hollow, humming strength you like. You peel off your gloves on the walk back and your fingers look like they belong to someone who earns their life honestly.
Back in the wax room, you log your checkboxes: breathwork, rails, landings, protein, water, compression later. You slide your comp helmet out of its case to check the foam, not superstition, but maintenance. Your fingers rest, briefly, on the tiny outline of Striding Edge near the rim. The first mountain you trusted. The outline he noticed because he’s just so good at noticing everything. A brief flicker of his tattooed hands holding the helmet like it was sacred flashes behind your eyes. You push the thought away before it settles.
Rhea drops a second container near your elbow, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Carbs.”
You grin. “You expect me to eat both?”
“Eat both or I’ll email your mother,” she says. She will.
Ana tosses you a towel. “Physio in thirty.”
Dom leans in the doorway, reading the tomorrow in you already. “Soft ankles. Clean arms. Then we talk spin.”
“Yes, coach,” you say on muscle memory, and he smirks because he taught you that tone.
Inside your chest, there is ache and there is ease. You prefer days that have both.
You remember a porch and a question and a number you saved because you didn’t want to be rude. You also remember what you told him, and you meant it. You roll your wrists out, shake your arms loose, head to physio. Familiarity catches you at the threshold. Ana’s taping, Rhea’s lecturing, Dom’s muttering at a spreadsheet…and you feel something you rarely name. Home.
You lie face down on the table. Ana’s hands start their work. “Breathe.”
You do. You always do.
Morning looks wrong. Too bright, too intact. He comes down to breakfast with the careful movements of a man who believes in muscle memory because it saves him from thinking. Shaun’s already at the table, Tim’s halfway through a bowl the size of a helmet, and Miles is making a production out of buttering bread, as if bread needed a hype man.
“Sleep?” Shaun asks.
“Sure,” Lewis says, pouring coffee.
“Haunted,” Miles diagnoses cheerfully. “He’s haunted.”
They eat. Or they simulate eating. Lewis pokes at fruit and tries not to read into the way every trivial detail reminds him of you. Blueberries (Norway, cold, discipline), the scrape of a chair (your neat, efficient movements), the bow of steam from his mug (your breath on the cold walk home).
“God, look at this,” Shaun says suddenly, phone angled, voice a mix of pride and alarm.
Tim leans. “Is that…already?”
Shaun nods, sliding the phone across to Lewis. A clip, taken off someone’s private feed, sent to Shaun with the speed of gossip and love. The video isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. He knows that silhouette now. He could pick you out of a storm.
You drop into frame from the lip of a jump, body tight and loose in all the right places, and land as if gravity is a rule you agreed to follow only for the aesthetics. The mountain shouts in the background; the camera jolts; you ride out switch and then scrub speed with that clean, arrogant cut he recognises as your resting confidence.
“That was posted ten minutes ago,” Shaun says, like a man who has calculated time zones and travel durations and chosen to be impressed rather than worried.
“She must’ve landed an hour ago,” Lewis murmurs. Of course you did. He feels his mouth pull into a smile that doesn’t ask anyone’s permission.
Miles watches him watch the screen. “We’ve lost him,” he tells the butter, pleased.
Back at the chalet, the silence is different. He tries to read, to stretch, to do any of the hundred things that usually keep him steady. None of them work. He ends up on his back across the bed, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. His body is more honest than his brain: thighs still sore, shoulders speaking in the polite ache of overuse, ribs reminding him he laughed too hard, too late.
He closes his eyes and immediately makes a tactical error: he lets himself remember. The heat under your calm. The way you listened. The steadied intensity of your yes when you moved closer, like a woman who never wastes motion. The feeling of being inside you, watching you lose your carefully put together composure, letting him be in control. Your soft skin under his fingertips. The way your ass looked as you–
Lewis groans into his hands hoping the sound drowns out his spiral.
Then that porch. The number. That line you drew so cleanly he still feels it.
“What is wrong with me,” he says to the ceiling, half laughing. He knows the answer is nothing. That’s the problem.
The mattress dips. Miles. No announcement, no trumpet of nonsense for once. Just presence. He sits there for a second, then leans sideways and puts an arm around Lewis’s shoulders, awkward and perfect, like a brother who learned affection a little too late.
Lewis huffs a laugh. “This is surprisingly nice.”
“Shut up,” Miles says into his braids. “I’m being nurturing.”
They sit like that for a few minutes that feels like good medicine. The room is quiet in a way that allows the truth to come out with less theatre. Lewis’s eyes are trained to the ceiling, but Miles is watching him close. Can see the thoughts behind his eyes. Knows his best friend better than he knows himself, and is aware that he may be, unfortunately, doomed.
“She doesn’t do boyfriends,” Lewis says finally, quieter than he’d have liked.
Miles pulls back enough to see his face. “You asked?”
“Not like that.” He grimaces at himself. “I asked if anyone would object to me texting her. She said no. Then I asked, you know…casually.”
“Well I’d hope she didn’t have one, considering the night before. And she said?” Miles prompts, tilting his head. His voice was gentle, coaxing, sensing the inner turmoil.
“‘Absolutely not,’” Lewis quotes, picking the words up and feeling their sharp edges again. “Love of her life is snowboarding. No room for distractions, errors, disruption.”
Miles does the thing where he tries to laugh and can’t quite. “Ouch.”
“It wasn’t cruel,” Lewis says quickly, because that matters to him. “She was just…clear.”
“Yeah,” Miles says softly. “Sounds like her, mate.”
Lewis looks up at the ceiling again, because he’s learned it’s kinder than eye contact for certain truths. “I’m a self-aware man.”
“You are,” Miles says, wary of the next clause.
“I know what I’m doing,” Lewis continues, trying to convince himself. “It was one night. A release. I know what I’m doing, man. Or I thought I did.”
“Well,” Miles says, and his voice is very gentle now, “maybe you’re doing a new thing.”
Lewis breathes out. “Feels like doing nothing. She’s already…there.” He gestures vaguely north. “And I’m here. With… porridge. And you giving me a cuddle because I’m…as you phrased it so eloquently yesterday, ‘pussy whipped’ for a snowboarder 15 years younger than me.”
“First of all, respect the porridge,” Miles says, because he can’t help himself. “Second, she’s a very beautiful, fierce, confident woman. No judgement from me, bruv. Third, she gave you her number.”
“She did,” Lewis says. The two words sit bright and small in the room.
“Which means she didn’t shut the door,” Miles says, more practical than sentimental. “She slid it to ‘ajar’ and put a ‘don’t be too much’ sign on it. A boundary but a ‘lets keep in touch’ all the same”
Lewis laughs despite himself. “Don’t fuel my delusions, Miles. She made herself very clear.”
Miles lies back beside him on top of the quilt, shoulder to shoulder like kids at a sleepover. “Okay, here’s what you do,” he says, adopting his voice-of-authority tone that has never been authoritative. “You send exactly one message. Congratulate the training clip or something. No adjectives you’ll regret. Then you touch grass—well, snow—and stop staring at the ceiling like it owes you money.”
Lewis considers it. “One message.”
“Singular,” Miles says with a cheeky grin. “We’re protecting your dignity, Sir Lewis.”
“Right.” He pulls his phone out, stares at the empty thread with her name on top, and feels something like standing on a high board, toes over the edge. He types: Shaun showed me the clip. Looked clean. Proud of you. He deletes proud because it sounds too much like something he hasn’t earned. It’s pathetic how much he wants to mean that word to her already though, he thinks.
He types again: Looked clean. Nice start. Hope Norway’s kind. He adds a snowflake he immediately deletes. He settles on: Shaun showed me your training clip. Looked clean. Nice start. Eat something. He winces. “I sound like Shaun for fucksake.”
“Which, in this scenario, is a positive,” Miles says. “Not too much, not asking for her hand in marriage. Send. Then give me the phone so you don’t spiral.”
Lewis sends. Hands the phone over like it’s contraband.
They lie there listening to the radiator click. The hyperactive anxiety he expects doesn’t arrive; in its place is a low grade hum he recognises from before lights out on the grid. Anticipation, yes. Full, complete control? No.
“What did she do to me?” he asks the ceiling again, less rhetorical this time.
Miles laces his fingers behind his head. “She gave you the best sex of your life and then told you the truth,” he says. “And then she let you decide if you could live with it.”
Lewis turns that over, surprised at how accurate it feels. A deep breath, followed by a whisper that feels too honest to speak out loud.
“I don’t know if I can.” It felt crazy, actually, how 48 hours with this woman had altered his entire brain chemistry. It was embarrassing, but Miles was never one to judge.
“You don’t have to decide today,” Miles says, and for once there’s no joke in it. “Today you can just… be a person who felt something rare with someone and didn’t pretend it was ordinary.”
Lewis’s phone buzzes across the blanket. They both jump like teenagers, scrambling. Miles hands it over, too fast like it was on fire.
Thanks. It felt good. Trust me, I’m eating.
A second bubble, a second later.
I’ll send a clip when Dom says it’s clean enough to be seen.
Then, like you couldn’t stop yourself
:)
It’s nothing. It’s everything. A door, ajar.
Lewis closes his eyes and breathes. The ache in his legs shifts from proof of damage to proof of work.
“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Miles. “I can live with that. For now.”
“For now,” Miles echoes.
“Who’s Dom?” Lewis asks a slight furrow to his brow.
Miles cackles at the flicker of jealousy and possessiveness in Lewis’s eyes, shrugging casually. “Ask Shaun, bruv.”
They get up eventually. They go find their boards, their edges, their mountain. He’s not fixed, he suspects that’s not the point anymore. But when he drops into the first run of the day, the world sharpens, and for a second, he recognises the feeling that keeps both of them alive: the edge between being held and letting go.
Somewhere a long way north, you’re on the same edge, and that knowledge isn’t pain. It’s possibility.
Evening in Maranello is supposed to be peaceful. The light hits the Ferrari headquarters the way it always does, low and red and reverent. Everything smells faintly of oil, espresso, and control.
Lewis should feel calm here. It’s where he naturally exists: test work, simulator sessions, engineering briefings. The kind of structure that normally steadies him. But tonight, even the hum of the wind tunnel feels wrong. Too quiet.
Later, he’s on the sofa in his flat, laptop open, phone face-down beside him, pretending to read a technical document. He’s been pretending for an hour.
When it rings, he actually jumps.
“Miles,” he answers, half exhale, half relief.
“Mate,” comes the reply. Loud, chaotic, unmistakably Miles. “How’s life in Italian Hogwarts? You discovered a new dimension yet or just more spreadsheets?”
Lewis chuckles, rubbing his temple. “Both. How’s LA?”
“Loud. Warm. Sweaty. I miss Swiss peace and your haunted energy,” Miles says. “You sound tired.”
“Just long days,” Lewis says.
“You mean simulator prison,” Miles corrects. Then, he pauses. Sharp, sensing something's off. “Alright, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Lewis hesitates for two seconds too long.
Miles groans. “Oh, Christ. What happened?”
“I think…” Lewis stops, pinches the bridge of his nose, laughs quietly. “I think she’s ghosting me.”
There’s a silence long enough for Miles to process that sentence in all its absurdity.
“BRUV. YOU THINK SHE’S GHOSTING YOU?” Miles yells so loud Lewis has to pull the phone away. “Oh, Jesus. Okay. No one ghosts Lewis Hamilton. It’s alright. We’ll handle this. Stay calm.”
Lewis laughs despite himself. “I am calm.”
“You’re absolutely not calm. You sound like a man whose wife has left him.”
“Don’t start.”
“I have to start,” Miles says firmly. “It’s my moral duty. Okay, details. When did you last hear from her?”
Lewis glances out the window to the Italian countryside. “Gstaad. The day after she landed in Norway. When I was with you.”
Miles whistles, low. “So… a week?”
“Eight days.”
“Eight days?!” Miles says, scandalised. “My guy. That’s not ghosting, that’s a full on disappearing act.”
Lewis groans. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m sorry, but this is hilarious,” Miles says, pacing on the other end. Lewis can hear the faint echo of city noise behind him. “She’s active though, right? Like still posting?”
Lewis sighs. “Yes.”
Miles perks up, acting like he hadn’t liked every post and story of yours since you met. “Okay, specifics. What’s she posting?”
He rubs his forehead. “Training clips. Some sponsor stuff. Photos I’m pretending aren’t consuming my evenings.”
Miles snorts. "Oh yeah, I know the exact one."
"Fuck off, Miles."
Miles’s tone goes mock serious. “Red Bull sponsored posts?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. The deadliest kind. That’s not personal, that’s capitalism, to be fair.”
“Exactly, sponsored stuff has to go up, right?" Lewis mutters.
Miles hums in agreement like a therapist. “Has she liked anything of yours?”
Lewis hesitates. “…A story.”
Miles gasps theatrically. “A story? When?”
“Two days ago.”
“Two days! Okay, okay, that’s good. That’s a pulse. We’re in no-text limbo, not full ghosting.”
Lewis sinks back into the couch, half laughing. “Miles, you sound insane.”
“I am insane,” Miles says proudly. “I’ve had to watch you go from monk mode to moody poet in a week. You used to meditate; now you’re checking Instagram every five minutes like a weirdo.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Miles says flatly. “You just phrased it like a man who’s already checked her account today ten times.”
Lewis can’t argue. He presses his thumb to his temple and exhales. “I don’t want to double text.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Miles says. “We have dignity.”
“We do.”
“We’re kings,” Miles continues solemnly. “We don’t chase.”
“Exactly.”
“Unless,” Miles adds, “we think she might just be, you know, mid-training and chronically allergic to feelings.”
Lewis pauses. “…That last part sounds accurate.”
Miles hums thoughtfully. “Then she’s not ghosting you, she’s just… existing on aeroplane mode. Happens to the best of us. Especially to people who eat adrenaline for breakfast. You do it to me all the time.”
Lewis laughs, a small, helpless sound because Miles is right. “You sound like you’re writing a self help book, man.”
“I’m writing your survival guide,” Miles says. “Step one: don’t spiral. Step two: send a neutral text in two days. Step three: stop listening to sad playlists.”
“I don’t listen to sad playlists.”
Miles snorts again. “Brother, you posted a photo of the Maranello sunset with a quote about stillness.”
“It was pretty,” Lewis says defensively.
“It was a cry for help.”
Lewis laughs harder now, shaking his head. “You’re NOT HELPING.”
“Correct. And you’re in denial.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Miles cuts in. “Man got ghosted by an Olympian and you’re out here trying to act zen about it. I know you, Lewis. You’re obsessed.”
Lewis hesitates, his voice quieter when he finally answers. “Maybe.”
Miles softens immediately. “Alright. Listen. She’s got her head in training. You said it yourself. She said no distractions. That includes you.”
“Yeah,” Lewis says, trying not to sound disappointed. “I know.”
“Good,” Miles says gently. “But when she resurfaces, you can act cool. Not wounded. Cool.”
Lewis smiles faintly. “You know I can’t fake cool like this. With strangers, yeah. Not this shit. I've been thrown off completely by her.”
“Then channel it. You’re literally the definition of composed. You race at 200 miles an hour.”
“And yet,” Lewis says, twisting a ring round his finger, “this feels so much fucking worse.”
Miles laughs softly. “That’s how you know you’re doomed, my friend.”
Lewis shakes his head, smiling despite the ache in his chest. “Yeah. I think I already knew that.”
They fall quiet for a moment. Comfortable, human quiet.
Miles finally exhales. “Alright, man. Promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t check her insta again. Stop replying to her tweets as well. I saw it. You look crazy.”
Lewis chuckles, slightly embarrassed. “No promises.”
“Hopeless,” Miles mutters fondly. “I’ll call you in forty eight hours to monitor your descent.”
“Appreciated.”
When the call ends, the apartment is still. The hum of the city outside is faint and warm, and Lewis leans his head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
He tells himself she’s busy, focused, doing what she was built to do. He tells himself this ache is temporary.
But even as he closes his eyes, he can see her. Perfect control, bright eyes, that unbothered little smirk before she drops into a run.
In the quiet, he laughs to himself, low and wry.
Yeah. Ghosted by the girl who never misses her landings.
By the end of the second week, the ache has become familiar again. Deep in the legs, sharp in the shoulders, threaded through every joint like a metronome. It’s the kind of soreness that means you’re doing something right. The soreness that quiets the noise.
The camp feels like a closed circuit. Wake. Warm-up. Air drills. Rails. Recovery. Sleep. Everything’s measured. Predictable. Safe. You like that about it.
Dom runs the sessions with military precision. “Compress more on approach,” he shouts through the cold air. “Hold your head steady. Don’t chase the trick, let it come to you.”
You do, and when you land, the snow gives that clean, hollow sound that means you’ve nailed it. That sound still hits you the same way it did when you were fifteen, an affirmation louder than any applause.
Later, back at the lodge, Ana’s already rolling out Ella’s calves. Noa’s on the floor doing mobility work that looks more like sleep. Rhea’s weighing out dinner portions in plastic containers, the soundtrack of the evening a mix of laughter, groans, and the occasional curse at the scale.
You drop your board bag by the wall, unzip your jacket, and check your phone automatically. No new notifications.
You don’t know what you expected.
You’d stopped replying to him the day after you landed. Not because you wanted to be cruel, but because it was easier. Safer. There’s a rule you’ve always lived by: if something makes your heartbeat faster off the mountain, avoid it. You need that adrenaline where it counts.
“Oi,” Ella says from the sofa, smirking. “Lewis Hamilton replied to your tweet and you didn’t respond.”
You glance up. “Did he?”
“Yeah. The red bull one, the photos?”
“Right…” you say, grabbing your protein shake.
Noa looks up from her phone, eyes bright with mischief. “He also liked your last few posts, and commented on them.”
You roll your eyes, opening the fridge. “So did two hundred thousand other people.”
“Yeah, but he’s Lewis Hamilton,” Noa presses. “Global icon, seven-time world champion, the GOAT, remember him?”
“Unfortunately,” you mutter.
Ella grins. “What’s going on there, anyway? He seemed very… attentive in Gstaad.”
“Nothing’s going on,” you say, sharper than intended. Then you soften it. “We talked after. It was nice. That’s it.”
Noa exchanges a look with Ella, the kind that’s too knowing. “You haven’t texted him?”
You shrug. “Been busy.”
“Mmhm,” Ella says, drawing the sound out. “Busy ignoring him.”
“I’m training,” you counter, opening your laptop, pulling up your schedule. The colour coded calendar fills the screen, blocks of time so exact it could pass for architecture. “This is why I’m here.”
Noa stretches, still watching you. “You’re allowed to like people, you know.”
“I do,” you say evenly. “I also like winning.”
That gets a groan from both of them. “Of course,” Ella mutters, turning back to her hot chocolate.
You glance at your phone again without meaning to. His name sits somewhere in your messages. Three unread texts, all versions of care disguised as conversation. How’s the snow? Eat enough. Sleep’s still non-negotiable.
You haven’t opened them. Because if you do, you’ll remember his voice. The way he said your name like it belonged in a quieter world. The way he looked when his head was between your–
You push the thought away.
Ana glances up from her physio notes, eyes narrowing with fond suspicion. “You’re quieter than usual.”
“Just tired,” you say.
“Mm.” She doesn’t believe you but doesn’t push. “Stretch before bed. Ankles looked tight on that last run.”
“Will do,” you promise.
When the others drift off to their rooms, the lodge settles into its usual stillness. You finish writing your notes. Rails clean, switch solid, wind strong on air line two, repeat tomorrow. Then, finally, you check social media.
He did reply to the tweet. A short one, with a snowflake emoji and a “stay warm.” He liked the post of Gstaad, the one of you posing on the mountain. Bloody commented on them too. You stare at the comments longer than you mean to.
It’s harmless, you tell yourself. Probably nothing. Probably everything.
You close the app and plug in your phone, face down on the desk. You stretch. You roll out your shoulders. You climb into bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for your mind to slow down. It doesn’t.
Eventually, you whisper into the dark, half to yourself, half to the ghosts of what you’re not letting happen. “Don’t do this. Not again.”
Then you reach for your notebook, tick off the final box. Sleep: 8h, and try to convince yourself that discipline feels way better than desire ever could.
Outside, the wind moves across the slope like a long breath. Inside, you dream of stillness, but he’s there anyway, laughing softly like he never believed your walls could hold forever.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: chapter 4 is here and lewis is absolutely cooked. he wakes up ruined, dazed, and convinced he’s seen god. you’re fully recovered and bossing the day. miles becomes a certified therapist. goodbye scenes hurt him a lil. enjoy x
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Pro Snowboarder!Reader
wc: 7.4k
summary: lewis wakes up wrecked, spiritually altered, nearly comatose. you’re totally fine. lunch is a social experiment. miles performs an intervention. packing with you becomes emotional damage for poor lew.
warnings: smut mentions (past events), mild angst, feelings denial, mutual pining, miles being a menace, devotion themes, discipline themes, reader’s emotional walls, lewis being astronomically down bad, athlete-style food/macro discussion (non ED?)
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The first thing he registers is pain. Not bad pain, earned pain. Thighs burning, abs sore, every joint humming with memory. The second thing is the light, too sharp, too high.
Lewis blinks at the ceiling, frowning. It’s bright. Too bright. He rolls onto his side, squinting at the clock. 1:47 p.m. He’s missed half the day.
For a moment he doesn’t move, as if any sudden motion might shatter whatever spell he’s still under. His brain feels strange. Soft at the edges, his thoughts moving slower than usual. He can feel the ache in his body like proof something immense has happened. Something he’s not ready to process yet.
Then he turns his head.
You’re still asleep, half-buried under the sheet, the sunlight spilling in lines across your back. Your hair’s a mess, your breathing even. Peaceful. He stares for too long, trying to reconcile the calm before him with the storm still running through his muscles. There’s a pull in his chest he doesn’t have a name for yet, something warm and unnervingly gentle, like waking up somewhere his body recognises before his mind does.
His gaze drifts down your arm and catches on a small bruise blooming along your elbow. Faint, purple-edged, the type you get from clipping a rail or misjudging a landing. Without thinking, he reaches out, brushing his thumb lightly over the mark, careful, reverent. The kind of touch he wouldn’t give to just anyone. The kind that says more than he’s ready to.
His eyes travel up, and that’s when he sees them. Faint marks and bruises forming along your collarbone and throat, fingerprints of last night’s chaos. His breath catches. His eyes widen. Memories hit him in a rush...your voice breaking, your nails in his back, the balcony railing biting cold against his hands, the way you’d looked at him like you wanted to burn him alive.
He lets out a shaky laugh under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “Christ,” he mutters. “I need a debrief.”
You stir, stretch, and murmur something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh of your own. When you sit up, you catch his dazed expression and shake your head, amused.
“Afternoon,” you say, voice rough from sleep.
“Afternoon,” he echoes.
You throw him a look that says you know exactly what’s going on in his head, and get out of bed. The hoodie he swears was folded on the chair last night somehow ends up around your shoulders as you pad toward the kitchen.
By the time he pulls himself together enough to get dressed, there’s a mug of black coffee waiting on the counter.
“You looked like you’d need it,” you say simply.
He takes a sip, silent, eyes still fixed on you as you move about your chalet. Everything around him feels like an extension of your mind. Ordered, precise, everything in its place. Supplements lined by day. Protein powders alphabetised. A laptop open to a colour-coded schedule for the next week.
He glances at the room, half asleep, half dazed. Eyes following the carefully curated space you made, if only for a weekend. “You’re very organised.”
You shrug, pushing your hair out of your face. “Easier that way.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, still piecing together whatever version of himself existed before last night. It’s obvious this is simply who you are – deliberate, honed, shaped by years of structure. The way you say it makes it sound less like a preference and more like a law of physics. He understands that. Lives by it, even. “Comforting, I guess.”
“Necessary,” you correct, and the half-smile you give him tilts his world just a little. It’s small, barely there, but something warm drops through his chest anyway and his stomach flips before he can stop it.
When you finally check the time, you swear softly. “We’ve missed half the slopes.”
“Half?” he echoes. “More like two thirds.”
You shoot him a look, exasperation edged with something softer, “Lunch. Slopes. Then pack. Norway tomorrow.”
“Right,” he agrees immediately, with the misplaced conviction of a man nodding at gospel. It’s only when you turn away, hiding the start of a smirk, that he realises he’s nodding like someone freshly domesticated.
What the fuck am I doing? he thinks, rubbing his eyes like he could blink the spell off him.
You think he looks cute when he's nodding like a lost puppy, though.
The restaurant is warm, all chatter and clinking glasses. You’re already ahead of him, laughing with Ella, Noa, and Shaun. You look completely back in control: hair neat under a beanie, eyes warm, focus sharp again.
Lewis slides into a chair beside Miles and Tim, his movements slower than usual. He’s quiet. Too quiet.
Miles, halfway through a forkful of pasta, stops and stares. “Mate… you good?”
Lewis blinks once, twice. “I think so.”
Miles tilts his head, studying him. Lewis looks like a man who’s been unplugged and hasn’t reconnected yet. Calm, polite, but distant, his eyes still somewhere else entirely.
“Good,” Miles says slowly, still watching him. “Because you look like you’ve been in a traumatic event.”
Lewis gives a tiny, helpless laugh. “Huh, maybe.”
Tim looks up, frowning. “You okay?”
Miles waves him off, eyes still locked on Lewis. “He’s not hurt. He’s transcended. Look at him. He’s blinking in slow motion.”
Lewis groans, rubbing his eyes. “I might need… a debrief. Possibly a therapist.”
Miles’s jaw drops. “Holy shit. Did she—” he stops himself, lowers his voice, “—ruin you?”
Lewis glances at him, utterly sincere. “I think I’ve seen the light, mate.”
Miles just stares for a second, unsure whether to laugh or call a doctor. “You’re not even joking.”
Lewis shakes his head, dazed. “Not even slightly.”
Miles sets his fork down, now half-worried. “Are you okay? Like physically, emotionally… existentially?”
Lewis exhales through a quiet laugh. “Physically, aching. Emotionally, undefined. Spiritually, obliterated.”
Miles leans back, hands up in mock prayer. “She’s broken the man. Someone alert the FIA.”
“I’ll recover,” Lewis says, though he doesn’t sound convinced.
Miles studies him again. “You sure? You look like you’ve had an entire religion rewritten overnight.”
Lewis hums, finding the plate in front of him far too interesting. “Maybe I have.”
At that, Miles can’t help but laugh. “I thought she’d eat you alive, didn’t think you’d come back a prophet.”
Lewis shakes his head, smiling faintly, eyes unfocused. He can still hear you crying out for him against the balcony in his head. “You have no idea.”
Miles’s amusement softens into something like genuine concern. “For real though, mate… she’s intense. Don’t let her throw you off your axis. You look—” he hesitates, searching for the right word. “—different.”
Lewis thinks about denying it, then doesn’t. “I am.”
Across the table, you’re a universe away. Animated, focused, completely at ease. Talking with Shaun about your training block, laughing about an old crash video Ella pulled up on her phone. You slice through your pancakes like a woman entirely unbothered by last night’s events.
Shaun grins. “You’re off to Norway tomorrow, yeah?”
“Early morning flight,” you say between bites. “Camp starts Monday.”
“Brutal,” he says.
“Necessary,” you reply again with a small shrug, the word effortless.
Miles watches the exchange, then glances at Lewis. “She’s talking about altitude training and you’re over here having an out-of-body experience.”
Lewis hums again, eyes still on you. “Because to her, maybe nothing happened.”
Miles sighs exaggeratedly . “Brother… you’re finished.”
Lewis breathes out a quiet laugh, more of a confession. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I am.”
You glance up mid-conversation, meeting his eyes across the table. A flicker of knowing passes between you. Brief, electric, a private aftershock of something neither intends to name. Then you go back to your pancakes, perfectly composed, as if the world hasn’t shifted.
Miles watches him, still wary, half-laughing. “Alright,” he says finally. “Nap. Water. Maybe a smoothie. You look like enlightenment’s hangover.”
Lewis nods slowly, still dazed, still watching you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Probably all three.”
By the time they leave the restaurant, the sun has already started its slow descent behind the ridge. The air has that late-afternoon hush, blue light softening the edges of the snow.
Lewis tells himself he’ll go back out. Just a couple of runs, clear his head, shake off whatever this fog is. But the minute he gets back to his chalet, the warmth hits and his body decides otherwise. He drops onto the bed fully clothed, still half-listening to the wind against the windows, and then… nothing.
When Lewis wakes, the light has turned gold.
The clock reads 4:03 p.m. His neck aches, his body feels like it’s been through a training camp he doesn’t remember signing up for. There’s a soft knock on the door. A polite, rhythmic knock that only Miles could manage.
“Come in,” Lewis calls, voice rough.
Miles eases the door open, holding a smoothie like it’s holy water. “Alright, mate,” he says. “You. Missed. The slopes. Do you have any idea how serious this is? I thought you’d been abducted. By monks.”
Lewis sits up slowly, wincing at his own stiffness. “Yeah, well. I needed sleep. System rebooted.”
Miles stares at him. “You don’t ever nap, Lew. You meditate for an hour and then decide to stretch. This—” he gestures broadly to Lewis still wearing a beanie in bed “—this is a red flag. Did she break you?”
Lewis blinks, still foggy. “Kind of.”
Miles grins, delighted. “Kind of? Mate, you look like you’ve done three triathlons and fought God in between”
“Accurate.”
Miles’s grin sharpens. “So… not to pry, but… did she, uh, outperform the data model?”
Lewis gives him a flat look. “Miles.”
“I’m just saying,” Miles says, palms up. “You look like you’ve seen every dimension of reality and then some. There’s actual enlightenment in your eyes, mate. Like you came back from a pilgrimage.”
Lewis leans his head back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “That’s because that’s actually what happened.”
Miles tilts his head in disbelief. “Lewis, mate. It’s just a woman, a little one night stand. A very beautiful woman. Come on–”
“I’m serious,” Lewis says, eyes snapping open and meeting his gaze. “I have no idea what just happened to me, but I might never recover.”
Miles starts laughing so hard he nearly slides off the bed. “You’re telling me the seven-time world champion, the man who redefined endurance, got flattened?”
Lewis shrugs helplessly. “That’s one word for it.”
Miles stares at him, hand over his mouth, eyes watering with laughter. “I need to send her a thank-you card. Maybe a trophy. You’re blinking like a man who’s just come back from war.”
Lewis rubs his temples, muttering, “It’s not funny.”
“It’s absolutely hysterical,” Miles says, wiping his eyes. “You, Mr. Discipline, Mr. Meditation… napping at 4 p.m.? Brother, she didn’t just knock you off the podium, she lapped you.”
Lewis sighs. “I don’t even know how to explain it. It was…” He stops, searching for words, then laughs helplessly. “Insane.”
Lewis stares at him, blinking slowly, utterly sincere. “Like… insane.”
Miles narrows his eyes. “Define insane.”
Lewis hesitates, eyes darting toward the floor. “I—probably shouldn’t.”
“Oh no, no,” Miles says, dropping onto the bed, grinning. “You started this, you finish it. What happened?”
Lewis opens his mouth, immediately regrets it, then blurts a string of half-sentences and gestures that make absolutely no sense but somehow imply everything.
“I came FOUR times, Miles. I forgot that was possible. I felt possessed, bruv. Hot tub, bed, reverse cowgirl, doggy, balcony, SHOWER–”
Miles goes still for half a second, then bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry, WHAT? Bro!”
Lewis throws up his hands, mortified. “I told you I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Not joking?” Miles asks, eyes sparkling.
“Not even slightly. I felt like she slipped a viagra in my drink, Miles. I’m telling you… check the CCTV. Someone drugged me or something. No way that was all me.”
Miles clutches the smoothie like it might keep him from levitating. “Okay, first of all, respect. Second…holy FUCK.” He laughs again, bright and delighted. “You look traumatised and healed. FOUR TIMES? That’s talent, brother.”
Lewis exhales through a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah. Talent.”
Miles wipes his eyes, still giggling. “This is incredible. You’re forty, mate. Forty! And she’s got you walking around looking like you’re pussy whipped! Aren’t your knees insured?!”
Lewis glares at him, mouth dropping open. “DO NOT PHRASE IT LIKE THAT MILES, JESUS CHRIST! Don’t make it sound weird. And yes, I’m sure my knees are fucking insured but that’s not the point is it?!”
“It is weird!” Miles gasps between laughs. “You’re glowing and broken at once. You’ve got post-traumatic serenity. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me as your friend.”
Lewis covers his face with both hands. “Please stop talking.”
“Not a chance,” Miles says. “This is history. Lewis Hamilton found his kryptonite, had one taste, and decided to nap about it.”
“Four tastes, Miles. Four. In under 3 hours…”
Miles stifles another laugh and nods towards Lewis’s crotch faintly, voice lowering to a whisper. “Is lil Lew alright?”
Then he’s hit in the face with a pillow so hard Miles nearly falls off the bed and drops the smoothie.
“Shut the fuck up.” Lewis grumbles as Miles suppresses another snicker. “I’m serious.I don’t know what just happened to me. I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s…she’s so…different.”
Miles’s grin softens but doesn’t fade. “Oh, I know. I’ve met her, remember? She walks in and the air salutes.” He tilts his head, still laughing. “But clearly, you’ve reached a level of pussy whipped none of us were ready for.”
Lewis chuckles weakly, staring down at the smoothie in his hands that he snatched mid-sentence to hide how flustered he was. “You think I’m exaggerating.”
“I think,” Miles says solemnly, “that you need an electrolyte IV and a therapist bruv. This is outstanding.”
Lewis laughs, finally relaxing. “Probably both.”
“So dramatic.”
Lewis lets out a laugh that sounds half-genuine, half-resigned. “You think I’m joking, Miles. I’m not. She… she’s different. I’ve met focused people before, but she’s—” he pauses, searching for the word, “—another category entirely. Watching her lose control like that…because of me. Fuck, man.”
Miles flinches like he’s been shot. “Mate, please. I’m one more word away from blushing on your behalf.”
Lewis rolls his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m serious.”
Miles studies him, grin still there but softened. “Alright then. Different how? And if you say ‘she glows in the moonlight’ I’m leaving.”
Lewis snorts and shoves him, thinking for a second before responding.
“She doesn’t need anything from anyone,” Lewis says quietly. “She just is. She doesn’t perform. She doesn’t chase attention. She’s brilliant. It’s terrifying. And magnetic.”
Miles lets out a low whistle, eyebrows shooting up. “Yep. That’ll do it. Man’s cooked. Properly. Like a Sunday roast left in the oven ‘cause nobody set a timer.”
Lewis lets out a helpless, embarrassed laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck off. You’re not helping. I’m just…” He exhales, defeated. “Yeah. Fine. Cooked. Absolutely cooked.”
Miles shakes his head, still half-laughing. “I’d say congratulations, but you look like you’ve survived a natural disaster. Drink that before you start levitating again. Honestly, bro? You’ve never looked more human. Or more alive. It’s kinda beautiful. And also deeply alarming.”
Lewis glances up at him, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “That’s because I am alive. Barely.”
Miles snorts. “Sip your smoothie, Socrates. And next time you go near her, wear emotional armour. Or—I dunno—holy water. Something.”
“Wouldn’t help,” Lewis mutters.
Miles grins. “I know. That’s why it’s funny.”
Lewis takes a long sip of the smoothie and exhales. “She’s leaving tomorrow.”
“Norway, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Miles nods like he’s assessing a wounded soldier. “Well then,” he says, pushing himself to his feet, “I’d get your words in quick, mate. Before she leaves you catatonic again. Or speaking in tongues.”
Lewis chuckles, low and resigned. “You’re a menace.”
“And you,” Miles says brightly, pointing at him like a disappointed PE teacher, “are finished. Cooked. Folded like laundry. Recover, hydrate, maybe call a priest. You look like a broken man, Lew.”
Lewis shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Something like that.”
When the door shuts, the room is quiet again. He sinks back into the pillows, the smoothie dripping condensation onto his hand. He doesn’t even notice, he just stares at the fading light pooling across the floor. Every muscle still aches, but it’s the kind of ache that tells him something irreversible has shifted. It feels like something completely out of his control. He doesn’t know if it was sex or a seismic event, but whatever it was, it shifted something he can’t put back.
You’re back where you belong.
Snow hisses under your board, the air clean enough to bite. The mountain opens below you like a familiar map. Every line, every edge, every drop exactly where it should be. You’d forgotten how quiet everything feels up here when you were doing it for fun. No noise, no press, no eyes. Just wind, speed, balance.
You cut hard, feel the tail of your board skid through powder, then ride out the turn and laugh. Ella’s behind you, Noa chasing close, and Tim’s halfway down the run trying to get shots before you disappear again.
“Slow down!” Noa shouts, but you can hear the smile in it.
You don’t.
By the time you reach the bottom, your lungs are burning in the best way. You unclip, fix your beanie, and glance up. Shaun’s already there, one hand wrapped around a coffee, the other shading his eyes. He looks amused.
“You know,” he says as you stomp over, “most people would take a rest day after… whatever that was.”
You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Whatever what was?”
He gives you a look that’s half brotherly, half gleeful. “Don’t play dumb. I saw him earlier. Lewis looked like he’d gone ten rounds with the apocalypse.”
You laugh, unbothered. “He’s fine. He’ll recover. Eventually..”
Shaun snorts. “Recover? He could barely walk, kid. I’ve been on podiums less bruised than he looked.”
“Dramatic,” you say, unclipping your gloves. “It was just a night. It was fun.”
“Fun,” Shaun repeats, sceptical. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
You shrug, smile crooked. “Would you prefer I call it a religious experience? He seems to think it was.”
Shaun laughs so hard he nearly drops his cup. “Oh, he’s gone. You should’ve seen him at lunch...Miles was practically calling for last rites.”
You shake your head, suppressing a grin. “They’re both ridiculous.”
“They’re terrified,” Shaun says, still chuckling. “He’s forty, you’re you, and apparently, he’s out here questioning reality all of a sudden.”
You adjust your beanie, half amused, half exasperated. “That’s on him. I’m fine.”
You tell yourself that’s true. Mostly it is.
But there’s a part of you, the quiet, unguarded one you keep buried, that's stuck replaying last night in flashes. How he looked at you, the way his eyebrows knitted together and jaw slackened as his forehead rested on yours, the low moans he made. His laugh low in the dark, the way he listened like every word you said mattered, how easy it felt to let the world drop away for once. You’d talked for hours before anything else happened, real talk, not the surface-level scripts you’re used to. He’d understood things you never explain out loud. That unsettles you more than anything. Because you’ve built a life on control, on choosing when to let go. And last night, you didn’t choose. You just did.
Shaun gives you that look, the one that’s seen every version of you. “You always are.”
You glance away, back up the slope where Noa and Ella are already strapping in again, Tim crouched low with his camera ready. The sunlight catches off the snow, scattering into gold.
You smile. “Come on, old man. You coming, or do we need to get you a recovery smoothie too?”
He groans. “You’re so annoying.”
You start toward the lift, board dragging with you. “That’s why you love me.”
Behind you, Shaun laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Just try not to break another world champion, alright?”
You toss a look over your shoulder, grin flashing. “No promises.”
And then you’re gone again, carving into the mountain like it’s muscle memory, leaving the rest of the world to catch up.
Dinner runs long. Firelight, music low, plates clinking softly as snow keeps falling outside.
Lewis arrives late. He’d told himself it was just to say goodbye properly, nothing else. But when he spots you already seated, laughing at something Miles has said, that promise evaporates before he even reaches the table.
He ends up next to you. Not planned, not really, the only open seat. Miles raises his brows but says nothing, biting down on a smile that doesn’t help.
“Evening,” you say, voice light.
“Evening,” he returns, careful, casual. Except it isn’t. At all.
The conversation flows around you both. Noa and Ella talk travel logistics, Tim gestures animatedly with his camera, Shaun argues with Miles about something ridiculous. Lewis adds in where he can, but half his attention is on you, the way your laugh cuts through the noise, the way the firelight catches in your hair.
When you pass him a dish, your fingers brush. It’s nothing, just a small, electric misstep, but he doesn’t pull away right away. Later, when you lean closer to reach for your glass, your knee knocks lightly against his under the table. This time he stays still, pretending not to notice while every nerve in his body does.
Miles definitely notices. He smirks over the rim of his drink, shaking his head like of course.
Lewis clears his throat, turning slightly toward you. “You all packed for tomorrow?”
You shake your head. “Not even close. I’ll do it after dinner.”
He smiles, low. “Still the last minute type? I’d expect you to be packed a week before your trip, you know.”
You arch a brow, suppressing a smirk. “And you’re not?”
“Not if I can help it anymore.” He gestures toward you with his fork. “You look like someone who plans her life to the minute.”
You laugh softly. “Only when it matters.”
“I think it always matters,” he says, a little quieter now.
Something about his tone makes you glance at him — he’s smiling, but it’s that softer one that reaches his eyes. You hold the look for a second longer than you mean to before reaching for your drink.
“You sound like someone who meditates about his suitcase.” Deflection, a quick pivot away from the feelings in your stomach.
He chuckles. “You’d be surprised.”
It’s easy. Too easy. He asks about your next competition, you ask about the season ahead. He’s curious about your training schedule, the places you’ll go, how you stay sharp when the pressure never ends. You listen when he talks about the silence before a race, the focus, the odd calm of it. You recognise pieces of yourself in every word.
At one point, as the table breaks into laughter about something Miles says, his hand slips to your leg, a quiet, grounding gesture under the table, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your trousers. It’s brief, almost unconscious, like he needs that small point of contact to steady himself. He leaves it there just long enough for you to feel it, then shifts slightly, pretending it never happened.
It feels like fire, the way it leaves a trail of heat on your thigh. Forbidden fire. Fire you cannot let yourself get too close to.
He asks, “Do you like Norway?”
“I love it,” you say without thinking. “It’s quiet. Real snow. No cameras. I can just work. Train hard. Focus.”
He nods, thoughtful. “I get that.”
“You should,” you tease. “Bet you hide away all the time, huh?”
He tilts his head, dimples on show. Tries to hide how his eyes soften at the sound of your teasing, the way his stomach flips just from looking at you. “Maybe, sometimes.”
Miles is still watching from across the table, eyes glinting with amusement. He mouths something that looks suspiciously like whipped, and Lewis fights the urge to laugh.
By dessert, you’re already mentally gone — half in the snowfields of Norway, half still here, finishing a conversation that’s turned surprisingly honest.
“I should pack,” you say finally, checking your watch. “Early flight.”
The table quiets for a moment, then fills with goodbyes.
Miles groans dramatically. “Already abandoning us?”
“Some of us have to work,” you shoot back, smiling.
Tim waves. “I’ll send the photos.”
Shaun stands to hug you, voice low and warm. “Eat enough, kid. Don’t run yourself into the ground.”
“I’ll try,” you say, though you both know it’s a lie.
Then you turn to go, until Lewis is already pushing his chair back, coat in hand. “I’ll walk you,” he says before he can think twice.
Miles mutters something that earns him a look from Shaun.
You hesitate, only for a second. “Alright,” you say finally.
Outside, the air bites. Snow drifts lazily under the lamplight as you start down the path together, footsteps soft against packed ice. The silence is comfortable.
He wants to say something, anything, but every word feels too heavy. You don’t seem to need them anyway; your gaze is forward, already halfway to Norway in your mind.
Still, he stays close beside you, the space between your hands too small to ignore.
The night air fogs with every breath, crisp and dark with cold.
“You’re really flying out tomorrow?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“Mhm” you confirm, hands tucked into your jacket pockets. “Training camp. It’s… pretty full-on.”
He nods, smiling faintly. “Sounds like it.”
You glance over. “What about you? When do you head back?”
“Couple of days,” he says. “Then I’m flying to Italy. Maranello.”
You tilt your head. “Back to HQ?”
“Yeah. Pre-season meetings, simulator, data work, the usual,” he says with a small shrug. “Pretending to enjoy spreadsheets until I can get back in the car.”
You laugh, low and genuine. “That’s a very glamorous image, Lewis Hamilton versus Excel.”
He grins. “Hey, don’t underestimate me. I’m unbeatable in column formatting.”
That makes you laugh again, bright and easy, and he swears he can feel the sound of it somewhere behind his ribs. The sound loosens something in him. When you brush snow off your sleeve, he reaches out without thinking, fingertips grazing yours before his hand settles lightly around yours.
You glance down but don’t pull away.
He exhales, the faintest smile on his lips. “Just making sure you don’t slip,” he says, even though you both know that’s not what this is.
“Mm-hm.”
You walk the rest of the way like that, your hands still linked, the quiet between you soft and comfortable.
When your chalet comes into view, you slow. Warm light glows through the windows, golden against the snow.
You stop at the steps, turning toward him. “Thanks for the walk,” you say.
He nods but doesn’t step back. His gaze flickers toward the door, then to you, your face half-lit by the porch light, your breath still misting in the cold. It hits him all over again: how last night felt like falling and flying at once. The feel of your skin under his fingertips. The way he’d made you let go of everything, focus only on him, even for a couple of hours. He doesn’t want to leave, not yet.
“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat, “let me help you pack, yeah?”
You tilt your head, amused. “You want to help me pack?”
“Yeah,” he says, half laughing now, aware of how ridiculous it sounds. “Just… make sure the gold medal’s in there somewhere.”
You smirk. “I think I can manage that.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “Still.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, then push the door open. “Alright,” you say, stepping back. “You can supervise.”
He follows you inside, the warmth rushing up to meet you both.
Inside, the chalet is warm and impossibly tidy. Not hotel tidy, you tidy. There’s a rhythm to the order that makes it feel lived-in and fully under control: boots aligned heel-to-heel on a mat; outerwear hung with zips kissing; a drying rack of neatly spaced base layers like a monochrome flag.
Lewis shuts the door and catches himself smiling. In the lust-filled chaos of last night and the daze of this morning he hadn’t quite realised the extent to which everything was…ordered. He’s lived a long time with systems and rituals, but this is another level. He follows you to the table and stops. The table you put his coffee on this morning. It isn’t a table anymore. It's mission control.
Your laptop glows with a colour-blocked calendar. Hourly bands for sleep, mobility, cardio, slope time, strength, recovery. Next to each day is a linked checklist: tiny boxes with ruthless label. AM: HRV log, 10-min breathwork, 5g creatine, 20g collagen, ankle prehab, hip CARs. SLOPE: line review, two warm sets, progression 1–2, risk gate. PM: compression, protein target, legs up, 8h asleep. Lewis leans in and sees that each item has a timestamp when it was last completed. You aren’t planning your life; you’re auditing it.
He thought he was meticulous. He thought he was the one who ironed discipline into lines. Internally he winces: Jesus. I’m a hobbyist compared to this.
Your phone buzzes on the table. You flick your eyes to it without breaking pace, open the email, scan, nod. “Nutrition,” you say absently. “Confirming macros for camp. They want me at 120 grams protein minimum, heavier on carbs the second session.”
Another buzz. “Physio. Slot tomorrow evening for tissue work. And...” one more ping, “Coach wants to tweak tomorrow’s conditioning if snow is heavy. He’s sent a new off-snow activation block.”
Lewis watches those emails arrive and slot instantly into the calendar with no friction, no fuss. You’ve already dragged little blocks an hour left, half-hour right, all while zipping a side pocket and kneeling to coil a charger into an elastic loop.
The suitcase on the floor is half packed. Half packed for you still looks military. Compartment cubes are labelled with painter’s tape and tidy caps handwriting: THERMALS — MON/TUE, MID — WED/THU, OUTER — ALL. A smaller cube reads SPARES: straps/edges/screws. That last one makes him snort.
“What,” you say without looking up.
“Spare screws,” he answers, crouching to help. “I’ve seen engineers less prepared.”
“That’s because I pay attention,” you say, not unkindly. “Everything breaks eventually.”
He doesn’t miss the way you say everything: gentle, factual, without drama. You fit so precisely into discipline it feels like the only place you can breathe.
He reaches for the stack of sweatshirts on the chair and, out of habit, folds them. Shoulder to shoulder, sleeves in, a single smooth panel and then halves into rectangles. You notice, eyebrows arching.
“You fold like a man who’s lived out of a bag.”
“I have,” he says, aligning edges. “A long time.”
“Perfect,” you say, and it lands like a compliment you don’t hand out easily.
On the floor by the wall sits a snowboard bag. A huge one, zips straining under the pressure of keeping it shut. Curiosity gets the better of him and he unzips the top and freezes. “You brought...three?”
You glance over, matter-of-fact. “Obviously.”
“For one trip?”
Your look says you know better. “Different days. Different tasks.” You tap the first: “Park board: stiffer, edges set hard. Good for rails, predictable pop.” The second: “Big air: lighter core, faster base, slightly tuned for speed and takeoff.” The third, you rest your hand on, almost fond: “Backcountry: she’s wide, she floats, and she doesn’t argue.”
He laughs under his breath. “You just called your board ‘she’.”
“She is,” you say, unapologetic. “She saves my life on heavy days. I bet you personify your car!”
He runs a palm along the top sheet of the big-air deck and whistles. “Touché. And you bought all three for a four day camp? Or the weekend away?”
“I take them everywhere,” you deadpan, and that makes him grin.
Beside the bag is a lined-up trio of helmets in soft cases. You pull them out without ceremony, laying them like offerings: matte black for park; matte white for big air; then the one you lift a little slower, the competition shell, glossy and deep blue with a faint pearly fade. The Red Bull mark curves clean along the side.
“Well, well,” he says, flashing a look of disgust. “We’ve seen that logo around.”
You catch it, laugh. “Don’t start. I drink the cans, I don’t design the engines.”
“Please keep it that way,” he says, mock grave. “We’ve had… professional differences with red bull over the years.”
“That’s between you and your past life,” you reply, smiling as you check the liner. “Mine pays for snowboards and plane tickets.”
He steps closer to the comp helmet, noting small, quiet details a casual fan would miss: a tiny inked outline on the rear, barely there unless the light hits it. A shape like two rounded humps and a thin valley.
He squints. “What’s that?”
You slide the helmet into his hands. “Helvellyn. Striding Edge, technically.”
“Lake District?”
“Home,” you say, and the word sits differently on your tongue. Softer, less precise. “Dad and I hiked it when I was little. One of the few days I remember thinking… okay, I’m brave up here. First time I fell in love with the mountains. It's about 20 minutes from my family home”
He turns the helmet gently, finding another mark on the inside rim, a small date, unassuming numerals. He knows a podium date when he sees one. “Your first gold.”
You shrug, almost guilty at being sentimental. Your first gold when you were 15. A fluke, many thought. A one-off. How wrong they were. “I like to keep the map and the proof together.”
He hands it back with something like reverence. “I get that.”
On the table, your spreadsheet of meals sits open in another tab. He’d thought the supplements off to the side were a lot...little labelled cases with AM/PM, soft gels, chewable vitamin D, iron, magnesium, omega-3, something for joints. But the plan is another universe: MONDAY—oats, chia, berries (weighed), espresso (single), protein shake (30g), then a neat column of checkboxes for water in 500ml increments. LUNCH—rice bowl with greens and salmon; AFTERNOON—banana, yoghurt; DINNER—chicken or tofu, roast veg, sweet potato; DESSERT—“hot chocolate if landings clean.” He huffs, amused and appalled. Hot chocolate if landings clean. You’ve gamified the simplest comfort.
You catch him reading and don’t flinch. “It helps.”
“I know,” he says. “I had to turn food into math to stay sane some years.”
“Then stopped counting?” you say, half statement, half question.
“Mostly,” he admits, under his breath. “Weight limit changed, bit easier now. Means I’m actually allowed to have some muscle. Still count when I need to. Well, I have people to count for me..”
You nod like he’s spoken a code phrase correctly. Then you pull a zip-pouch marked RECOVERY and line it with compression socks, a travel TENS unit, two lacrosse balls, and a neatly folded set of Voodoo bands. He watches your hands and thinks not of obsession, but of devotion. There’s a difference. Obsession is loud. This is quiet. Monastic.
Your phone dings again. You swipe, skim. “Dom says wind could be variable. Session one is rails and switch landings, session two is air awareness. He wants the backflip clean before we add rotation. Ana wants me to keep ankles warm on lifts. Rhea says sodium up if I’m lightheaded after session two.”
“Does everyone in your life email at midnight?” he asks, half teasing, half stunned.
“They know I’m awake,” you say simply.
God, he thinks, a little awed, a little unnerved. She never puts it down. And then, because honesty is cheaper than pretending: Neither do I, to be fair.
You kneel again, weighing your three boards with your hands like each has a personality you can sense through your palms. Lewis crouches beside you, sorting gloves by thickness without being asked, lining them from thin liners to insulated pairs, thumb seams facing the same way. You glance sideways.
“You really like order,” you say.
He smiles. “You really like winning.”
“Same thing,” you answer, but you’re smiling too.
He notices, then, the small things others would miss. How you check your edges with a thumbnail and then write a quick note, sharpen big air heel edge, into a little pocket notebook that already has a dozen lines of scribbles. Just like his notebook he carries with him at the paddock. How you count your spare bindings screws under your breath: one, two, three, four, and then count again. Like it's a compulsion. How you set your alarm for a time that ends in :27, the kind of ritual a body trusts even when the brain can’t explain it.
He slides a folded sweatshirt into the suitcase and looks up. “You ever… not do this?” he asks gently, not accusatory, genuinely curious. “The lists, the loops, the checkboxes.”
You sit back on your heels, considering. “When I do, I get hurt,” you say plainly. “Or I forget to eat. Or the run goes bad and I don’t know why. The routine means I can fix things before they break.”
He nods, that honest understanding tugging at his chest. “Yeah. I know that one.”
“It’s not about control,” you add, surprising him. “It’s about peace.”
He lifts an eyebrow, studying your features. “I thought the peace was the control.”
“It used to be.” You zip the cube closed. “Now the peace is knowing I did everything I could. Then the mountain can say no if it wants.”
He sits with that for a second. Then tilts his head and mutters slightly softer, “and if it says no?”
“It never says no to me,” you say with a smirk, like you’re reading the weather, not your life.
He exhales and smiles because there’s nothing else to do in the face of a truth that elegant.
You stand, slide the big-air helmet into its case, and tuck the comp helmet last, fingers resting on the Lake District line a second longer than they need to. He can almost see you on Striding Edge. Small and stubborn, wind loud, dad’s hand near but not holding, the first taste of I can do hard things. He files that image next to you upside-down against blue sky and you over a table with a pen drawing tiny boxes that all get ticked.
When the suitcase is finally zipped, the room exhales. You check the calendar again, drag a mobility block fifteen minutes earlier, swap sled pushes to bike flush because the physio wants less eccentric load on travel day, set a reminder to call your mum when you land. Then you flip to tomorrow’s list and tap three boxes you can’t do tonight. Sleep ≥ 8h, Eat enough, Landings clean. The interface drops a soft checkmark on each. It’s almost tender.
Lewis laughs quietly. “You check boxes in advance?”
“Manifestation,” you say, deadpan, and it’s so at odds with the science that he wheezes.
There’s a soft domesticity to what follows. Two people moving through small tasks like they’ve done it a hundred times. He folds another hoodie and slots it into a gap you left for exactly that shape. You plug in your watch and coil the cable with the same neat loop he used on his sweatshirts. He moves your compression boots from the chair to the case so you don’t forget them; you set a tiny sticky note on the door handle that reads PASSPORT. It all looks absurd from the outside, he knows, neurotic, maybe. But on you it reads like a vow. A wonderful, beautiful, devoted vow to your sport. He tries to ignore how his chest feels so warm.
He wanders to the helmet bags again and taps the Red Bull emblem with a sideways grin. “You know, if anyone asks, I did try to talk you out of the cans. Can’t you get sponsored by monster or something? Red bull is not good for your image.”
You roll your eyes. “Your team is sponsored by a printer and watches I can’t afford. If I come back with a ten second edge on you one day because of caffeine from those cans, I’ll send a handwritten apology.”
He snorts. “Ten seconds? Please. Give me my dignity. I’m not that slow on a board.”
“Sure. Keep folding my sweatshirts, Lewis,” you chuckle.
“Gladly,” he says, and he means it. There’s something deeply soothing about being useful in your orbit, even at this small, ordinary scale.
You close the final pocket, pat the top of the suitcase like a done thing, and straighten. The room is the same and not; the chaos of leaving has already been pre-forgiven by your order.
“Done,” you say.
“Of course you are,” he answers, soft.
You look up at him at that. It’s not pride he’s offering, not awe. It’s recognition. The kind of look you give someone when you’ve finally mapped the contours of the mountain they climb and can say without flattery: I see the cost, and I see why you pay it.
He checks the time and swallows what he wants to say, because it would be heavy and you are packed lightly tonight. “What’s left?”
“Sleep,” you say, then add, “and an alarm at 4:27.”
“:27,” he echoes, amused. “Lucky number?”
“Just right,” you say.
He hesitates, then nods. “I should let you get it.”
You walk him to the door. The night breathes like a living thing outside, snow still whispering against the glass. He’s not ready to leave, but he respects the ritual: evening closed, morning already open.
“Thank you,” you say.
“For folding?” he teases.
“For not making fun,” you correct, a small smile. “People usually do.”
“I might be the last person qualified to laugh,” he says. “Besides, it’s not crazy. It’s the price of landing every jump right, the way you always do.”
That earns him a full smile, quiet and rare. “Exactly.”
He steps out into the cold and turns back. You’re already unplugging chargers, checking a final list, smoothing the case handle down so it sits flush. He realises it then with a clarity that feels like clean air: what looks like perfection from a distance is, up close, your way of being kind to yourself. Of removing every stray variable so the only thing left to manage is the leap. He pushes down the need to hug or kiss you goodbye.
“Goodnight,” he says, soft.
“Goodnight, Lewis,” you answer, and it sounds like both a boundary and an invitation to try again.
He starts to turn, hesitates, then laughs softly, half-nervous, half-hopeful. “Wait. Do I have to ask Shaun for your number, or…?”
You freeze, thrown completely off. “What?”
“Your number,” he repeats, smiling. “So I can check in. See how training’s going. You know…research on my new favourite snowboarder…”
You raise an eyebrow. “You could just follow my Instagram.”
He groans quietly. “I will! But that’s… impersonal. Everyone follows your Instagram.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” you say, but there’s humour in your voice.
He folds his arms, still grinning. “I’d rather ask properly.”
You sigh, amused. “Fine.” You hand him your phone, screen unlocked. “But if you start sending affirmations, I’m blocking you.”
He chuckles as he types in his number, then calls himself so yours flashes on his screen. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then before he can stop himself, “no one’s going to object, right? Me having your number?”
The question lands lightly, but something in him tenses as he waits for your answer. He knows the answer, he slept with you last night, but he's trying to use it as an opening.
You shake your head, barely registering the question. “No. No one to object.”
He tries to play it off with a half-smile. “Boyfriend?”
You laugh. Not sharp, not cruel, more dismissive than anything else. “Absolutely not. Haven’t got the time or the interest.”
“Right,” he says automatically, but the word doesn’t sit right in his mouth.
You go on, matter-of-fact, oblivious to the man you’d destroyed the night before in front of you. “The love of my life’s snowboarding. Everything else just complicates the data. Distraction, disruption… all the things I don’t need.”
He nods, smile tightening. “Makes sense,” he says, but there’s a dull throb under the words.
You don’t notice. “It’s not exactly romantic.”
“Maybe not,” he murmurs, eyes on you. “But it’s honest.”
And it is honest, that’s the part that stings him. Because as he watches you standing there, lit by the porch light, confident and already halfway to Norway in your mind, he realises how completely he believes you.
He gives a small nod, as if agreeing with himself. “So I’ll just cheer from the sidelines.”
You tilt your head, that faint smirk tugging again. “You can try.”
He laughs softly at the rejection you're gently giving him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I can.”
The door closes softly. He stands a moment in the hush. He’d loved helping you pack. Loved being close to you, even like this. Somewhere inside him, a box ticks itself complete, something unclenches.
When he finally walks away, the cold air hits him harder than it should. Your number glows in his phone. A tiny, impossible thing, like a keepsake he hasn’t earned. Proof he didn’t dream you, proof last night wasn’t something he crafted in his mind from hunger or loneliness.
But all he can think about is how seamlessly you drew the boundary. How unshaken you were. How calm. Like nothing had shifted at all.
The snow crunches under his feet as he walks, slow, hesitant, each step dragging a little. Somewhere in the blue-lit silence, something settles in his chest with the weight of a stone dropped into deep water: he’s already in trouble. Real trouble. And you didn’t look back at him even once.
He exhales, breath curling up into the dark, and tries to laugh at himself, gently, quietly, the way a man does when he knows he’s losing before the race has even begun.
She’s not obsessed, he thinks. She’s devoted. Single-minded. Unreachable in the way only the truly exceptional are. Just like he has been for most of his life.
He understands it better than anyone. That kind of devotion has a gravity to it. A pull that doesn’t leave much room for love, or softness, or someone waiting in the wings. He respects it. Wants to protect it, even. He tells himself he’s fine with being a friend, with being someone who cheers from the sidelines.
But the truth presses in as the cold creeps through his coat: quiet, bruising, inescapable. He already wants more. He already feels too much. But he knows he doesn’t get to want anything at all. Not from someone who belongs to the mountain, not to him.
So he tucks his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders curling inward, and walks on. Letting the cold bite, letting the quiet swallow him, letting the self-denial settle like fresh snow.
Because your devotion might demand sacrifice, distance, restraint, patience...and he’s already terrified of how willingly he’d give all of it if it meant he could stay close enough to feel your orbit, even from far away.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: hi, this is just thousands of words of smut. can't lie. this is filthy. enjoy lewis getting ruined for the plot xoxo <3
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Pro Snowboarder!Reader
wc: 12.6k (i genuinely need to be banned from google docs)
summary: one night. one hot tub. one utterly unhinged level of chemistry. you let yourself fall a little, and lewis forgets every ounce of discipline and restraint he’s ever had.
warnings: smut w/ plot, MDNI, unprotected piv, oral (m+f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, choking (light), spanking, praise + begging, semi-public balcony sex, shower sex, dumbstruck!lewis, kind-of-feral!reader, ridiculous levels of horny tension, Do Not Have Sex In Hot Tubs besties it’s not great for the ph balance, lewis getting spiritually rearranged for the storyline
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It’s strange, how natural it feels. Strange how easy it is to move with him, like gravity shifted ever so slightly in his direction.
You’ve drifted to a quieter corner of his chalet, half-hidden by the sofa and the low, humming fire. Close enough for warmth, far enough that no one bothers to look. Far enough that no one can really see where his hand is.
His arm finds your waist like he’s been waiting for the chance. His palm settles low, right above your hip, fingers splayed wide like he wants to feel the exact shape of you through your jumper. The quiet, possessive kind of touch that doesn’t ask but listens. His thumb draws slow, idle circles through the knit of your jumper, heat seeping straight through to your skin. An anchor. A temptation. Not a claim, but a promise of what claiming could feel like. He’s not pulling you closer. He doesn’t have to. Your body leans on instinct.
His eyes stay on yours. Patient, unflinching, dark with a kind of focus that makes your stomach swoop and your legs feel warm and restless. He watches you the way people watch fires: like he wants to get closer, but he’s smart enough to respect the heat. For now, at least.
When he laughs, it’s soft and deliberate, brushing your neck like a warm hand. Every smirk, every small curve of his mouth, sends a spark down your spine. A spark you haven’t let yourself feel in a long time. A spark you didn’t know you missed until he lit it again.
He’s funny in this quiet, disarming way that slides right beneath your defenses. Kind without announcing it. Soft where it matters, sharp where it counts. An athlete’s softness, built from discipline and self-control, not fragility. You were so alike in that way, maybe that’s why you let him flirt. That was new. Usually, you sidestepped it, turned everything into a joke or a polite smile. Tonight, you matched him. A little reckless, a little too amused at your own boldness.
Your voice dips. You lean in when he speaks. You let your knee brush his. You let your eyes linger a second too long on his mouth. The kisses return like the second half of a sentence you’d both already committed to saying. Slow, intentional, lips brushing once, then again with more certainty. His hand slides up your spine as you kiss him, warm through your jumper, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades before drifting lower. Not rushed. Not messy. Two people testing restraint until it starts to fray.
Snow was still falling, thick and unhurried, catching in your hair as you walked down the slope toward your chalet. He’d said, “I’ll walk you back,” and it hadn’t sounded like a question. You’d said, “If you must,” pretending you weren’t secretly relieved that he did.
Your fingers stayed laced. Loosely at first, then tighter, as if both of you realised what you were doing at the same time and neither wanted to stop. You let yourself enjoy it. That was the miracle. You let yourself. No performance, no cameras, no precision. Just the simple, terrifying act of being here, walking through snow with someone who looked at you like he already understood what you spent your whole life trying to hide.
When you reached your door, the world was silent except for the soft crunch of your boots and the sound of your heartbeat ricocheting between your ribs.
Inside, the air smelled like cedar and citrus and discipline. The chalet was everything you were: ordered, efficient, meticulously curated. Supplements stacked by day. Protein powders lined up by flavour. Outfits hung by function, colour-coded like quiet confessions of control. Your laptop glowed on the table, open to next week’s schedule. Monday: Flight to Oslo. Tuesday: Training block. Wednesday: Conditioning. Thursday:Interviews.
A life of boxes to tick. All you’d ever known. A life that never left room for moments like this.
You glanced at it, then at him. He stood just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, the faintest smile on his lips. Not mockery, not pity. A sweet kind of quiet curiosity. The door clicks shut behind you, and the sound is small, harmless, but something in you shifts at it. Like the quiet seals something in. Like the night finally has the right to be honest.
Lewis stands just a step inside, snow still melting in his braids, breath soft and visible. He’s looking at you in that way. The way he’s looked at you all day. Focused, attentive, quietly fascinated. But now there’s nothing and no one to divide his attention.
Just you. Just him. Just the heat that’s been simmering beneath your ribs since the first run of the morning. You toe out of your boots, fingers trembling only a little, and his eyes follow the movement. Not greedy. Hungry, yes, but reverent in that soft Lewis way. Like he’s trying to memorise the moment you let yourself relax, even a fraction.
You straighten, brushing snow from your hair, and his breath catches. Barely there, but you hear it. You feel it. That tiny sound goes straight down your spine.
“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice lower than it was a minute ago.
He swallows once, slow. “I’ve been staring since this morning.”
The admission hits warm in your chest, stealing a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. You take one step closer. He doesn’t move, he watches. Body loosening, shoulders dipping like he’s exhaling something heavy.
“Mhm…you don’t look away,” you say softly.
“No,” he whispers, eyes tracing your mouth. “Don’t think I could.”
It shouldn’t make you shiver the way it does. It shouldn’t make your thighs press together. It shouldn’t make something coiled and tight inside you finally, finally unclench. But it does.
You let out a breath. Not shaky, exactly, but real. Unfiltered. He notices instantly. His eyebrows tug just barely, soft concern mixing with something hungrier.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer now, slow enough that you can stop him and close enough that you don’t. “What was that?”
You shake your head once, a tiny movement. “Nothing.”
He tilts his head, and you feel his fingers brush your wrist. Gentle. Checking. Listening.
“You can tell me.”
You laugh once under your breath, embarrassed by how raw you suddenly feel. “Not used to stopping,” you admit. “Feels… weird.”
“Stopping?” he echoes, barely above a whisper.
“Thinking. Feeling. Letting anything happen that isn’t controlled or something I’ve planned.”
His jaw flexes. Not hard, enough to show he heard all the things you didn’t say. He steps closer again. Your back is almost touching the door now. His chest is a breath from yours. His scent, warm, clean, something like spice and snow, curls around you.
“Can I—?” He doesn’t finish the question, his hand hovering at your waist.
The fact that he’s asking again, despite having had his hands all over you all night, softens you even more. You nod before he even gets the words out.
His palm settles against your waist, the warmth of it burning straight through the fabric. His thumb slides slowly over the curve of your hip until he reaches the side of your upper thigh, and your breath leaves you in a tiny, involuntary exhale.
His eyes flick up at the sound. God, the look on his face. Awe. Like you’re something rare he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch.
“Been thinking about you all day,” he admits, voice warm but rough with restrained desire. “Didn’t know if I was imagining this.”
“This?” you whisper, pulse quickening.
He steps the final inch into your space, his nose brushing yours, his breath warm on your lips. “You,” he murmurs. “Wanting you. Needing you. Trying not to.”
Your fingers curl into the front of his coat, pulling him closer before you even realise you’re doing it. His breath hitches, and he presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut like he’s grounding himself.
“Say it,” you breathe without meaning to. “Please.”
He lets out a shaky, quiet laugh that sounds like surrender. “I’m in awe of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Have been since last night. Fucking gorgeous, so beautiful. Can’t take my eyes off you.”
Heat floods your chest, your stomach, the space between your legs. Sharp and immediate and impossible to ignore. Something in you, something tight and disciplined and held together for years, finally snaps loose.
The kiss hits soft at first, then deeper, needier, like both of you have been starving yourself without realising it. His hands slide to your waist, then lower, fingers digging into your hips, drawing you close enough that you feel the strength of him pressed against your stomach.
You gasp, quiet, and he hears it. His mouth drags to the corner of yours, then your cheek, then lower to the line of your jaw, each kiss slow but hungry, like he’s trying to relearn patience and forget it at the same time.
Your fingers slide into his braids without thinking, tugging him closer, and he exhales a sound that borders on a groan. Soft, breathy, barely held back.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough and warm and trembling at the very end of the sentence.
You grab the back of his neck and pull his mouth to yours again. “I don’t.”
His hands slide under your jumper, warm skin meeting warm skin, and your breath catches as his fingertips trace your waist, the underside of your ribs, the small of your back. Everything in you pulls toward him. Every muscle. Every thought. Every bit of tension you’ve been carrying for months. His mouth finds the column of your throat, open and reverent, and your knees almost buckle.
“Lewis–” His name leaves you in a whisper you didn’t mean to give him.
He closes his eyes at the sound. “Say it again,” he breathes, voice breaking just a little.
You do. You don’t even think first. “Lewis.”
“Fuck… good girl,” he almost moans, the words spilling out of him like he’d been biting them back for hours, as his tongue traces over the hammering pulse in your neck.
Heat floods your whole body. Your breathing quickens. His grip on your waist tightens, fingertips digging in like he’s grounding himself, like if he lets go, he’ll lose you to the air. You feel him inhale against your skin, soft and shaky, and the sound goes straight through you. His nose grazes your jaw, then the soft spot beneath your ear, mouth dragging there in a way that makes your thighs press together without permission.
“Been wanting to taste you,” he murmurs, more confession than lust, his lips barely brushing your skin between each word. “Since the minute I saw you move on that mountain.”
You were panting now, your own hands sliding under his jumper to touch his skin. He groans, soft and helpless, like the feel of your need against him is undoing something he thought was unshakeable.
Your back meets the wall gently as he presses forward trying to get near enough, close enough, finally enough. His forehead drops to your cheek for a moment, breath unsteady, like he needs to pause or he’ll lose every bit of restraint he’s fought to keep.
“Tell me if you need me to slow down,” he manages.
“Don’t,” you breathe, and the word comes out almost desperate.
His body reacts before his mind does with a quiet, broken exhale, his hand sliding up your ribcage, thumb dragging subtle circles into the heat blooming under your skin. He’s looking at you now, really looking, pupils blown, mouth parted, awe written in every line of his face.
“God,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Your skins so fucking soft.”
You pull him in by the neck of his jumper again, and he comes willingly. Too willingly, like he’s been waiting for you to tug, to ask, to take. His lips seize yours again, deeper this time, hungrier, the kind of kiss that makes your whole body tilt forward, searching for more, for him, for anything that quiets the relentless noise inside you. You’re losing control, he’s losing his mind. Neither of you cares.
Fun. You could do fun. You deserved to do fun. Your world was built on precision, on landing clean, on never showing the wobble. But this. This small, uncalculated thing between you, it felt like the kind of freedom you chased down mountains and never found at the finish line. For tonight, you could let yourself fall a little.
You only realise how breathless you are when the two of you break apart, foreheads pressed together, both catching air like you’ve climbed a mountain, not kissed your way through the doorway.
“Coat,” you manage, tugging lightly at his. The word comes out low, a little shaky, and his eyes darken instantly with desire. You’re both past pretending now.
He shrugs out of it in one smooth motion, the fabric hitting the floor with a soft thud. You peel yours off too, heat licking up your spine as you watch his chest rise and fall, his shoulders broad and restless in the firelight. He’s trying not to look overeager. He fails.
You step backward toward the sofa, and he follows like his body doesn’t remember how to do anything else. The cushions dip as you sit; he sits beside you, closer than before, knee pressing into your thigh, his breath brushing your cheek. The whole room seems to tilt toward the two of you. Warm, dim, conspiratorial.
He doesn’t wait this time. His hand slides under your jumper with no hesitation, fingers spreading across your stomach like he’s been dying to touch you properly all night. His palm is hot. His voice is hotter.
“Come here baby,” he murmurs, quiet but sure. You crawl into his space without a second thought, settling half on his thigh, half between his legs, letting his hands guide you exactly where he wants you.
Your bodies slot together like you’d rehearsed it. His lips meet yours again with deliberate care, tasting, learning, savouring. But it feels different now, a little hungrier, messier, desperate. You feel the soft scrape of his teeth against your bottom lip; you feel his breath sharpen when your fingers slide into his braids again, holding him close.
He groans low and almost relieved, and that sound nearly undoes you. His hands move slower than his mouth, like he’s trying to memorise you with touch alone. One rests under your jumper, thumb stroking the underside of your breast; the other drifts from your waist down along your hip, lingering at the waistband of your jeans, teasing, asking without asking.
Your breath stutters when his fingers slip just beneath. Just skin, just warmth, just enough to make your pulse trip.
You pull away for a second, lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Fuck, Lew...”
He exhales shakily at the sound of his name leaving you like that. Soft, wanting, already half lost in him. “Yeah,” he whispers, almost into your mouth. “I know, baby.”
He cups the back of your neck and kisses you again. Deep, slow, devastatingly sure, while his thumb strokes lazy circles low on your stomach, dipping just a little lower each time, testing how far you’ll let him go tonight. You already know the answer; as far as he wants.
The fire crackles behind you, warm air skating along the exposed skin where your jumper has ridden up. His hands roam freely now, no restraint, sliding up your spine, down to your hips, under your jumper again and again like he can’t decide where he wants you most.
Your thighs shift instinctively, angling yourself over his leg. The pressure hits perfectly and you gasp into his mouth. He freezes for half a second, stunned, and then he does it again.
Lifts his thigh just enough. Presses you down just enough. Breathes your name like he’s praying with his mouth on your throat.
“Let me,” he whispers, voice gone low and wrecked and unbearably gentle. “Let me take care of you, angel.”
You don’t answer in words. You just grab the front of his jumper and bring his lips back to yours, kissing him hard, like that is the yes. His hand settles on your hip, guiding your body, grinding you down against him while his mouth moves hungrily along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. Every inch he touches lights up. You feel his restraint slipping beautifully, matching your own.
He’s hard against your thigh now, straining against his jeans, hips shifting to match the rhythm you set. A small, helpless moan catches in his throat when you press down harder, and you swallow the sound right from his mouth.
“You know…I have a hot tub on the balcony,” you murmur against his lips.
He pulls back just enough to look down at you, a devastating smirk tugging at his mouth, nose still brushing yours. His eyes are dark, blown, reverent.
He squeezes your ass in one palm, slow and firm, brain foggy with lust. “Yeah?” he rasps. “I don’t have trunks with me, beautiful.”
You arch your brow, eyes sparkling with the confidence he can’t get enough of. “Never gone skinny dipping, Lew? Come on, live a little.”
His grin deepens. Low, dark, thrilled. The challenge curling warm through the air.
He chuckles, breath shaking just slightly, and you feel his fingers flex on your hip like he’s already imagining the water on your skin. Before he can refuse, you push gently off his lap. His hands fall uselessly to his thighs, eyes widening with a flash of disbelief at the sudden loss of your weight, your heat. He looks wrecked by it actually, undone in a way he doesn’t even try to hide.
You stand over him, lips swollen from the kiss, firelight painting gold across your skin. He drinks you in like he’s starving.
You hold his gaze for one long second, letting him feel the moment before it shifts, and then you hook your fingers under the hem of your jumper. You peel it off in one fluid motion.
The lacy black bra underneath fits like a secret he’s just been granted access to, hugging your breasts perfectly. Lewis’s jaw slackens slightly. His eyes drag over you slow and greedy, flickering from your breasts to your stomach to your lips like he can’t decide where he needs to look first.
His legs spread wider as he sits back, unconsciously giving you a clearer view of the thick outline straining against his jeans. His chest rises a little too fast.
“Fucking hell…” he mutters, voice rough like the air had been punched out of him. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your smirk deepens as he murmurs a gentle, “keep going for me baby.”
You oblige him. Your fingers find the button of your jeans, sliding them down your hips with an unhurried, teasing shimmy that reveals smooth thighs and a matching thong. The fire behind him pops; he swallows hard.
He takes a deep breath, one hand smoothing over the heavy bulge in his jeans before squeezing himself through the denim, jaw tightening at the contact. He’s trying, and failing, to slow himself down. You can see it. He sees your eyes drop to the movement and groans, low and uncontrollable.
“Spin.”
Your soft laugh curls around him like smoke. “Say please.”
He bites his lip, the smile he’s trying to suppress slipping through anyway, rings glinting in the firelight as he strokes himself steadily through his jeans. The motion is lazy, deliberate, letting you see exactly what you’re doing to him.
“Please spin for me, angel.”
The way he says it, so certain yet so ruined already, sends heat straight through you. With a small, wicked giggle, you turn. Slow. Controlled. Every second deliberate. You bend over just enough to present your ass to him, spine arching in a way that makes his breath hitch violently.
You can feel his stare like a hand. His breath leaves him in one long, reverent exhale. When you turn back around, he’s not even pretending to hide it anymore. His pupils are so blown you can barely see the brown, chest rising and falling like he’s been running, hand palming himself like he might come undone at the sight of you alone.
His eyes slowly lift back to yours, reverent, almost overwhelmed, and you feel the air shift. Heat, want, awe, all tangled into something he can’t hide anymore. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something he probably shouldn’t. Instead, he just exhales your name in a way that tells you everything.
“You look so sexy like this, Lewis,” you purr, your fingers slipping behind your back almost unconsciously, needing to keep him undone, breathless, right where you want him. You let your bra drop, nipples hardening in the cool air.
His jaw drops. “Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, voice low and ruined.
You think about slowing down, but the way he looks so worshipful makes you pull your thong off as well. Naked and unashamed you saunter to the balcony door, ass swaying with deliberate allure. The hot tub steams invitingly under the starry mountain sky, snow-dusted peaks framing the scene like it was some erotic dreamscape.
Lewis doesn’t move, frozen for a second, throbbing painfully under his palm now. He looks stunned, completely dazed, like he can’t quite believe you’re real, lit by the soft glow of the tub light, skin warm and beckoning.
He finally finds his voice. “Please…” he whispers before he can stop himself. “Don’t walk away from me like that.”
You stop at the threshold, framed by moonlight and steam, look over your shoulder and give him a slow, teasing smile that completely pulls the breath out of his chest.
“Come here then, baby.”
Lewis moves like you’ve snapped a tether inside him. It’s not quite clumsy, but urgent, breathless, every muscle firing at once like he’s been held back all night and you finally pulled the pin.
He pushes up from the sofa so fast the cushions sigh, hands fumbling at the hem of his jumper as he follows you toward the balcony door. The sight alone is almost obscene: Lewis Hamilton, perfectly controlled, disciplined Lewis, scrambling to get undressed because you told him to.
His jumper hits the floor first. Then the shirt beneath, tugged over his head in one sharp motion.
And then he’s bare. Not just shirtless, but bare in a way that steals the warmth from the fire and redirects it straight into your bloodstream.
Lewis is built like a man carved by years, not months. Lean but unmistakably strong, every muscle defined without excess, the kind of physique honed by repetition, ritual, self-discipline. His chest rises sharply with each breath, the muscles along his pecs shifting beneath gold-brown skin as he steadies himself.
The tattoos move with him, stark against the firelit warmth of his body. The compass over his sternum draws your gaze first. Bold lines, clean edges, a piece that sits like the silent centre of him.
On the left side of his chest, the lion commands its space. The shading ripples with every inhale. A mirror of the quiet intensity in Lewis’s own eyes. It suits him too well.
Lower, curling along his ribs, the rose softens him. Delicate petals, intricate lines, a contrast so gentle it feels almost private. A part of him few people ever get close enough to really see. Steel and softness, strength and tenderness, all in the same body.
His abdomen tenses as he runs a hand through over his braids, and the firelight catches on the ridges of muscle there. The defined lines of his obliques, the subtle grooves that lead downward, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. His shoulders are broad enough to block the door, cut with definition; his arms strong, biceps tightening as he clenches and unclenches his fist. The play of muscle there makes something in your belly flip, heat spilling low and heavy.
For a moment, he simply stands there, chest bare, breath unsteady, eyes locked on you. The heat between you shifts, deepens. It feels like the room moves with him, like the air rearranges itself around his body.
You’ve seen athletes undress in training rooms, locker rooms, medical tents. You’ve lived your adult life among bodies built to perform. But this is different. There is something almost reverent about the way he holds himself now, as though stripping down in front of you has peeled away more than fabric.
He looks at you not with arrogance, nor self-consciousness, but with a quiet, devastating awareness of exactly what this moment is. Of exactly what you have started.
“Fuck…” you hear him murmur under his breath. Not at the cold, but at you, waiting naked by the door like you were carved out of the mountain night itself.
He reaches for the button of his jeans with hands that are no longer steady. It’s a small, betraying detail, the faint tremor at his fingertips, but you see it. You feel it. The atmosphere shifts again, deeper, hungrier, pulled taut between you.
The metal snaps open. The zipper drags down, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. He steps out of the jeans, bare chested, breath shivering. The bulge underneath straining against the grey waistband of his boxers, a damp patch already there from where he’d started leaking. He kicks the denim away with a soft thud, chest heaving, eyes glued to your bare skin like it’s lighting him up from the inside.
Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He doesn’t look away from you. Not once. The fabric slides down his thighs, revealing the full length of him. Thick, flushed and heavy, twitching with a need he isn’t bothering to hide. The cold air kisses him immediately, drawing a shiver up the lines of muscle along his stomach, pebbling the skin across his shoulders.
You cross the small space between you before he recovers, your fingers finding the warm ridges of his abdomen. His breath leaves him in a tight, broken exhale as your hand glides along the defined grooves of his obliques, the soft trail of hair leading downward on his pelvis, the warmth of his body under your palm.
His hand lifts without hesitation, settling against your bare side, warm and certain. His palm follows the cradle of your ribs. When he reaches your waist, then your hip, his fingers tighten. A quiet, intimate anchor pulling the two of you into the same breath.
The shiver that moves through you has nothing to do with the night air. He steps closer. Chest to chest. Heat to heat. He kisses you again, slower now, like he wants to take his time. Tongue tracing your bottom lip languidly before you open your mouth and let him taste you again. His hand slides down to cup your ass, thumb stroking gently, sending heat straight to your core once more. You gently suck his bottom lip and he pulls back with a chuckle, the realisation dawning on him that you’re not the type to give him full control.
“Jesus…” he mutters, grinning despite his breath fogging the air, “it’s freezing, love.”
The low, warm sound of his chuckle softens the sharp pull of tension between you, turning it into something almost tender. Almost. But the heat beneath it doesn’t go anywhere.
His grin shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does. You’re still pressed chest-to-chest, still bare, still buzzing with the memory of his hands on your skin. For two people who barely know each other, it all feels far too intimate. Far too natural.
“We can get in,” you murmur with a smile that came out softer than you meant it, your thumb tracing along his jaw.
“Mhm, after you sweetie,” he hums, turning his head to kiss your palm. His lips linger there, warm and sweet. The moment drags, a silent promise of what he’d do to the rest of you if you let him.
You step into the hot tub first, lowering yourself gently. He looks at you like someone rediscovering desire, twitching against his stomach, bottom lip caught between his teeth. The water folds around you, heat rises up your body, your breasts floating just above the surface, droplets clinging to your skin in a way that borders on obscene. You look ethereal. You look dangerous. He’s staring like he knows exactly how dangerous you are.
Lewis snaps back into himself with a quiet inhale before climbing in. The tub is small and yet, for motives you can read all too clearly, he chooses the seat directly opposite you. Distance, but only barely. A kind of restraint that’s already fraying around the edges.
A small smirk curves his mouth as his eyes roam over you under the water, hungry and unashamed.
“We barely know each other, you know,” you say, breaking the silence before it swallows you whole.
He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “Hard to get to know someone when the only language you speak is backflips before lunch and teaching me how to eurocarve.”
You try and fail not to smile. You tilt your head back, throat exposed, steam curling around your collarbone like a touch.
“Okay, favourite colour then?” you ask lightly, pretending neither of you are naked and humming with tension.
“Red,” he says immediately, grinning.
You huff a laugh. “Boring. I could’ve guessed that.”
“And purple,” he adds, voice dipping. “I like purple.”
“Mmm.” You nod. “I like green. Reminds me of forests in the summer.”
“The summer, huh? Miss Ice Angel likes the summer?” he teases, eyes dropping to your chest unashamedly before he drags them slowly back up to your face.
You fight a smile again, losing. “I have eclectic tastes, Lewis.”
“Hmm…” His gaze lingers on your mouth. Too long. Intentionally too long.
“What’s your favourite season, then?” you ask, pulse hammering in your throat. You were waiting for him to snap first.
“I like them all,” he says, studying you like you’re something he wants to unwrap. “That’s why I have a house in Colorado. You get all the seasons properly.” He widens his legs under the water and you bite back a moan at the sight of him.
“Mmm…” you echo softly, teeth catching your bottom lip before you release it.
He mirrors it. Licking his bottom lip before letting it rest between his teeth. The water shifts between you. A warm swell of heat. The space in the tub suddenly feels even smaller.
The smile that curves his mouth isn’t playful anymore. It’s slower, more deliberate, as though he’s tasting the moment before he swallows it whole.
“There it is,” he whispers, voice dipping an entire octave.
“What?” you ask, tone airy, but your pulse betrays you.
“That little look.” His gaze traces your face, your mouth, the rise of your chest above the water. “The one that tells me you’re not thinking about favourite colours or seasons at all.”
The water stirs again, a subtle shift you feel more than see, as he moves beneath the surface. Not enough to close the distance. Just enough to remind you that he could.
Your thighs tighten instinctively under the heat. Lewis leans back a fraction, as if trying to brace himself against the pull toward you.
“You look like you want something, angel.”
You smile and look away from him to regain a little bit of control. When you look back he’s smiling fully, perfect teeth on show, eyes darker than they were before.
“And you look,” you counter softly, “like you’re trying very hard not to come over here.”
A low exhale escapes him, part laugh, part surrender. “I am,” he admits, eyes dragging slowly down your body through the rising steam. “Because I’m trying to be a gentleman for at least five minutes.”
“How’s that going for you?”
His smile threatens and fails to stay contained. “Awful. I've been hard since the second kiss in the doorway.”
You can't help but laugh softly as another small ripple crosses the tub as his foot brushes yours beneath the surface. Light but unmistakably intentional.
His voice finds a lower register, sweet and sinful in one breath. “I keep thinking about your mouth.” Another quiet shift in the water as he inches closer. “And those little sounds you just made.” Closer still. “And how good you felt grinding on my lap. You can see how bad I want you, beautiful.”
Your inhale catches in your throat, the smallest tremor running across your shoulders. Your legs part by an involuntary fraction. Lewis’s eyes go half-lidded.
His hand finds your knee under the water. Warm and steady, fingers sliding through the heat to touch your skin. The contact is gentle and devastatingly sure.
You feel the pulse in your throat leap. A soft sound escaping your lips before you can stop it.
“See?” he murmurs. “That’s the sound I wanted.”
His fingers begin a slow, measured glide along the inside of your knee, then higher, tracing the warm curve of your thigh. The motion is unhurried, almost exploratory, as though he’s discovering the contours of want. You swallow, and the movement draws his eyes again to your throat.
“You want me,” he murmurs, voice soft as a thumbprint, “and you’re trying so hard not to say it. You wanted me to be desperate first, huh?”
His fingertips drift higher beneath the water, coaxing heat up your spine in a slow, deliberate ascent.
“We both know,” Lewis continues, his breath brushing the surface between you, “that we didn’t come out here to talk about seasons. Don't tease me, baby.”
His thumb sweeps the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches again. You don’t do this. You don’t unravel. But something about him pulls you apart like you were always meant to be undone in his hands.
“Say it,” he whispers. “Just once. Tell me how bad you need me to fuck you.”
Your voice slips out lower than you intend, somewhere between restraint and need. “Lewis…”
He exhales like the word undoes him. His hand slides higher.
“That’s it,” he breathes, leaning forward, his forehead almost touching yours across the narrow space. “Use that pretty mouth, baby.”
Your breath steadies, barely. But your eyes lift to his, and the shift is unmistakable. You lean in just enough that he feels the warmth of your breath against his mouth. Your fingers, previously still on the edge of the tub, slip beneath the water and find his thigh. Hot, tense, solid under your touch.
Your hand trails higher, nails grazing upward through the water until your thumb brushes the sensitive crease of his hip. Lewis’s entire body tenses. You smile.
“I’m not teasing you,” you murmur, voice a whisper now. Your lips ghost his jaw without touching. “I already know what you want.”
Your hand glides higher, deliberate, claiming back every ounce of control he thought he had. His eyes flutter closed. His lips part on a shaky inhale. You haven’t even touched him properly yet.
“And if I wanted you desperate first…” you whisper, “it worked.”
He lets out a quiet, helpless sound that isn’t quite a groan, isn’t quite a plea. It’s pure, involuntary need. A sound he didn’t mean to give you.
Your thumb drags along the inside of his thigh, unhurried enough to make him twitch, firm enough to promise worse. Then your mouth finds his ear, your voice a warm, wicked exhale. “Lewis… I want you inside me so much I can barely think straight.”
His whole world stills. He stops breathing entirely. The water moves between you, a trembling shift as his composure snaps like overstretched wire. His hand on your thigh tightens, hard, his forehead pressing to yours like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“Fuck,” he breathes, wrecked, voice cracking with it.
“You wanted me to say it?” you whisper, letting your fingers trail higher, brushing the base of him under the water, feather-light and devastating. “There. I said it.”
The sound that leaves him is sinful. Rough, raw, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. He’s gone, completely. “Don’t,” he whispers, voice breaking, “don’t say things like that unless you’re ready for what I’ll do to you.”
You smile, slow and lethal.“Are you ready for what I’ll do to you?”
For a second, nothing moves. Not the water. Not the air. Not him. Something hits his eyes. Not shock, not amusement, but a clean, devastating hunger that wipes out the last trace of restraint he thought he had.
Lewis moves first. One sharp inhale, one ripple of water, and then his hand is on your waist, yanking you across the steaming space between you like he can’t stand another second of distance. The motion sends waves sloshing up the sides of the tub as he drags you onto his thigh, onto his lap, onto him, his breath shattering against your mouth.
Then he kisses you. Not the practiced, languid, teasing ones from before. This one is pure impact. Heat and breath and teeth, like he’s been starving for you all night and finally lets himself eat.
You gasp into him, the sound swallowed instantly as his mouth claims yours, deep and shaking and hungry enough to make your entire body combust. His hand slides up your back, fingers digging in just enough to keep you anchored as you straddle him in the hot water, your thighs bracketing his hips.
The kiss is wet, urgent, messy in the way only desperation makes beautiful. His tongue meets yours with a low, broken groan that vibrates through your chest, through the water, through every nerve ending you have left.
He tastes like steam, like heat, like someone finally making you let go for the first time in years. Your own control snaps cleanly.
A soft, feral sound tears out of you as your hands tangle in his braids, pulling him even closer, dragging another groan from deep in his throat. He responds instantly, hips lifting under you, water sloshing as he presses up against your core, all heat and pressure and unmistakable need.
“Fuck—” he chokes against your mouth, voice wrecked, “you’re—”
He doesn’t finish. He can’t. Your hips roll once, instinctive, helpless, and every muscle in his body goes tight beneath you.
Your mouth breaks from his just long enough for air, but even then the two of you stay pressed together. Foreheads touching, breaths mingling, both of you shaking with the violence of the moment.
His hands roam your body fiercely. Your waist, your ribs, the curve of your back, the slick heat of your skin under the water.
“You’re naughty,” he whispers against your jaw, voice thick, undone. “So fucking beautiful. Feel so good in my hands.”
You don’t answer. You grab his face, jaw, cheek, back of his neck, and kiss him again, harder, deeper, like you’re trying to consume him. He breaks on a sound you’ve never heard from him. It’s low, desperate, absolutely helpless. His hands slide down to your ass, lifting you, grinding you against the hard length of him under the water.
The heat between your bodies spikes, sharp and dizzying. Water sloshes over the edge. The stars blur. The cold air doesn’t exist.
“You feel that?” he mutters against your throat, breath shaking as he rolls his hips up into you again. “So hard for you baby.”
You moan and his head drops back like the sound hits him physically.
“Jesus Christ…” he breathes, hands tightening around you. “Angel, you’re...fuck—”
You don’t think, you just move, grinding down against him again, helpless and hungry and entirely past the point of pretending otherwise. He shudders violently beneath you, mouth crashing back into yours in a kiss so desperate it nearly knocks the breath out of you.
For a long, breathless, water-slick moment, there is no talking, no thinking. Just hands and mouths and heat and the frantic, inevitable need to get closer, closer, closer...
And then he groans into your mouth, breaking the kiss only to whisper, voice shaking with need. “Tell me what you need…tell me to fuck you, baby.”
His fingers glide along your thigh under the water, teasing higher, brushing heat, then finally touching you. A light, devastating circle over your clit that makes your spine arc.
“Lewis…f-fuck,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders to keep yourself upright.
“Yeah?” he rasps, lips dragging over your throat. “That feel good, baby?”
You moan, nodding helplessly. “Yes… so good. I need you…need you inside me. Please.”
You reach between your bodies, stroking him slowly, but you only manage a few passes before he’s lifting your hips with both hands, positioning you above him with a reverence that makes your stomach drop.
“Take your time, baby,” he murmurs, thumb stroking along your ribs under the water, voice low and shaking. “I’ve got you.”
Your breathing quickens as he holds you above him, the heat of the water curling around your waist while the thick, aching length of him presses right against your entrance. His hands. Those steady, disciplined hands, tremble just slightly where they cradle your hips.
“Easy…” he whispers soothingly, though he sounds anything but. His voice is warm, reverent, already wrecked. “Take what you need, angel.”
You sink down a fraction and the world detonates behind your eyes. Lewis inhales sharply, the sound ripped out of him like you’ve stolen his breath along with his control. His head knocks back against the edge of the tub, jaw clenching, throat flexing as he fights the instinct to slam you onto him in one hard, desperate thrust.
“Jesus—” he chokes, hands tightening on your hips. “Baby… fuck…”
The tip pushes inside you, stretching, filling, claiming inch by inch. Your nails drag down his chest, leaving hot red trails across damp skin. His breath stutters again, shallow and uneven, every muscle in his torso locking under your touch.
You lower another inch. Lewis swears under his breath. Loud. Raw. Completely unguarded. His fingers dig into your waist to stop himself from meeting you with a thrust that would splinter you both.
“Don’t—” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a beat, “—don’t go slow unless you want to kill me.”
You smile, shaking, breathless. “Maybe I do.”
Your hips drop. Slow at first, deliberate, claiming him deeper, and the sound he makes is nothing short of feral. His hands fly up your ribs, gripping, sliding, searching for somewhere to anchor himself because he is losing it under you.
“Fuck—oh my God—” he groans, voice breaking open, head falling forward until his forehead presses to your collarbone, hot breath spilling over your wet skin. “You’re—shit—baby, you’re so tight—fuck—”
You move again, and this time there’s no patience in it. No control. Just need. You push down until he’s buried in you all the way, both of you gasping at the same moment. Your nails scraping his shoulders, his fingers gripping your ass, the water sloshing violently around your bodies.
Lewis drags his mouth along your throat, open and desperate, as though he can’t decide between breathing and tasting you.
“Look at me,” he rasps, voice low and gutted.
You do. His eyes are blown wide, pupils black and drowning, his expression ruined with awe like he can’t believe you’re real, like he can’t believe he’s inside you, like he might come undone just holding the moment.
“You feel…” He swallows hard, shaking his head as though words slip out of his grasp. “Baby, you feel fucking unreal.”
You roll your hips, slow but deep, and he breaks. His hand flies to the back of your neck, pulling your forehead to his, his hips thrusting up into you without thought, without restraint, a sharp, gutted sound tearing from his chest.
“Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracked and raw. “Don’t stop, angel. Ride me. Please.”
You move. He gasps. You sink. He trembles. Every stroke hits deeper, needier, hotter, his control unraveling faster than the steam rising around the two of you. His hands roam everywhere, touching like he’s trying to feel all of you at once, like he can’t keep up with how badly he wants you.
The water splashes over the rim of the tub. Your body aches in the best way. His mouth finds yours again, the kiss wet and breathless and frantic. You moan into him, and he shudders so hard you feel it in his spine.
“Baby…” he groans into your mouth, hips meeting yours in sharp, desperate thrusts. “You’re gonna...fuck...you’re gonna ruin me.”
You ride him harder. Water splashes up the sides of the tub, heat curling around your hips, steam rising between your mouths like smoke. Lewis’s hands are everywhere now. Gripping, guiding, worshipping, sliding from your waist to your ass to your spine as though he can’t decide what part of you he needs most.
“Fuck, baby—” he groans, voice low and shredded, “just like that—ride me—God, you’re perfect.”
Your breaths come in sharp, broken gasps as you bounce on him, each thrust pulling a deeper, more desperate sound from his chest. He meets you from below, hips snapping up with a force barely under control.
You feel him thick and hot inside you, every inch hitting that spot that makes your vision flicker at the edges.
“Lewis—” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, “you feel… fuck, you feel so good—”
He growls, the sound vibrating against your throat as he pulls your body down harder onto his.
“You’re so sexy,” he rasps, his voice thick and hungry. “So fucking tight—shit—baby, I can feel how wet you are for me.”
Your moan breaks in the middle, high and uncontrolled. His fingers clamp tighter around your hips.
“Say it again,” he pants, kissing your jaw, your neck, anywhere he can reach. “Say my name.”
“Lewis—” you breathe, rolling your hips with a slow, punishing grind that makes him choke on air, “Lewis...fuck! You’re so deep—”
He swears violently, head tilting back, breath shattering in his chest. “Baby, I’m not—fuck—I’m not gonna last if you keep saying it like that...”
You take his face in your hands, kiss him with open mouth and teeth, swallowing the sound he makes as you grind down again, tighter, harder, wetter.
“Then don’t,” you whisper against his lips. “Come with me, Lewis. Want you to come with me.”
His hands grab your waist like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t hold on. “Angel, don’t—don’t say that—” he gasps, voice cracking, “I’m already—fuck—baby, I’m so close—”
Your rhythm falters in the best way, frantic, needy, the pleasure coiling tight, sharp, unbearable. Lewis feels it instantly.
His grip on your hips becomes desperate, grounding, worshipful.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours, water dripping from his braids onto your chest. “I can feel it—God, I can feel you tightening around me—fuck—”
Your moan breaks, your thighs trembling around him.
“Lewis—Lewis, I’m—”
“I’ve got you,” he growls, thrusting up into you with a deep, perfect snap of his hips that knocks the air from your lungs. “Come for me, angel. Come on my cock…want to feel it, please—”
That “please” undoes something inside you. The orgasm hits like heat rising too fast. Sudden, violent, exquisite, tearing a cry from your chest. Your whole body seizes around him, trembling, squeezing, clenching. Your nails rake down his back; your head falls back; stars burst behind your eyes.
Lewis breaks the moment he feels you come. He thrusts up hard, hips stuttering helplessly, a guttural sound tearing from deep in his throat. “Oh, fuck. Baby—” he moans voice cracking as he slams into you again, “I’m coming, fuck—I’m coming—”
His body shakes under yours, muscles locking, breath shivering, hands gripping your waist so tightly you swear he’ll bruise you. His orgasm hits with raw force, his cock pulsing inside you, thick warmth flooding deep as he groans into your neck, breath ragged, completely undone.
“Angel—” he chokes out, voice wrecked beyond recognition, “fuck—you’re—fuck—”
You collapse against him, chests pressed together, bodies trembling as aftershocks ripple through you both. He holds you like he doesn’t trust his hands to let go. The water settles slowly around you. Your breaths sync. His forehead rests weakly against your collarbone.
The water stills around you, but Lewis doesn’t. He’s still inside you, still trembling, chest pressed to yours, breath broken and warm against your collarbone like he’s trying to remember how to be in his body again.
He lifts his head slowly, like it weighs too much to move. Steam clings to his lashes. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth parted, his expression dazed in a way that hits you low and deep.
“Holy… fuck,” he whispers, voice ruined. “Angel, I—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. You kiss him once, slow and grounding, and he actually shivers like the press of your mouth short-circuits the last functioning part of his brain.
When he finally pulls out, he does it reluctantly, like his body would stay in yours forever if you let him. His hands still stroke your side, your back, soft and aimless, his lips brushing your cheek and jaw as if he can’t stop touching you.
He rises with you still in his arms, carrying you inside the chalet like he needs you close to stay upright.
“Let’s get us warmed up, hm?” he murmurs, breath soft against your hair.
“Yeah, maybe the hot tub wasn’t the smartest idea,” you chuckle, a small shiver running through you as you rub your hands up and down his biceps, his back, warming him too.
He holds you with one arm, grabs warm towels with the other, then sets you down gently and starts drying you off with a tenderness that borders on reverent. There’s a quiet, breathless laugh in his chest, like he can’t believe any of this is happening. You dry him off too. He can’t take his eyes off you.
You lace your fingers with his and walk toward the bed. He lingers for a moment just to stare at you, pupils still blown, awe written so clearly across his face it makes your stomach flip.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers, stepping in behind you, his free hand sliding around your waist as he follows like a dazed lost puppy.
At the foot of the bed, he pauses. You lie back, the firelight catching along your skin. His cock is already twitching back to life.
You smirk up at him, spreading your legs so he can see everything.
“Did you think I was done?”
He exhales sharply, hand already wrapping around himself, pumping once, twice, because just the sight of you again is undoing him.
“No, baby…” he murmurs, smirk ghosting over his mouth. “Did you think once was gonna be enough for me?”
You giggle, hold out your arms. “Nope.”
He crawls onto the bed, bracing himself with his biceps on either side of your head, and smiles down at you before kissing you softly. Slowly. Like he’s savouring the taste of you.
“Look so good spread for me like this, could worship you all night,” he whispers against your lips. Another kiss, deeper again. “You…” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip, “are trouble.”
You hook your legs around him, dragging him closer to where you’re already aching for him again. “Good thing you like trouble,” you smile.
When he pushes into you again, slower, deeper this time, you gasp, fingers clutching his shoulders. His head drops instantly. “Jesus…” he whispers into your neck, voice low and reverent. “You’re… you feel—fuck, I don’t even—”
You arch up into him, and he groans. A soft, helpless sound like you’ve hit something inside him he didn’t know existed. He moves differently now. Measured and intentional. Not desperate anymore, devoted. Every thrust feels deliberate, like he’s trying to map you with his hips, learn you with his hands. His palms skim your waist, your ribs, your throat, like he’s memorising you in real time.
And every time you breathe his name…he cracks just a little bit more.
He kisses you like he’s starving for it, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger he’s not even trying to restrain anymore. His control slips again. Hips snapping a little harder, breath coming apart in soft, wrecked sounds he doesn’t catch in time.
“Let me ride you again,” you moan between kisses, hands splayed over the muscles flexing on his back.
“Yeah?” he groans, smirking against your mouth. “You not gonna let me make you my pretty little pillow princess?”
You laugh softly, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Never.”
He pulls out gently, lies down. He expects you to straddle him like you did in the hot tub. But no. You spin around, presenting your ass to him, and sink down with very little warning.
“Oh… fuck,” he gasps, sitting up slightly as he watches himself disappear into you, hands flying to your ass, groping, spreading, worshipping.
You lean forward and start bouncing, moaning at how full of him you were. “You feel so fucking good Lewis.”
“Jesus… look at you. Perfect fucking body,” he mutters behind you, voice gone low and rough already. His hands spread across your hips, thumbs digging in just enough to keep you steady as you sink down again. “Taking me like that… fuck, angel.”
You moan, head tipping forward, hair falling around your shoulders as you bounce a little harder. The sound that leaves him isn’t even a word. It’s a guttural, involuntary noise ripped straight from his chest.
“That’s it,” he groans, hands sliding up your waist before dragging back down again, slow and possessive. “Show me how bad you want it. I wanna see you lose it for me.”
You grind, slow circles that make both of you gasp. His fingers tighten. “Fuck—yeah… just like that,” he moans, voice tight. “Your ass looks so fucking good like this, bouncing on me. Fuck.”
You lean forward more, changing the angle, and his cock drags along a spot inside you that makes you choke on a cry. Your hands grip his shins for balance, knuckles whitening.
Lewis sits up a little more, breath hot on your lower back. You feel his hand slide up your spine, fingers gentle but sure, until he reaches your shoulder and pulls you upright, just enough that your back presses flush to his chest.
He breathes like he’s been hit. “Beautiful,” he murmurs against your neck, almost reverently before his tone dips to something darker, hungrier. “Ride me, baby. I want all of it.”
You move again, quicker now, your ass bouncing against his hips with a wet, obscene rhythm that makes him gasp every time you take him deep. “Fuck, look at you…” He drags a hand down your stomach, feeling the way your muscles tighten with every thrust. “You’re losing your mind on my cock, aren’t you?”
You don’t deny it, you can’t. A broken moan falls out of you, raw and needy. Lewis swears under his breath.
“God, I love that,” he growls. “Love hearing you fall apart. Love that I get to see you like this.”
His hand slips lower, fingertips brushing your clit lightly, just enough to make your thighs tremble. “Lew—” you gasp.
He groans like the sound itself is a reward. “Yeah, baby, say my name. Say it when you fall apart for me.”
His other hand squeezes your hip, guiding your pace from underneath, helping you drop faster, harder, a rhythm that makes your breath break on every descent.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe and arousal. “You ride me so fucking good. Keep going—keep going, angel—don’t stop, I wanna feel you come on me again.”
Your head falls back against his shoulder, mouth open, breath shuddering. “You getting close?” he whispers against your skin.
Your answering sound is all he needs. His grip tightens, his hips rise to meet yours in deep, sharp thrusts that make your whole body jolt.
“Fuck yes—there you go,” he groans, practically panting now. “Give it to me. Let me see you fall apart again. Wanna feel you lose every bit of control you’ve got.”
Your body starts to shake. His breath comes out in irregular pants.
“Angel—” he moans, voice cracking beautifully as his hand circles your clit again, “you’re so close…come on, baby, let go—let go for me—”
“Lewis—” The sound of his name is the last thread holding him together. He snaps his hips up once, even harder, and your vision whites out. You break around him.
A cry rips from your chest, your whole body tightening, trembling, clenching around him as your orgasm hits brutal and fast, your back arching hard into him.
Lewis swears, loud and raw, his hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to fall apart himself.
“Jesus—fuck—baby—” he gasps against your shoulder, breath hot, voice shaking, “you’re squeezing me so tight, I’m gonna—shit—”
He thrusts up again, desperate now, completely gone. “Angel, I’m—fuck—I can’t—”
He breaks with a guttural groan into your neck, hips stuttering again as he comes inside you, shaking, clutching you to him like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.
His forehead drops to your shoulder. His breath is wrecked. His hands are still trembling. He holds you, chest pressed to your back, cock still pulsing inside you, both of you shaking through the aftershocks.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re unbelievable, fuck.”
For a long moment neither of you moves, your breath still tangled with his, your body slumped back against his chest. His hands loosen on your hips, stroking you through the fading tremors as if he’s trying to coax you back into your body.
“Hey… hey,” Lewis murmurs into your shoulder, voice still wrecked but impossibly soft, like he’s afraid to break whatever this moment is. “You okay?”
You hum something that’s half a sigh, half contentment, head lolling back against him. He exhales, relieved, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. Slow, lingering, grateful.
Carefully, almost reluctantly, he slides out of you again. His hands stay on you the whole time, steadying you as you settle into his lap sideways. He wraps an arm around your waist, holding you close, grounding you both.
“I got you, you did so good for me baby,” he whispers, like you’re something precious and fragile. No one ever spoke to you like that.
He shifts you gently onto the pillows, hands spread warm on your thighs as he gets up and grabs a towel from the chair. He’s still a little dazed, still breathing too hard, but his focus doesn’t waver from you once.
He comes back to the bed, kneels between your knees, and opens the towel. His eyes soften. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs. It’s different from earlier. Not hungry, not desperate. It’s pure, devastating tenderness that you feel all over your body.
He wipes between your thighs with a gentleness you didn’t expect from someone who was just pulling gasps from you with his hands on your hips. His touch is warm, careful, reverent. Every stroke is featherlight, as if he’s worried he might hurt you now that the haze has settled.
You breathe out slowly, watching him. He keeps his gaze lowered, focused entirely on you. Not because he’s shy, but because he’s taking this seriously, like tending to you is a duty he’s honored to have.
“There we go,” he murmurs, drying the inside of your thigh before brushing a kiss above your knee. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
Your chest tightens at how sincere he sounds. He tosses the towel aside, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your hipbone, then another to your stomach. His hands smooth up your sides, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear as he climbs up beside you.
He lies on his side, facing you, one hand sliding to your jaw to thumb gently along your cheek.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You with me?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your mouth. He gives a soft laugh. Tired, amazed, still a little breathless, and lets his forehead rest against yours.
“Good,” he whispers.
He thinks you’re done. That the storm passed. That you’ve both landed safely. His thumb strokes your cheek again, his eyes heavy-lidded with affection he doesn’t realise he’s showing yet.
“Let’s just… breathe for a minute,” he murmurs. “We don’t have to rush.”
He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth. Slow, sweet, almost innocent. His hand rests warm over your ribs, his thumb tracing gentle shapes against your skin.
He thinks the night has softened. He thinks the fire’s gone quiet. He has no idea you’re already watching the line of his throat, the rise of his chest, the heat still gathering low in your stomach. He has no idea you’re not done with him at all.
When his cock twitches faintly against your thigh, barely a shift, barely a flex, but unmistakable, your smile deepens.
Not done. Not even close.
“Lewis…” you murmur, voice low and faux-innocent, a hint of something darker sliding into it.
He opens his eyes. Slowly. The look you give him makes his pulse quicken again. “Mhm?”
You trail a finger down the centre of his chest, right along the compass tattoo, stopping just above his stomach.
“You know what I really… really want you to do for me?” you whisper.
His mouth curves into a small, crooked smile, equal parts fond and curious. “What, angel?”
You lean in, not to kiss him, but to let your breath brush his jaw, your lips grazing the shell of his ear.
“Need you to fuck me against the balcony,” you whisper, voice soft as silk, light as a dare.
Lewis goes absolutely still. The air stalls between you. His breath catches in a sharp, audible inhale, his hand tightening on your waist like he’s bracing himself.
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, voice cracking open into something darker. “You’re insane.”
Your smile only deepens. He swallows hard, his throat working around the effort to keep himself composed. He fails.
A low, involuntary groan slips out of him, warm against your cheek.
“Angel…” he warns, or tries to, but it’s useless. He’s already shifting, already rolling you gently onto your back, kissing down your jaw like he physically can’t stop himself. “You say things like that and you expect me to stay calm?”
You laugh softly, dragging your nails up the nape of his neck. “I don’t want you calm.”
That does it. The softness of a moment ago is gone. Replaced by something deeper, heavier, reverent and hungry all at once.
He lifts himself on one hand, eyes dragging over your face, your neck, your chest rising with each breath. Something like awe flickers through him again. His hand moved up your waist, to the underside of your breasts, his thumb rolling over one of your nipples.
“You really want that?” he murmurs darkly. “Want me to take you out there? In the cold? Against the rail?”
The way he says it, rough and almost disbelieving, sends heat spiralling through your stomach.
You nod, slow and sure. “Yeah. I want you to lose control for me.”
His jaw tightens. A tremor runs visibly down his arm. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Okay. Okay—come here.”
He grabs your hips with careful urgency, sitting up and pulling you with him. His movements are gentle, but his breathing isn’t. It's shallow, quickened, almost pained.
You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. His hands immediately grip your ass, thumbs stroking once before his fingers tighten, unable to hide how badly he wants you.
He kisses you again. Slow at first, then deeper, then with the kind of intensity that feels like it’s burning through whatever exhaustion he'd started to feel. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath shaking.
“You’re gonna finish me off,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. Then his hands slide down your thighs, a shiver running through him. “Let’s go.”
He stands, lifting you with him effortlessly, your legs wrapped around his waist, your mouth on his neck. A soft moan escaping him when your lips graze his pulse. He carries you toward the balcony like a man possessed.
“God… you’re fucking insatiable,” he whispers, pressing you against the glass door for a moment just to breathe you in. “Come on, angel. Let me ruin you out here.”
He slides the door open behind you, the mountain air flooding in, sharp and electric, and Lewis feels your whole body arch with anticipation.
The cold barely has time to touch your skin before Lewis spins you toward the railing, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
His hands slide down your hips, gripping hard as he bends you forward over the balcony rail. You gasp at the shock of the chill, your palms flattening against the wood.
The view of the dark mountains stretches out in front of you, endless and indifferent. Behind you, Lewis is not indifferent at all.
“Dirty girl…” he breathes, stepping close, the heat of him burning against your ass. “Out here where anyone could see, yeah?”
Your breath catches although you try to hide it, try to force yourself to breathe. Once, twice, and he hears it.
“Oh, you like that,” he growls. “You like me talking to you like that? Fuck, of course you do.”
He runs his hand between your thighs, feeling the slick heat waiting for him. He curses under his breath.
“Angel,” his voice cracks, “you’re already dripping. You already want me that bad again, huh?”
“Lewis, please—”
He groans so loud the sound fogs in the cold air. “That’s my girl,” he rasps. “My good girl… begging for my cock.”
His hand wraps around himself, lining up, desperate again. “You ready for me baby?” he pants.
You nod, breathless. “Yes please, Lew—”
He pushes into you in one deep, claiming thrust. Your gasp turns into a cry. His hand slams against the railing beside yours as he chokes out, “FUCK, baby…oh my god—”
He stops. Only for half a second. Only because he needs to hold onto something. Then he moves. Hard. Fast. Hips snapping into you with a sharp, relentless rhythm. The balcony shakes. So do your legs. He grabs your hips with both hands, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, losing any illusion of restraint.
“That’s it,” he pants, breath hot against your shoulder. “Take it, take all of it. Fuck, you're such a good girl for me.”
You whimper, arching your back, and it sends him spiraling.
“Louder,” he growls. “Let me hear it, let everyone hear it.”
“Lewis—Lewis—oh my god—”
He groans, a sound punched out of him. “That’s it—fuck—you’re so good, so tight. Jesus, how do you feel this fucking good?”
You clench around him and he stutters, hips jerking. “Don’t—don’t do that—” he gasps. “I’m gonna lose it—”
You do it again. He loses it. His hand flies to the front of your throat to squeeze gently, thumb under your jaw, tilting your head back so he can kiss your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth while he fucks you hard from behind.
He’s pounding into you so hard the railing shivers, your breath fogging in rapid bursts, the mountains watching in indifferent silence.
His hand leaves your hip. Just for a second, and comes back down on your ass with a sharp, perfect crack. You gasp, then moan, your knees nearly buckling. Lewis groans behind you like the sound just rewired him completely.
“Oh, fuck, you loved that,” he pants, voice gone dark and wrecked. “Say it, tell me what my girl likes.”
You swallow hard, pressing back against him, your voice barely steady. “Do it again.”
He growls, deep, low, stunned, and obeys instantly. Another slap. Harder. Your body jolts, your stomach flipping with heat.
“Good girl…” he breathes, the praise dripping into your spine. “Such a good girl for me. Taking it so fucking well.”
Your answering moan is broken, needy, unguarded. All the things you never let anyone hear. It destroys him in ways he didn't think were possible.
“Jesus Christ…” he chokes out, hand gripping your waist again. “Fucking love me leaving a mark on you, huh?”
You push back onto him deliberately, your voice a ragged whisper.
“Harder, Lew.”
He lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Half-lust, half-worship, all hunger. “Yeah? Can you take it baby? Say it again.”
You arch for him, hair falling over your shoulder, breath hot in the icy air. “Harder,” you repeat, voice cracking but commanding. “I want you to fuck me harder. Fuck, please...”
He swears violently under his breath and slams into you, pace snapping from rough to absolutely feral.
“That’s my girl,” he snarls, hips hammering against your ass. “My dirty fucking girl, begging for it out here like a little slut—”
You moan so loud it echoes off the ridge. Hearing him sound so out of control, the degradation in his voice contrasting from his usual gentle demeanour, sends you hurtling towards another orgasm.
“Lewis! Lew—oh my god—”
He grips the base of your spine, thrusting harder, deeper, until the world falls away and it’s just the sound of his body against yours and your cries breaking the night. Your hand flutters on the railing, gasping for air you can’t seem to get, trying to find yourself again.
The next slap is instinct. Pure, overwhelmed instinct. His hand connecting with a sound that vibrates straight through you.
You cry out, shaking, and he moans like you just dragged the soul out of his chest.
“Fuck—yes—that’s it,” he gasps. “That’s it, baby—give me all those sounds—god, I love hearing you lose it for me—”
Your legs are mush now, he’s holding you up against himself.
“Look at you…” he groans. “Bent over for me out here...fuck, my dirty girl, taking every inch like you were made for it—”
You’re shaking. He feels it. You can’t form any sentences anymore.
“Yeah?” he rasps, pace slamming, relentless. “You gonna come for me out here? Let me feel you?”
“Lewis, yes...please—Lew—”
His hand drops to your clit, rubbing tight circles that match his thrusts, fast and precise despite how close he is to unraveling.
“That’s my good fucking girl,” he growls. “Come on—come on, angel—give it to me—”
You break with a strangled cry, your whole body clenching, shaking, collapsing forward onto your elbows as your orgasm crashes through you.
Lewis chokes on a moan so loud it echoes off the mountain. “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck, baby—oh—
He slams into you once, twice, then grips you so hard you gasp as his hips falter, cock pulsing deep inside you. He comes with a raw, guttural groan into your shoulder.
“Angel, shit—fuck…oh my god—” His forehead drops to your back. His hands tremble on your hips. He breathes like he’s drowning.
And still after a few moments, his lips drag up your spine, slow and shaking, like he can’t stop touching you even if he tried.
When he finally manages words, they’re a hoarse, broken whisper against your skin. “You’re… you’re unreal. I can’t—I can’t get enough of you.”
You turn your head, breath unsteady, eyes heavy-lidded, a lust drunk smile on your face. “You done?” you whisper.
Lewis lifts his head. His cock twitches inside you again at the look on your beautiful face. He laughs, breathless and disbelieving. He should be, jesus fucking christ, he should be done.
“Angel… I don’t…” he murmurs lazily, kissing your shoulder as he starts to move again, slow but growing harder with every inch. “Fuck, I don’t even know,” he whimpers.
You huff a laugh out, still panting, body twitching. “It’s cold out here, Lew.”
“Inside,” he whispers against your skin, breathless. “Shower.”
He pulls out slow, your legs trembling, and his hand doesn’t leave you for a second as he guides you inside. His palm stays planted between your shoulder blades or at your waist, steady and warm, like he needs the contact as much as you do. He’s already getting hard again, barely, but his body twitches at every brush of your skin. Too sensitive. Overwhelmed.
The shower is hot and loud around you, steam curling up your bodies as water trails down the lines of his abs. You both hold each other for few minutes, letting the water soothe the subtle ache already forming in your muscles. But seeing him in the shower instantly makes you want him again. The droplets of water clinging to his muscles, the slight tremor in his toned thighs. He watches you sink to your knees through half-lidded, dazed eyes that flicker with panic and disbelief.
He doesn’t even have it in him to pretend he’s calm.
“Baby? I don’t know if–” he whispers, voice cracked open, breath catching in irregular pulls.
His thighs tremble. One hand braces above him on the fogged tile; the other cradles your cheek with shaking fingers, thumb rubbing a helpless semi circle against your damp skin. He’s too sensitive to be touched, but he wants you too badly to stop.
The moment your lips wrap around him, Lewis chokes on a whimper that makes your thighs clench together again. Something about him had turned you almost feral. Desperate to please.
“Easy… easy, fuck—” His hips jerk, unsteady. He’s trying so hard to hold still, to not whimper, to not fucking cry.
Every flick of your tongue pulls a guttural, ruined sound from his chest. He bites his bottom lip but it doesn’t help. The overstimulation has him seeing stars; he keeps muttering your name like he’s asking permission to fall apart. His whole body trembles, shoulders tense, head tipped back against the tile as water runs over his throat.
“Baby, please—” He doesn’t know if he’s begging you to keep going or stop. He just knows he can’t handle much more. You hollow your cheeks lightly and Lewis’s knees nearly give out.
He whimpers again and again, fingers tightening in your hair, holding on, trying to stay upright. His stomach tenses, muscles fluttering uncontrollably from overstimulation. The pleasure is so sharp it borders on pain. It’s not long until he’s trembling again.
“I—angel, I can’t—I’m too—fuck—” He breaks, gasping for air.
He doesn’t think he can, but somehow you manage to make him fall apart for you again. He comes hard and helplessly, almost folding over you as the pleasure rips through him, the sound torn out of his chest raw and completely undone. His whole body shakes with the force of it.
When it finally passes, he slumps a little, forehead pressing weakly to the tiles. You stand, a proud little smile on your face that makes him huff out another dazed laugh. He pulls you in immediately, murmuring into your shoulder, voice thin with exhaustion.
“Didn’t think I had anything left…” A soft kiss to your jaw. “But you… fuck, you don’t stop, do you?”
He cleans you then. Gently, soothingly, like his hands remember tenderness even when his body is fried. Every swipe of his palm is slow, reverent, shaky still from how overstimulated he is.
Then he wraps a towel around you and carries you to the bed. He lays you down, kisses your lips once, then lowers himself between your thighs… to your surprise. Because he can’t not return the favour.
"Lew...Lew you don't have to," you whisper, thumb stroking his knuckles. You could see how completely finished he was.
“Want to, got me addicted to this pretty pussy already,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion but already muffled against you.
His tongue is slow, lazy, wrecked, but thorough enough to make your body light up for him all over again. He keeps going until your thighs tighten around his head, until a soft cry slips from your lips as you come undone a final time.
He moans at the sound, drunk on it. He lazily laps every last drop up until you’re shaking, then trails kisses up your thigh, your stomach, your ribs. But he doesn’t climb higher.
He’s too spent to move. Too blissed out. Too gone for you. He just folds against you, cheek pressed to your stomach, one arm draped over your hips.
“M'gonna…gonna sleep…here,” he mumbles into your stomach, barely awake.
He had never, ever let himself fall like this for a stranger. He had never, ever been taken apart like this.
Lewis Hamilton. Disciplined, controlled, impossible-to-shake Lewis, falls asleep with his cheek pressed to your stomach. Completely and utterly ruined.
He’s not sure when the switch flipped. Somewhere between your first kiss and your last moan, but it did. He already knows the truth he won’t want to admit in the morning: he doesn’t want his control back, not if it means letting go of you.
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: hello my loves!! at long last we begin my dear melancholy which was supposed to celebrate 500 followers but is now celebrating 700 because i am slow and you are all insane (affectionately). i love this album so much it’s actually embarrassing and i’ve been WAITING to drop these. you’re getting one every single night. 6 in a week. i don’t know who i think i am lmfao. warning in advance this is a weeknd album so expect toxicity, sex, and vibes that are questionable at best starting with call out my name <3 i really hope you enjoy and thank you for 700 ily all!
pairing: boyfriend-to-ex!lewis hamilton x reader
wc: 9k! (one shot / part of my dear melancholy,)
summary: a sun-soaked holiday in greece was never meant to last forever. you met lewis when you were both broken, two strangers finding temporary peace in salt water and moonlight. what started as healing turned into a love so intense it consumed you both: possessive, obsessive, suffocating. now, months after the ugly breakup, one charged reunion at a party proves you’re still addicted to the poison. because even when it hurts… you can’t stop calling out his name.
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, unprotected p in v, toxic relationship, mutual possessiveness, jealousy, intense angst, breakup and exes dynamic, hate/angry sex, emotional manipulation, codependency, mutual blame and resentment, suffocating love, arguments/shouting, guilt and regret, references to heartbreak, no happy ending
It didn’t start as anything serious. It started with you pretending.
Late afternoon sun melted down the sides of whitewashed buildings, turning everything gold. The shade of gold that looks like it should fix people. You lay on a lounge chair by the pool, sunglasses on, soaking in the heat as if it could cauterize something inside you. You pretended you weren’t checking your phone again. Pretended you were relaxed. Pretended the knot in your chest wasn’t still there, tight and pulsing.
Your friends laughed a few feet away, bronzed legs stretched out, wet hair sticking to their shoulders as they passed a bottle of wine around. Their joy was effortless. Yours felt borrowed. You were a beat off rhythm, a fraction of a second late to every joke.
Nobody said it out loud, but they all knew why you were here. Why you’d booked a flight instead of facing the ruins of what you were running from. Why you needed sun and sea and noise. Anything but silence.
Your friend leaned over and asked quietly, “you okay?”
You smiled too wide. “I’m in Greece. Of course I am.”
You weren’t. Not at all.
By sunset, the world softened into watercolour. Pinks and oranges rippled across the sea as you and your friends drifted into a beach bar perched on the rocks. Lanterns swayed above you. Music pulsed gently, a heartbeat under the sound of waves.
You’d dressed up because that was the best way to disguise the way you were feeling. Something silky, something that made you feel like you existed outside your sadness for a moment. The ocean breeze licked salt into your skin. You took a sip of something sweet and cold, and the world blurred pleasantly.
Then you saw him.
Not because he was famous. Because he looked like someone who had forgotten how to breathe. He leaned against the bar, posture relaxed in a way that didn’t quite hide how exhausted he was. The last light of the sun brushed over his skin, warm and golden-brown, catching on the neat braids that framed his face. His shirt hung loose, unbuttoned at the top to reveal a strand of pearls at his throat, an elegant contrast to the heaviness in his eyes.
He wasn’t smiling. Not properly, anyway. It was more of a polite flicker that never reached his eye as he listened to the friends around him.
It was the tiredness you noticed first. How worn down he looked. The loneliness of a man carrying things no one else could see. He drank water, not alcohol. His fingers tapped the glass like a restless habit. When he pushed his braids back, his jaw tightened, and you wondered — briefly, dangerously — what it must be like to hold that kind of weight.
You didn’t know his story yet. The rough start to the season. The pressure mounting. The crash he couldn’t shake. The hotel room silence that rang louder than the engines ever could. But you could feel it. The echo of something breaking inside him, matching the echo inside you.
Broken always recognises broken.
You lost him in the crowd for a while, pulled into a cluster of photos and laughter near the shoreline. Someone looped an arm around your waist, dragging you in just as a wave crashed behind you. When you looked up, he was watching. Just for a second, curious maybe, his head tilted just so. He looked soft in a way that felt safe, and when his eyes met yours he picked at something invisible on his shirt. Like he’d been caught staring. He looked away too quickly for it to be nothing.
You drifted toward the water later, toes sinking into the warm sand as the breath you’d been holding all day finally loosened. The air here felt different—cooler, quieter, gentler on the skin, like the island itself was offering mercy. You drew in a slow, deep inhale, letting the salt and silence settle inside your chest.
He was there, like fate had placed him just for you. Standing at the edge of the tide, hands tucked deep in his pockets, the moonlight tracing silver along the sharp line of his jaw. He didn’t notice you at first, too lost in whatever storm raged behind those dark eyes.
You almost turned back. Almost.
But then he lifted his gaze and the world narrowed, sharpened, stopped. His eyes widened in quiet shock, an apology flickering across his face for simply existing in that moment. Then recognition from the bar softened the tension. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Didn’t think this island had hiding spots left,” you said, voice calm even though your pulse wasn’t.
He huffed out a faint, tired laugh. “You found one.”
Something inside you unwound at the timbre of his voice. You stepped closer, the sand cooling beneath your feet. “You look like you needed it more than I did.”
He didn’t deny it. Didn’t deflect or flash that polished smile the world usually demanded. Instead, he watched the dark water for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling on a quiet exhale.
“It’s been a long season,” he said at last, voice low. “Long year, really… and we’re barely halfway through.”
You nodded. “Rough start?”
His gaze flicked to you, surprised you knew, but he didn’t ask how. “Something like that.” He paused, jaw tightening. “Feels like everything I touch turns into pressure. Expectations. Noise.”
“Noise?” you echoed softly.
He tapped his temple with two fingers, a weary gesture. “Up here. It doesn’t shut off anymore. Usually I can quiet it, but nothing’s working. Not even the sea.”
There was a raw honesty in his tone, the kind that suggested he hadn’t spoken those words aloud to anyone in a very long time.
You swallowed against the sudden ache of sympathy. “I get that.”
His eyes met yours again, lingering this time, searching. “Do you?”
A humourless laugh slipped out as you folded your arms loosely across your chest. “I’m here instead of dealing with things back home, so… yeah. I do.”
He studied you, head tilted just slightly, as if trying to read the pages you weren’t turning.
“Running from something?” he asked, quiet as the tide.
Your mouth curved into a dry, crooked smile. “Aren’t we all?”
He gave a slow nod, the kind you only offer when you’ve run from something heavy too. The conversation eased into silence, surprisingly peaceful. Not awkward, not forced. Just two strangers sharing the kind of quiet that only people carrying invisible weight tend to understand.
The tide nudged cool fingers against your ankles.
He glanced down, then back at you, a faint spark of amusement in his eyes. “You don’t mind getting wet?”
You shrugged. “Been worse today.”
A soft, genuine laugh escaped him, surprised and warm, like he hadn’t expected to find humour tonight. “Fair enough.” He stepped deeper into the water. “Come on.”
You followed without thinking, the sea curling warm and dark around your calves. Waves shimmered like liquid moonlight, and the whole moment felt strangely suspended, like breathing too loudly might shatter it.
“You know,” he murmured, gaze fixed on the horizon, “you’re the first person all week who hasn’t asked me about racing.”
You tilted your head. “Would you rather I did?”
“God, no,” he breathed, the relief in his voice almost palpable.
You smiled. “Then I won’t.”
Another stretch of comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the gentle hush of waves at your feet.
“What about you?” he asked eventually. “Why Greece?”
You hesitated, but only for a second. Maybe it was the wine still humming in your veins, or the water, or the unexpected safety of his presence. The truth slipped out before you could wrap it in prettier words.
“Something in my life broke,” you said softly. “And I didn’t know what to do with the pieces. So I ran.”
He turned to look at you then, and the depth in his eyes made your chest tighten. “Guess we’re both in a bit of a broken place, hm?” he murmured, almost to himself.
You released a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “Yeah. I thought a different country might… give me some kind of comfort.”
His brows drew together, the expression so painfully gentle it hurt. “You don’t seem like the type who asks for comfort.”
“I’m not,” you admitted. “But I needed something. Anything. And Greece sounded better than therapy.”
He nodded slowly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips at your dry humour. “I get that more than you know.”
He stepped closer. Water swirled around you both. Moonlight caught in his eyes, softening the sharp edges of his face until your throat ached with it.
“You seem strong,” he whispered. “If that means anything coming from a stranger.”
“So do you,” you replied.
He let out a soft, exhausted laugh. “Yeah. Seem.”
Your shoulders brushed. Something shifted in the air between you, something that was quiet, dangerous, and inevitable.
He glanced down at the place where your arms touched, then back up at you. “You want to stay out here a little longer with me?”
You shouldn’t. You should have gone back to your friends, to the noise, to the forgetting.
Instead, you whispered, “Yeah. I do."
He exhaled like he’d been waiting for that. That’s how the night continued. You and Lewis stood in ocean water up to your knees, talking about life and pressure and pain, about nothing and everything, like two people who didn’t expect tomorrow to exist, and maybe didn’t really want it to.
Two broken souls finding the first flicker of peace in each other.
You stepped a little deeper into the surf without thinking, letting the water curl around your ankles. The sand shifted beneath you, warm, treacherously uneven, and suddenly your foot slid forward. Your breath caught in your throat.
Lewis reacted before you even registered you were falling. His hand closed around your forearm with startling precision, precision that came from years of instinct and the kind of speed you couldn’t teach. But the wet sand betrayed him too; his balance faltered, his weight pulling toward you. You grabbed at his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric in a desperate attempt to steady the both of you.
It didn’t help...
Lewis tried to save you from the worst of it, hands finding your waist, attempting to push you upright even as gravity claimed you both. “Shit—”
The two of you went down together, half tangled with your startled squeal, water splashing up your sides as you hit the surf. The world dissolved in warm salt and startled breaths.
For a moment there was nothing but the shock of it: the cold rush of the sea, the messy tangle of limbs, the absurdity of two adults slipping like children at the edge of the tide.
And then, you laughed.
Not the polite, careful laugh you’d been offering all day, but a real one. A full-bodied, unstifled sound that burst out of you and carried across the water from somewhere deep and forgotten. Lewis froze for a second, as if he hadn’t heard something so beautiful or alive in a long time. Then his own laughter joined yours, soft and warm and unexpectedly boyish and bright.
You pushed your wet hair out of your eyes, trying to steady yourself as the tide lapped against your hips. Lewis was still half in the water beside you, braids dripping, shirt plastered to his skin, and for the first time since you’d seen him that evening, he looked completely unguarded. There was no tension in his jaw, no shadow behind his eyes, just a kind of stunned delight that made your whole body light up.
When you sat up, he followed, brushing sand from your shoulder with slow, careful sweeps of his fingers. The gesture was so gentle, so instinctively intimate, that you felt the air change between you.
He realised it too. You could see it in the slight pause of his breath, the way his gaze lingered on your mouth before sliding back up to your eyes.
Something in him loosened. Something in him surrendered. He didn’t say it aloud, you wouldn’t have believed him if he had, but that was the moment he fell. Not hard, but in a quiet, irreversible way that people fall when they’ve been tired for too long and suddenly find a place that feels like rest.
He reached for your hand almost absently, as though drawn by something neither of you could explain. His fingers threaded through yours, warm despite the water, steady in a way that his heart probably wasn’t.
“Are you alright?” you asked, though your voice sounded softer than you intended.
He nodded, with a little giggle. “Yeah. I think I’m better now, actually.”
When he rose to his feet, he kept your hand in his, helping you up with a firmness that sent a small shiver through your spine. Water slid down your legs, gathering at your ankles as you both stepped out of the waves. The sand clung to your skin, coarse and cool, and you brushed at your thigh only to have him brush at the same spot a second later.
He didn’t pull away immediately. You didn’t step back.
You walked together along the shoreline, your joined hands swinging lightly between you. The air had cooled, carrying the scent of salt and citrus, and the music from the bar sounded distant now, softened by the rhythm of the tide. Every now and then he glanced over at you, not in a deliberate or invasive way, but in the way someone looks at a sunset they’re afraid to blink at in case it disappears.
“You have a beautiful laugh,” he said at last, his voice low and thoughtful.
You huffed a quiet breath. “I don’t know about that.”
“I’m serious.” His thumb traced absent circles against your knuckle. “Very contagious, very pretty.”
Your heart fluttered inside your chest, hopeful and entirely unexpected.
The wooden steps leading up to the bar came into view, but he slowed before reaching them, your joined hands drawing the two of you a half-step closer. His brows knitted just slightly, as if weighing words he wasn’t sure he should say.
“You know…” he murmured, eyes lifting to yours with an honesty that felt dangerously intimate, “I really needed this tonight.”
You smiled, small and still a little sad. “Yeah, me too.”
He held your gaze, and the faintest ache curved through his expression. “Feels like I finally caught a breath.”
The words settled warm and heavy in your chest, a promise and a warning intertwined. A beginning, already shadowed by its own ending. Little did either of you know, you’d both end up drowning.
Your friends spotted you from the upper deck of the bar, waving dramatically, their voices carrying over the music. The spell between you stretched, thinned, but didn’t break. Lewis released your hand only when he had to, his fingers lingering against yours as if reluctant to let go.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked, softer than you'd expect from a man like him.
You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, of course. Tomorrow.”
He nodded once, eyes flickering over your features like he was trying to memorise them for the time you’d be apart. As you walked away, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you, you felt the strange, intoxicating certainty that something had shifted tonight. Subtly, invisibly, irrevocably.
Behind you, Lewis remained at the bottom of the steps, watching you rejoin your friends with an expression you wouldn’t see. One made of relief, recognition, and a quiet, tentative hope he didn’t yet know what to do with.
Tomorrow would come far too quickly. Neither of you were ready for what it would become.
It was supposed to end with that night in the water. A moment. Nothing more. A beautiful place to leave a beautiful stranger.
But Greece had already chosen differently.
You woke the next morning to a message from an unknown number. A simple good morning, followed by a sun emoji and a location pin for a quiet café overlooking the sea. Your friends squealed, teased, tried to steal your phone. You pretended to be unbothered, but your hands betrayed you, trembling just slightly as you typed back. Lewis had gotten your number from one of your friends.
You met him for breakfast. Then lunch. Then dinner.
Then the next day, and the next, until the days blurred into each other and it felt like you’d known him longer than you’d been alive. He fit into your holiday like he’d been written into the itinerary from the start. He didn’t hover over you, and you didn’t cling to him; you simply drifted into each other’s spaces again and again, pulled by a gravity neither of you dared question.
The island became your shared world. Your secret. Your beginning.
It happened three days in. You were walking back from the cliffs, the sun bleeding itself into the horizon, a warmth spreading across the sky that matched the warmth pooling in your chest whenever he looked at you. Lewis reached for your hand without thinking, and you didn’t pull away. You never did.
He stopped halfway down the path, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with a gentleness that made your heart flutter. You felt it again. The shift, the settling, that terrifying click of something falling into place.
“Can I—” he began, voice low and intimate.
You didn’t let him finish. You kissed him first.
It was soft at first, cautious, like both of you were afraid the other would pull away if you pressed too hard. Then he exhaled against your mouth, and the kiss deepened, slow and warm and impossibly tender. His hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking your pulse, while your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, anchoring yourself to something that suddenly felt dangerously essential.
When you pulled back, his smile was small and disbelieving.
“That’s going to ruin me,” he whispered. You didn’t know then how right he was.
The intimacy deepened five days later, in his villa overlooking the ocean, the walls open to the sound of waves and summer air. It wasn’t rushed or drunken or messy. It was slow and quiet, and so gentle you knew you'd never forget it.
He kissed you with reverence, like he was tracing the shape of a decision he’d already made. Your clothes came off gradually, as if neither of you wanted to disturb the spell. His hands were warm, careful, almost tender to the point of heartbreak. When he whispered, “Tell me if I’m going too fast,” you’d pulled him closer, answering with your body rather than words.
You slept with your head on his chest that night, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He stayed awake longer than he meant to, listening to your breath, wondering when last his head had felt this quiet. You stayed in his bed nearly every night after that.
Your friends called it your “holiday romance,” but it was never that.
Holiday romances didn’t look like this.
You, perched on the back of his rented Vespa, arms wrapped around his waist as he kissed your wrist at red lights. Him bringing you fresh fruit in the morning, claiming he “just happened to pass the market,” though he woke at sunrise to go. You reading on the beach with your legs thrown over his lap while he fiddled with an anklet on your ankle like it was already a habit forming. Him looking at you like you were the one thing in the world not demanding anything from him. You laughing, really laughing, for the first time in months.
By the time the trip ended, you’d spent nearly the entire time together, orbiting each other from sunrise to long past midnight.
Your friends teased you. His friends teased him. Neither of you cared.
You spent your last night back in the water, waist-deep, arms around each other, moonlight dripping down your skin. He kissed the top of your shoulder and murmured, “I wish I’d met you in another life.”
“Why?” you asked, fingers tracing the chain at his neck.
“Because I have to leave. Because I don’t want this to end,” he whispered. Neither did you.
You promised to keep in touch. People make those promises every day. Most don’t keep them. Lewis did.
He texted before his races. He called after landing in new countries every week. He sent you photos from the paddock, from hotels, from the gym. Soft, quiet, intimate glimpses of his life that he didn’t share with many people.
You didn’t leave his thoughts. You didn’t even drift to the edges.
Something about you…your laugh, your softness, your sudden burst of joy when you tripped in the sea, the curve of your hand in his… had carved itself into him too deeply to undo.
You felt it too. The ache. The pull. The echo of that island in your chest.
It wasn’t supposed to be serious. Neither of you meant for it to be. But people don’t choose the things that save them, and sometimes the things that save you are the same things that break you later. You just didn’t know that yet.
You only knew that the summer you met Lewis Hamilton was the summer you learned how it feels to be loved so intensely it almost didn’t seem real. He put you on top of his world long before either of you realised he’d done it.
One month after Greece, just when the memory of sun-warmed nights had begun to feel unreal, your phone lit up with a message that didn’t allow your heart any more distance.
You should come to the race this weekend, beautiful.
I’ll get you a pass, pay for your flights.
Please say yes. Missed you so much.
It shouldn’t have made your pulse quicken. It shouldn’t have made you grin into your pillow like a teenager. It shouldn’t have felt like inevitability blooming in your chest.
Yet, you said yes before you even finished reading it a second time.
He met you at the airport himself, disguised beneath a hoodie and cap, not well enough to hide the way his eyes lit up the second you stepped through arrivals. He pulled you in without hesitation, one arm sliding around your waist, his face burying into your hair as if your scent alone anchored him.
“Missed you, gorgeous,” he said, quiet and reverent, like the words had been waiting in him, pressing against the back of his teeth the whole time you were apart.
The weekend unfolded with a speed that should have scared you, but didn’t. He led you through the paddock with his hand resting at the small of your back, guiding you easily through crowds and noise. Every time you felt the press of too many people, he drew you closer, thumb sweeping calming strokes against your spine.
When he had a moment between briefings or being int he car, he tugged you into his room, pulled you onto his lap on the small sofa, and pressed slow kisses to your jaw as though you were sunlight he was storing for later.
“I’m better with you here,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek.
He said it like it was a truth he’d carried alone for weeks. You believed him.
Being with Lewis was like living in two worlds at once. The public one was dizzying.
He introduced you to people faster than he probably should have. Engineers, media reps, other drivers who raised their brows in curiosity when his hand tightened around yours and didn’t drop it. His family, even. He looked at you with a kind of quiet awe that warmed you from the inside out, like you were something rare he never expected to find.
He didn’t hide you. Not a single attempt to play coy or casual. When a journalist asked him after qualifying why he seemed so relaxed lately, he only shrugged, smiled that small, secret smile, and said, “I’m in a good place this month.”
Everyone assumed it was because the car had improved. But when his eyes met yours across the paddock, you understood.
In private, he was entirely different. Softer, quieter, stripped of the armour he wore on track. He cooked for you (badly) in hotel room kitchens, humming under his breath, handing you slices of mango with gentle hands. He fell asleep on your stomach more nights than not, arms wrapped around you, his face tucked against your waist like he couldn’t bear any distance.
Sometimes, right before sleep claimed him, he murmured things he shouldn’t have been willing to admit yet.
“Your voice calms me so much, baby.”
“I sleep better when you’re near.”
“You’re so special to me, beautiful.”
You felt pieces of yourself slowly coming back to life. The pieces you thought you’d lost somewhere between heartbreak and too many nights alone.
You began avoiding mirrors less. Stopped apologizing for existing. Started writing again. Smiled without forcing it.
Lewis slept deeply for the first time in months. Stopped bracing for disappointment every time he stepped into the car. Started journaling again. Told you he hadn’t done that since before “everything fell apart.”
He never defined what “everything” meant. You didn’t ask. Some wounds reveal themselves slowly.
But in the quiet moments when he rested his forehead against yours, breath warm and steady, you felt the truth humming beneath his skin. He needed you. And you needed him. It was beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.
The shift from private to public happened on a sun-soaked Sunday you still replay in your mind, even now.
He’d driven like a man resurrected. Sharp, hungry, fluid in a way that reminded everyone why he was who he was. When he climbed out of the car, tearing off his helmet, sweat lining his brow, he didn’t look at the cameras, or the crew, or the screens showing his victory.
He looked for you. He found you in the second row of the crowd, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and throat. He sprinted toward you with a purpose that sent murmurs through the people around you.
He didn’t slow when he reached you. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask.
He framed your face in both hands and kissed you, full, hungry, shameless, in a way that made every camera turn, every jaw drop.
The paddock erupted in noise, but it felt like the world had gone silent around you. When he broke the kiss, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
Someone, maybe a teammate, maybe a reporter, stammered behind him. “Lewis, is this—?”
He didn’t look away from you. “My baby,” he said, loud enough for anyone who needed clarity.
Your pulse tripped over itself. Your heart forgot how to beat evenly. Lewis smiled so bright it felt like it held an entire future.
A year unfolded from that moment, one that felt stitched together from warm nights in foreign cities, stolen mornings under white sheets, whispered promises in the dark. You travelled with him when you could, waited for him when you couldn’t, shared the kind of intimacy that made everything else feel muted.
He adored you with a sincerity that felt unreal. You loved him with a depth that frightened you. Some relationships grow slow and steady. Yours flared bright. Fast, bottomless, consuming.
Beautiful. Obsessive. Soft in all the wrong ways. Sharp in all the right ones. A love that felt like oxygen. A love that wrapped around you like a blanket. A love that should have lasted. Could have, maybe. But everything that burns bright burns fast.
Neither of you saw the smoke curling at the edges yet.
It didn’t fall apart all at once. That was the cruelest part.
If it had been a single event…a fight, a lie, a betrayal… maybe the ending would have made sense. Maybe you could have walked away cleanly. Maybe he could have too.
But it wasn’t one thing. It was hundreds of tiny things. Soft cracks forming beneath the surface over weeks and months. Hairline fractures you didn’t see until they split wide beneath your feet.
For a while, neither of you noticed. Or you pretended not to. Which was worse.
The first small fractures came early.
Lewis grew more clingy without meaning to. Not in an overwhelming way, but in the little things. His hand finding your wrist whenever someone walked too close. His voice dropping when other men spoke to you, his arm heavy and protective around your waist. After a sponsor dinner in Monaco, when another man laughed at something you said and briefly touched your arm, Lewis pulled you closer that night and asked, too casually, who the man was. The way he watched you across hotel lobbies, expression unreadable, as though he feared you might vanish the moment he blinked.
“You alright?” you’d ask softly.
He always answered too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”
Tired. His favourite lie.
But the cracks deepened on his bad days. After a brutal qualifying, the type that left him hollowed out and brittle with self-loathing, you tried to comfort him, tried to pull him into the soft familiarity of your arms, but he pulled away, pacing the hotel suite with tight fists and tighter breaths.
“I just need space,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face like he wanted to peel the whole day off his skin.
“From what?” you asked, too softly, too quickly. Panic already flaring in your throat like bile.
He hesitated. “From everything. The car’s a mess, the team’s breathing down my neck about 2026 regs, and I—” He stopped, jaw working. “I can’t think straight when it all piles on.”
“Everything,” you echoed, bitterness creeping in. “Including me?”
“No,” he said immediately. “But sometimes… yeah, it feels like too much. I’m trying not to dump it all on you.”
“But you do dump it on me,” you whispered. “Every bad session, every bad headline. I cancel my plans, I sit here waiting to be your calm, and then you push me away anyway.”
He turned, eyes flashing. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m not asking you to fix me.”
“Then why do I feel like I have to?” Your voice cracked. “I’m losing pieces of my own life for this, Lewis. My friends barely see me anymore. I turned down a work trip last month because you said you needed me in the garage.”
“That’s not fair,” he shot back. “I never forced you.”
“You didn’t have to. I did it because I love you. Because when you’re spiralling I can’t just… leave you in it.” You laughed, hollow. “Look at us. I’m codependent as fuck and you’re terrified I’ll disappear the second I have a life outside of you.”
He let out a sharp, frustrated breath. “So now you’re reading my mind, huh?! Hearing things that aren’t fucking there?!”
The words sliced you clean. You froze like you’d been physically struck.
“Don’t talk to me like that!” you snapped, but the hurt was already rising, hot and sharp behind your eyes.
He sighed, a long and exhausted sound, dragging both hands through his braids, tugging at the roots like he wanted to rip the frustration out by force.
“I’m not trying to fight,” he said, but his voice was tight, brittle at the edges.
“But you are,” you whispered. “You have been. For weeks. Every time I try to get close, you push me away.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is feeling like I’m begging for you to not shut me out.” You swallowed hard. “This is getting worse, Lew. Like that night in Singapore when I was just catching up with my friends on a call and you asked to see my phone afterwards. I handed you it because I thought it was nothing, but it felt like shit anyway. I’ve started canceling plans because you need me all the time. I’m losing pieces of my own life trying to be the one thing that keeps you steady.”
He looked away, walls going up. “I’m just… scared,” he said quietly, voice cracking like a fault line through your relationship. The honesty should have softened you. It didn’t. It only made the fear in your own ribs flare hotter.
“So am I,” you whispered, but it sounded like surrender to an inevitable ending instead of comfort. Neither of you moved. Neither of you reached for the other. Both of you drowning in the space he’d just asked for.
A few days later the jealousy cracked it wider.
It was stupid, painfully stupid, but that’s how the worst breaks always begin. A PR event, too bright, too loud, too crowded. A man you barely knew put his hand a little too comfortably on your back, leaning in too close when he laughed at something you said.
Lewis saw it. Saw the touch. Saw your polite smile. Saw red.
When you returned to him, he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even trying.
“Who was that?” he asked, voice too calm, eyes too sharp.
“Lew, it was nothing.”
“I didn’t ask if it was something, I asked who the fuck he was. And it didn’t look like nothing,” he said, voice too calm. “He had his hands on you. You were smiling the way you used to smile at me when we first met.”
His restraint scared you more than open anger would have.
You felt the old wound reopen. “That’s not fair,” you snapped. “You checked my phone in Singapore. You tense up every time another driver even says hello. I feel like I’m walking on glass just to keep you from spiraling. We’re not together in some bubble anymore. I can talk to people without it being a threat.”
He stepped closer. “You think I’m being paranoid? After everything? I see how people look at you. And I know how easy it would be for someone else to give you the space I apparently can’t.”
“Don’t do that,” you warned.
He stepped closer again, almost chest-to-chest. “Do what?”
“Act like you own me.”
He let out a tight, humourless laugh. “I’m not acting.”
Your stomach dropped, eyebrows furrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean—” His words tangled, breath hitching. “I don’t know, okay? I just—”
“Spit it out.”
“I hate seeing people touch you,” he said quietly, voice vibrating with something raw.
“Why?” you snapped. “Because they might want me?”
“No,” he said, eyes darkening. “Because you might want them.”
The air went still. Something in you broke then. Not from anger, but from pure hurt. A slow, spreading ache.
“Wow,” you whispered. “You really think that low of me.”
“Don’t twist my words.”
“You said them, Lewis.”
He flinched. “You don’t get it. I don’t know how to do this.” His voice rose, shook. “I don’t know how to not hold on too tight.”
“Then loosen your grip before you strangle the whole fucking thing.”
He stared at you like you’d slapped him. “You think I’m choking you?” he asked, voice breaking at the edges.
“What do you want me to say?” you shot back. “You monitor every look, every conversation, every man within ten feet of me like I’m going to vanish. And I’m tired of feeling like I have to prove I’m not going anywhere.”
“Because you’re one of the only good things I have left!” he exploded, voice raw. “The car’s shit, the season’s been a nightmare, and every time I see someone else make you laugh I hear the noise again—the pressure, the doubt. I’m fucking drowning and you’re the only thing that shuts it up.”
“That’s not love, Lewis,” you said, tears burning. “That’s putting me in a cage and calling it safety. I can’t be the only thing holding your head above water. I’m breaking under it too.”
He stepped back like you’d shoved him. “I’m trying,” he said, breath shaking. “I’m trying so hard.”
“So am I,” you whispered. “But it’s not enough.”
“What, you want to walk away?” he scoffed, a brittle, disbelieving sound. “Just like that? Because some guy at a PR event talked to you and I got pissy?”
“That’s not why.”
“Then why?” he demanded. “Tell me.”
“Because you don’t trust me,” you cried. “And I don’t trust myself not to break under the pressure of trying to make you feel safe all the time. I can’t fix everything in your life, Lewis! I canceled my own plans, I became smaller so you could feel bigger, and it’s still not enough.”
It came out far crueler than you meant it. His face twisted painfully between fury and grief.
“So what then?” he whispered. “You’re done? You’re just as bad as me!”
You swallowed, because he’s right. You are just as bad.
“Maybe we’re becoming too much for each other,” you said softly, too honestly.
He froze. You regretted it instantly. But the words hung between you like smoke.
“That’s it?” he said, voice growing cold in self-defense. “You’re just… done?”
“No,” you said, tears burning. “But I can’t keep doing this. We’re hurting each other.”
“Speak for yourself,” he muttered, jaw tight, throwing up walls faster than you could tear them down.
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, disbelief even, at the tone he was using. “Are you serious?”
He didn’t answer.
“You know what?” you said, wiping angrily at a tear. “If you want to make me the villain so it hurts less, go ahead.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide with a fear so strong it made you feel sick. With an instant shake of his head, his voice cracked on the next words. “I can’t lose you.”
“You’re not,” you whispered, though it felt like a lie. “But we’re losing ourselves.”
He moved toward you, arms lifting, then falling helplessly.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, broken.
“Neither do I.”
He shook his head, jaw trembling. “Please don’t walk away.”
“I just want us to breathe,” you whispered. “But we’re suffocating each other.”
He looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. You looked at him like he was the only thing you’d ever loved. But somehow, heartbreak bloomed between you anyway.
The silence afterwards wasn’t empty. It was full of everything you couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t give, everything both of you needed so desperately it suffocated the space between you.
When you finally walked away after the fight lingered for a few days, tears burning your vision, he didn’t follow.
He wanted to. He really, truly wanted to. But he stood frozen in place, breath unsteady, fingers trembling, knowing if he touched you he wouldn’t let go. You kept walking because if you turned around, even once, you would have run back to him and undone everything.
Two people in love. Two people drowning. Two people who couldn’t breathe each other’s air anymore without suffocating. It wasn’t a clean break. It wasn’t meant to be. It was the kind of fracture that leaves both sides bleeding long after the moment ends.
In the weeks that followed, the breakup stopped being sad and started becoming ugly.
What should have been space turned into avoidance. Avoidance turned into blame. Blame turned into anger. Little things festered. Old wounds reopened. Every attempt to talk dissolved into raised voices and cold silences.
Lewis accused you of giving up too fast. You accused him of holding on too tight. He called you selfish. You called him paranoid. Neither of you meant a word you said. Both of you said them anyway.
The resentment was mutual, corrosive. Everything you had built with tenderness began rotting from the inside out.
At one point, during the last fight, he whispered bitter and broken. “Maybe I claimed you too soon, gave you everything before you even knew you wanted it. Maybe you just wasted my time.”
And you replied, exhausted and far too coldly for how you truly felt, “maybe you did.”
That was the real end. He’d walked out, couldn’t bear to face the truth that the love you’d both shared became too much. That love could somehow turn into this. That the love had become suffocating when it once was the only thing that made him feel like he could catch his breath.
After that, the texts stopped. Then the calls. Then the excuses. No contact became the only peace either of you could give the other. His name stopped lighting up your phone. Yours stopped appearing on his home screen.
But the absence wasn’t clean. It was raw and sharp, something you picked at like a scab. He unfollowed you before you could unfollow him. You deleted photos before he could decide which ones to keep. Friends chose sides without meaning to.
By the time the silence settled, thick and final, something bitter had lodged itself beneath both of your ribs. You didn’t just lose each other. You lost the version of yourselves you were with each other. The way you’d both healed broken parts of each other had unravelled into worse than when you first met.
By the end, neither of you cried. Neither pleaded. Neither reached out. Resentment was easier than heartbreak. Anger was easier than missing. Hate was easier than love. Twisting the narrative so that you could despise each other.
And that was how it ended. Not with closure. Not with the softness that had defined your relationship.
But with two people walking away convinced the other had ruined everything.
The party is too loud, too warm, too full. Bodies everywhere, perfume thick in the air, laughter bouncing off glass and marble. You don’t even know why you came, you’d told yourself you were done with this world, with these circles, with anything that might brush up against him.
But you had an invite from one of your mutual friends, and despite knowing you shouldn’t, you came anyway. You knew he’d be here.
Lewis is leaning against the far wall, drink in hand, pretending to listen to whoever is speaking to him. His braids are tied back, jawline sharp, throat exposed. Your eyes flicker to his 11:11 tattoo and back to his eyes. He looks older. Harder. A little tired. A lot angry.
He sees you instantly. His entire body goes still. Not subtle. Not polite. A full freeze. Eyes on you, chest barely moving.
It hits you like a punch. Your stomach drops. Your pulse quickens. That old ache uncoils inside you so fast it’s almost nauseating.
You look away. He doesn’t. Minutes stretch. You talk to people you aren’t listening to. You smile at jokes you don’t hear. You sip a drink that tastes like static on a tongue that’s gone completely dry.
Every time you shift, you feel it. His stare. Heavy. Accusing. Hungry.
You shouldn’t go near him. He shouldn’t come near you. But heartbreak always finds the weakest point. You step onto the balcony to breathe, the cold night air brushing your collarbones, settling the tremor in your hands. The city glows below you, soft and distant.
Hands trembling, you steady them against the cold rail.
“For fucksake Lewis,” you whisper to yourself.
The balcony door slides open behind you, sharp and deliberate. You don’t turn. Your hands tighten on the rail, heart slamming against your ribs. You smell him first. The cologne. The vanilla oud that follows him everywhere.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, close enough that his heat cuts through the cold night air. His breathing is quick, shallow, like he’s already drowning just at the sight of you.
“Who the fuck was that guy you were laughing with inside?” His voice is low, almost venomous, already accusing.
You whip around, fury igniting instantly. “Seriously? That’s how you start this?”
Lewis steps closer, braids tied back severe and tight, jaw locked so hard it ticks with jealousy. His eyes are wild. Pupils blown so wide the deep brown is barely visible. If there was any love there, it was nothing compared to the anger, hurt and possessiveness glittering in the dark.
“Don’t play dumb,” he snaps, voice rising. “I saw you. Touching his arm. Smiling like—like you used to with me.”
You bark a laugh, harsh and ugly. “Oh my god, Lewis. We’re not together anymore! I can talk to whoever the hell I want!”
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” he shouts, closing the distance until you’re chest-to-chest. “You show up here, in that dress, knowing I’d be watching—knowing it’d fuck with my head—and then you flirt right in front of me?”
“Flirt?” You shove him hard; he barely moves, just grabs your wrist to stop you walking away. “I was having a conversation! Something you never let me do without interrogating me afterward!”
His grip tightens. “Because I knew! I always knew when someone wanted you. And you’d smile back just enough to make me lose my fucking mind!”
“You were paranoid!” you yell, yanking free but not stepping back. “Obsessed! You didn’t trust me for a second!”
“I trusted you,” he growls, face inches from yours. “I just didn’t trust them. Or you not to leave when it got hard.”
“That’s the same fucking thing!” Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back, vicious. “You suffocated me. Watched every move, every text. And now? Now you’re mad I’m not sitting at home pining?”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Are you? Pining? Or have you been fucking around to get over me? Tell me. How many guys since we broke up, huh? How many have you let touch you?”
The words hit like a slap. You reel, then strike back twice as hard.
“How many models have you paraded on your arm for the cameras?” you shout, voice cracking with rage. “How many ‘friends’ in your DMs? Don’t act like you’ve been a saint, Lewis. I saw the photos. You moved on fast enough when it suited you!”
“I didn’t move on!” he roars, slamming a hand against the glass beside your head. The railing vibrates. “I’ve been fucking miserable! Can’t sleep, can’t breathe without thinking about you with someone else!”
“Then why didn’t you fight for me?” you scream, tears spilling now. “Why let me walk?”
“Because you wanted out!” His voice breaks on the shout. “You said I was too much—said you couldn’t breathe! What was I supposed to do? Chain you to me?”
“Maybe!” you hurl back, irrational and furious. “Or maybe trust me enough not to!”
“You think I didn’t try? Is that what you’re saying?” He’s shaking now, breath ragged. “I tried not to fuck this up! And then when we broke up...fuck, every day I tried not to call, not to check your stories, not to imagine you happy without me. I had to fucking block you! And then you show up tonight, laughing with him—”
“Stop saying that like I cheated!”
“You might as well have!”
“Fuck you, Lewis!”
You’re both shouting over each other now, words overlapping, venom flying. Toxic, brutal, everything you swore you’d never say to each other. Everything you promised you’d never let yourself become.
The shouting dies suddenly. For a second there’s nothing but heavy breathing, chests heaving, foreheads almost touching.
“I hate you,” you whisper, shaky and venomous, but it comes out cracked.
Lewis exhales sharply, his breath hot against your mouth. “Yeah? Then why the fuck are you still shaking like this?”
You swallow hard, eyes locked on his. “Because you ruin me. You always mess with my head, Lewis.”
His voice drops, low and rough, barely above a whisper. “You’re still mine.”
“No, I’m not,” you spit, but your voice wavers.
He laughs bitterly, like he knows you’re lying. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing your bottom lip before he kisses you—deep, sudden, breath-stealing. A kiss made of months of silence and hurt and want.
You gasp into it. He groans into it. The world falls apart at your feet.
He presses you back against the glass railing, his mouth feverish, desperate, all teeth and breath and shaking hands. His fingers tangle in your hair like he’s terrified you’ll disappear.
“I tried to hate you,” he breathes against your mouth. “God, I really did.”
You choke on a sound, half laugh, half sob. “I do hate you.”
He kisses you harder. “Don't fucking lie to me.”
Your hands fist in the collar of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. His body pins yours gently but firmly, and his breath shudders across your cheek.
“You’re so fucking unfair,” he mutters, mouth dragging to your neck. “Show up looking like this… expecting me not to break.”
“I didn’t expect anything,” you breathe, threading fingers through his braids.
“Bullshit,” he growls, lips sliding under your jaw. “You knew, you know what you do to me.”
You don’t deny it. His hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the back of your thigh. Just one touch and your knees nearly buckle.
“Jesus,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I’m still so in love with your body. So fucking gorgeous.”
You gasp when his fingers slide higher. “Lewis—”
“Say you want me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Just tonight. Lie if you have to.”
You don’t lie.
“I want you.”
That’s all it takes. He grabs your wrist, pulls you inside, down a quiet hallway, out the back exit of the party. You barely have time to breathe before you're in his car, his hand never leaving yours even while he drives like the road owes him something.
“I shouldn’t have shouted like that,” he mutters as soon as the doors close, voice still rough from yelling. His thumb strokes hard over your knuckles, almost apologetic, but his grip is possessive. “Fuck… I’m sorry, baby. I just— I lose my mind when it comes to you.”
You don’t answer right away. The air in the car is thick, electric. His hand drops to your bare thigh, sliding slowly up under the hem of your dress, fingers digging in just enough to make you shift in the seat. He’s breathing hard, eyes flicking between the road and your legs like he’s barely keeping control. His jeans are tented, and you can barely hear over the sound of your heart in your ears.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he adds under his breath, voice lower now, darker. “Still. After everything.”
You squeeze his hand tighter, heart hammering. Neither of you says anything else the rest of the drive, but the silence is loud and heavy with want, anger, and the undeniable pull that neither of you can fight.
He lets his hand wander the whole time, up and down your bare thigh, grip tightening every time you let out a shaky breath.
His house is dark when you arrive. Familiar. Dangerous. The door closes behind you and everything snaps.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers again, voice thick with guilt and desire.
“Then stop, Lewis. I can go hom–” He kisses you instead. Hard, messy, punishing, apologetic in the way only someone who shouldn’t touch you can be.
His body slams you back against the entryway wall, the impact jarring but not enough to break the kiss. Lewis’s dark brown eyes are wild when he pulls back to look at you—deep, molten, locked on yours like he’s daring you to stop him. His braids, tied back tight for the party, have loosened in the frenzy; a few fall forward, brushing your cheek as he dives back in, teeth scraping your lower lip.
One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back roughly so he can devour your neck. His other hand shoves your dress up to your waist, palm sliding possessively over your thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise.
“We shouldn’t fucking do this,” he growls against your throat, breath scorching. His hips grind forward, pinning you mercilessly, the hard length of him dragging against you through fabric. He’s letting you feel exactly how much he doesn’t mean it. “You know this is gonna end bad. Again.”
You arch into him on a gasp, nails scraping down his shirt. “Then why can’t you stay away?”
“Because I’m fucking obsessed with you,” he snarls, biting your collarbone sharp enough to make you cry out. His dark eyes flick up, stormy and unforgiving. “Even after all the shit we put each other through. Hate it. Hate you for it.”
“Don’t lie to yourself,” you hiss, yanking at his belt, undoing it with shaking fingers. You palm him through his jeans, and he groans deep in his chest, forehead dropping to yours. “You don’t hate me. You just hate that you need me still.”
He thrusts into your hand, rough and desperate. “Fuck—yeah. Need you like this. Need you to touch me so bad.” His fingers slip between your thighs, finding you soaked, pushing your underwear aside without ceremony. Two fingers sink into you, curling just right, and your knees buckle. He holds you up with his body, warm hand splayed wide on your hip.
“Tell me to stop baby,” he pants, pumping his fingers slow and torturous, thumb circling your clit with a precision that has obscene sounds falling from your mouth already. His eyes bore into yours, guilt flashing through the lust. “Tell me this is a mistake.”
You rock against his hand instead, moaning his name like it’s a curse. “It is. We both know it.”
“Then why are you so fucking wet for me?” he demands, voice breaking on the edge of anger. He withdraws his fingers slowly, brings them to his mouth, licking them clean while staring you down. His chest is heaving. He looks obsessed. He looks wrecked. “God, you taste so fucking good.”
Any restraint you had vanishes. You shove his jeans open, freeing him from his boxers, stroking hard and fast before you can second guess it. He hisses, head falling to your shoulder for a second before he’s on you again, lifting one of your legs around his waist. The thick head of him teases your slick entrance, hot and insistent.
“I missed you,” he groans into your skin, sounding furious at himself for it. "Missed this pussy so bad, fuck."
You bite down a moan. “Don’t say that.”
“I can’t help it,” he groans, thrusting into your hand needily, the tip of him sliding through your arousal. “I’ve been losing my mind without you.”
“You hurt me.”
His body jerks like the words cut him open. “I know.” His voice cracks. “I know, angel. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
He kisses you again. Softer this time, trembling, like he’s begging for this, for you, for the pleasure and the pain.
“Say it,” he breathes against your lips. “Say you’re still obsessed with me. Say you still need me like this.”
“I am,” you admit, broken and shaking. “I’m obsessed. I need you.”
That’s all it takes. He thrusts in deep, one brutal stroke that buries him to the hilt. You both moan loud, the sound raw and filthy. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like it’s all too much.
“This is toxic,” he mutters, voice thick. “We’re so fucking toxic.”
“Yeah,” you gasp, clenching around him tight. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He fucks you against the wall like he’s trying to punish you both. Hard, relentless snaps of his hips, one tattooed hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head. Every thrust drags a moan from you, his breath ragged against your ear.
“Mine,” he growls, angry and possessive even now. “Still fucking mine, even when I hate it.”
“Yours,” you gasp, hand moving to splay across the hard muscles of his back.
He swears against your mouth, holding your hips like he’s scared you’ll vanish mid-breath.
“You still feel—fuck—you still feel like home,” he whimpers, losing rhythm already. “I shouldn’t— Fuck I shouldn’t—”
His forehead drops to your shoulder as he fucks you faster, deeper, messy. You thread your fingers through his loosened braids and tug hard. He moans into your neck with every snap of his hips.
“You hate me,” he groans, almost pleading.
You shake your head, panting. “No… I hate what we became.”
He thrusts harder, a helpless sound tearing from his throat. “Me too, baby.”
“You feel so fucking good,” you moan, clenching around him. “Don’t stop, Lew. Please—”
“Fuck— say my name, baby,” he begs, voice breaking. “Call out my name when you come. Please.”
You do. You moan his name over and over, louder and more desperate, until the pleasure crashes through you. Your walls pulse around him as you come hard, biting his shoulder through his shirt to muffle your cry.
He follows right after, groaning your name like it’s being ripped out of him, spilling deep inside you with a full-body shudder that feels like he's giving all of himself back to you.
You both come like you’re falling apart. Clinging, shaking, kissing through the aftershocks like it’s the last oxygen left on earth.
For a long moment, you stay pinned there against the wall, clothes rumpled and twisted, skin slick with sweat, breaths mingling hot and unsteady. He's still buried deep inside you, twitching with the aftershocks. Neither of you moves. His dark eyes search yours with something raw and terrified underneath the hazy afterglow, like he already knows how badly this is going to hurt tomorrow.
“We’re gonna regret this tomorrow,” he whispers, voice hoarse and low. He doesn’t pull out yet. Instead, he rolls his hips once, slow and shallow, like he can’t help himself, dragging a soft whimper from your throat.
You push a loose braid back from his forehead with trembling fingers, your touch far too gentle for what you just did. “We already do.”
He exhales shakily and kisses you, slow this time, almost tender. Deep and lingering, like he’s trying to memorise the taste of you one last time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, still hungry even though you’ve both just come undone. When he finally pulls out, you feel the warm rush of him leaking down your thigh. He holds you close for a moment longer than he should, forehead pressed to yours, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other strokes slowly down your side, possessive even now.
You push gently at his chest, heart cracking. “I should go.”
He goes completely still, body tense against yours.
“Stay,” he whispers, the word cracking. His thumb brushes your jaw, then your swollen bottom lip, eyes dark and pleading. “Just… stay, baby. Please.”
“I can’t, Lewis.”
His jaw clenches hard, but his hands don’t leave you. They slide down to your waist, thumbs stroking soft circles over you like he’s trying to convince you without words. “I know I fucked everything up tonight. I know I always fuck it up. But I still love you. I love you so much it hurts.” His voice drops even lower, rough with leftover lust and fresh pain. “Let me hold you until morning. Just let me feel you next to me one more time. I’ll be good. I swear I’ll be good.”
Your eyes fill with tears. The ache between your legs is still throbbing, and part of you, the weak, stupid part, wants nothing more than to say yes. To let him carry you to his bed and fuck you slow and sweet until neither of you can think anymore.
“If I stay,” you whisper, voice breaking, “it’s only going to make it worse. We both know that.”
He nods slowly, but his hands keep moving, gentle now. He leans in and kisses your forehead, then your temple, smoothing baby hairs back from your face with careful fingers. His lips linger there, warm and trembling.
A shaky breath leaves him. “Alright, babe,” he murmurs, the nickname soft and broken. “Alright.”
You pull your phone out with unsteady hands to book an Uber. He doesn’t stop touching you. While you type, his fingers carefully wipe away the smeared lip gloss from the corner of your mouth, he cleans up the mess on your thighs. He tugs your dress back down, straightens the straps on your shoulders, runs his palms slowly over your hips like he’s fixing you even though he knows he can’t. Every touch is lingering, heavy with the need to keep you here just a few seconds longer. He's still half-hard against your thigh, and you can feel how much he wants to pull you back against the wall again.
The Uber lights flash outside. You walk toward the door on shaky legs. He follows right behind you, close enough that you can feel his heat, but he doesn’t reach out this time. The silence between you is deafening.
At the threshold, you stop and look at him one last time. Softer than you should, softer than he deserves. His eyes are glassy, hollow, beautiful and devastated all at once.
“Goodbye, Lew.”
He swallows hard, throat working. For a second it looks like he might reach for you anyway. Instead, he just whispers, “Goodnight.” It doesn’t sound like goodnight. It sounds like come back. It sounds like please don’t leave me again.
You descend the steps into the cool night air, each one feeling heavier than the last. He stays rooted in the doorway, watching helplessly, one hand gripping the frame like it’s the only thing keeping him from running after you.
The car door closes. The engine hums to life. The taillights cut through the dark as the Uber pulls away.
Lewis doesn’t move. He stands there on the porch long after the car disappears down the street, as if every metre between you is a punishment he deserves. A punishment you both deserve. His chest rises and falls unevenly, the taste of you still on his tongue, the feeling of your body still burned into his hands.
When the street is finally empty and silent, he lets out a long, broken exhale and presses his forehead to the doorframe. He feels like he just relapsed. Like the brief hit of you only made the craving worse.
In the back of the Uber, you lean your head against the cool window, refusing to look back toward his house even though every part of you wants to. Your thighs are still sticky with him. Your lips are still swollen from his kisses. Your heart is still racing with a dangerous, familiar ache.
You know already, deep down, shamefully, that you’ll be coming back.
You're worried you always will.
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)
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: chapter 2 is here and they’re already embarrassing themselves with how much they like each other. snow + tension + one very inconvenient kiss ❄️💋
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Pro Snowboarder!Reader
wc: 6.6k!
summary: a whole day on the slopes with lewis turns into something neither of you planned. morning runs become lessons, lessons turn into trust, and trust turns into a kind of soft pull you both try (and fail) to ignore. there’s laughter, teasing, a backflip before 10am, a eurocarve that feels a little like flirting, and the kind of eye contact that ruins peace.
warnings: elite athlete shenanigans, mild alcohol consumption, soft intimacy, thigh touching, kissing, mutual pining, immediate chemistry, obsessive training mindset (reader), age gap (40 x 25), friends noticing everything, gently horny vibes, MDNI for the series
previous chapter ⇆ next chapter
Morning comes soft and blue, the kind of light that makes breath look like silk. The mountain has exhaled fresh powder in the night; the wind stitched it into a pale corduroy that fanfolds downhill in neat, irresistible lanes. Lewis stands at the window for a minute and just watches it. Trees holding their breath, the lift starting its slow, devotional turn. Somewhere a kettle clicks off. Somewhere Miles declares coffee a human right. Somewhere Shaun laughs at his own text. Lewis lets the sounds travel to him at the speed of ease.
He’s earlier than the others, but he’s not alone on the balcony. Tim is out there, warming his lens with his hands like it’s a small animal he’s promised to protect.
“Light’s stupid good,” Tim says softly, without looking over. “If the sun holds, I’m gonna need everyone to pretend they’re in a perfume advert.”
“Talk to Miles,” Lewis says, dry. “He’s never stopped.”
Tim’s mouth twitches. “True. He’s my most cooperative narcissist.”
Inside, the chalet stirs. Shaun pads into the kitchen and opens cupboards like he’s searching for a glove he misplaced last season; Miles critiques a croissant at a distance. The room smells like orange peel and coffee grounds and fresh wax.
They ride up together. Four men sharing two chairlifts, laughter stitched in the wind. Miles provides narration for the landscape (“That peak is called The One That Will Kill Miles’ Calves”), Tim hums something unidentifiable, Shaun points out a ridge with the ease of a man who’s mapped a thousand of them. Lewis swings his board boot idly, the bruise on his shin now less a sting than a note.
At the top, they find the slope already alive.
You’re there with Ella and Noa, your Team GB teammates, he learnt last night. Three figures cutting dark lines across the bright morning. There’s an easy symmetry between you: same grace, same quiet focus, the kind of bond born from years of travel, injury, victory, recovery. Ella’s laugh carries across the snow, low and confident. Noa’s the one who always films everything, a GoPro already strapped to her chest.
When you notice Shaun’s group approaching, you lift your chin in greeting. Shaun answers with a grin and an arm waved high, all sunshine and volume.
“Look who finally made it up before noon!” you call, voice muffled through your ski mask but unmistakably teasing.
Shaun slides to a stop beside you, playful indignation written in his stance. “Some of us had to herd artists and influencers out of bed first,” he shoots back, jerking his thumb at Miles.
Miles places a hand to his chest. “Excuse me, I am both athlete and aesthetic.”
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth curving. “Prove it on the slope, pretty boy.”
Lewis is close enough now to catch the gleam of your grin before you pull your goggles down. He notes the little Red Bull insignia on your goggles (tries not to frown at the logo), the slight tap of your glove against your thigh. Your pre-run ritual, small, precise, unthinking.
“Ready?” Shaun asks, eyes narrowing like he’s already bracing for defeat.
You give him that half smile again, the one that makes arrogance look like grace. “Try and keep up, old man.”
Miles laughs, excited. “Humiliation for breakfast, my favourite.”
You glance toward Lewis. “You too, zen master.”
He feels his mouth answer before he thinks about it. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Miles”
“Course,” he huffs, then tilts his board towards the edge. “Ready.”
They drop into the morning like coins into a clear glass, each impact a chime that rings true.
Lewis tracks you first, he can’t help it. Your turns are short and exact, each edge bite a promise kept. You let the slope do work on you; you don’t fight it. Where most people swing their upper bodies like metronomes, you’re quiet above the waist; it’s all hips and knees and feet, the conversation happening from the board up.
The first run is a warm up for everyone else and only a warm up for you in the sense that a panther’s walk is a warm up for a leap. Halfway down, the pitch steepens and a small natural roller lip appears like a dare. Shaun spots it first and pops easy. A clean, relaxed straight air with a tweak so elegant it smirks. He lands like gravity asked politely.
You follow two seconds later and turn the roller into an exclamation mark: straight on approach, line true, your knees kissing your chest as you go inverted in the most casual, disrespectful backflip Lewis has ever seen. No extravagance, no theatre. Just an axis removed and replaced, then snow touched with a kiss. The landing is soft enough to be a whisper. If you hadn’t put the sky behind your head, someone might argue they imagined it.
Miles screams a word that does not belong on a family friendly mountain and then clamps a hand over his mouth in apology to a passing child. The child looks impressed; the parent looks converted.
“Oh come on,” Miles wheezes. “That’s— that’s not allowed before ten in the morning.”
Lewis laughs out loud. Actual sound, not just the ghost of it. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t known the laugh was waiting, either. He lets it go and it doesn’t boomerang back ashamed.
At the bottom you and Shaun slow into an easy parallel glide, boards whispering in conversation. The hug you give him is a shoulder-bump, practiced and affectionate, followed by a ruffle of his hair that he tries and fails to dodge.
“Still got it,” you say.
“Still had it when you were twelve,” Shaun returns, mock-offended, eyes warm with the older-brother reverence that only shows up when pride outmuscles ego. “You know you’re illegal, right? That should require a permit.”
You grin at him, unabashed. “File the paperwork.”
He laughs. “I’m not qualified.”
Miles pulls up last, gasping theatrically like the altitude personally wronged him. “I think I just fell in love,” he declares, hands on knees.
Lewis smacks the back of his head with the same measured affection as last night. Miles yips, delighted. “Abuse!” he protests, then to you, stage-whisper: “He’s jealous because you do violence to gravity prettier than he does.”
“Everyone does violence to gravity prettier than he does,” you say, eyes flitting to Lewis, a beat of challenge. “But he wins on style points.”
“Contentious,” Lewis murmurs.
“Defensible,” you counter, and there’s that glint, arrogance sheathed in sugar. It lands in him like a small, private spark that runs from his fingers to his stomach.
Tim rolls to a stop nearby, breath fogging his lens. “One more,” he asks, hopeful as a kid with a new toy. “Backflip, if you’re feeling— I don’t know—godlike?”
You look at him like he’s handed you a compliment and a request in a single bow. “Whatever you need,” you say, softening even your cockiness for him. You let kindness sit in your posture like it was always there. Lewis files that away too: sweet with the right people, sharp with the right edges.
They lap back up. The second run is more than warm, it’s a mid-morning flex. You and Shaun peel off to a side-line with a little rhythm section Tim spotted: roller, roller, hip, roller, then a gentle right bank into open corduroy. Lewis keeps his distance to watch.
Shaun opens with a tidy frontside 360, nothing loud, everything exact. You snap a cab 540 that seems to move without time. You switch stance like you were born that way, the board and body smelted into one decision. You come out of it low, compressing the energy into two fast turns that etch soundless calligraphy down the pitch.
Tim whoops like someone just handed him tomorrow’s light as well as today’s. He’s shooting in short, worshipful bursts; the camera noise rattles softly, a purr.
Miles swears again and then covers his mouth again and then stops bothering. “I’m running out of adjectives,” he mutters, wide-eyed. “And I’m a man who collects adjectives.”
“She makes nouns,” Tim says, deadpan, never lowering the camera. “And new laws of motion.”
Lewis watches you kick loose for a second at the bottom, board unstrapped, boot tapping the snow in an unconscious rhythm. You’re not as contained now; you’re laughing, head tipped, breath visible. The mountain changes around that, like light rearranging itself. Lewis struggles to move his eyes anywhere else.
“Nice to see you relaxed,” Shaun says, meaning it and meaning more. “Even if it’s still with a board under your feet.”
You shrug, a motion that carries both truth and deflection. “It’s either this or drink espresso shots at a little café until I cry.”
“Tempting,” Shaun says. “But you’d turn it into a sport.”
“I’d win,” you answer, immediately.
“Obviously.”
Ella and Noa arrive in a two-person flourish and, somehow, immediately adopt Miles. He splays himself between them like a decorative silk scarf, performing delicately outraged commentary on calf burn, while they take turns mocking and mothering him with the easy sweetness of teammates on holiday. He worships at their altar and they let him.
Lewis slides over, unbuckling without really looking down. His body knows the choreography now. Click, lift, rest. He raises a hand to push his visor up; cold air kisses the edges of his kind, dark eyes.
“Teach me something,” he says, before he’s considered if saying it makes him vulnerable. It does, and he’s surprised to enjoy that.
You cock your head. “What do you want?”
He glances at the little rhythm line you and Shaun mined for gold. “Not that.”
A small smile. “Cowardice is healthy.”
“Wisdom,” he corrects.
“Same thing.” You scan the slope like a surgeon picking the first incision. “You can carve, you can stop, you can not die. Let’s give you something useless but beautiful.”
“I’m listening.”
“Eurocarve,” you decide. “You’ve got the edge control. You just need to get over yourself.”
He laughs, he can’t help it. “That seems like a broader life note.”
“Always is.” You point at a pristine patch of snow with a slight pitch and no traffic. “There. I’ll show, you follow. Eyes on me. Try not to break your ribs.”
“You’re excellent at reassurance.”
“I’m excellent at everything,” you say, and the cockiness lands like perfume, present, deliberate, not smothering. “Come on.”
You drop in slow, demonstrating: weight over front foot, upper body quiet, eyes down the hill. Then the move: you tip the board onto a deep toe edge and let your body fold with it, knees bending, hips closing, chest moving toward the snow until your inside hand skims the powder and the board is a compass drawing an arc so low it feels indecent. Then you switch to heelside and mirror it: open hips, back of calf burning, knuckles brushing the surface like you’re painting with bone.
You stand out of it like nothing happened, as if you didn’t just flirt with snow at high speed. “That,” you say. “You try.”
He sets himself at the top of your lane. The mountain lifts its throat for him to breathe against. He inhales once. He knows how to move convincingly when he’s out of his depth, that’s half of any career with cameras. But what you’re asking isn’t posturing; it’s a private surrender.
He goes.
First turn, toe edge: he tips in late, overthinks the line, doesn’t commit enough, his palm hovers a centimeter above the snow, the board shimmies a warning. He recovers. Second turn, heelside: he gives it more trust, lets the back of his glove graze the surface. Heat streaks up his calf in familiar complaint. He stands, slightly embarrassed by how little he delivered.
You don’t clap or coddle. You skate up with an expression that reads like respect for effort and impatience for fear. “Again,” you say, easy. “The snow wants you. You’re fighting it like it’s a PR statement.”
He snorts, something loosening. “Brutal.”
“Correct.”
Run two: he commits. It’s not performance anymore; it’s physics. On the toe edge he folds deeper until the mountain is a wall and he’s a door leaning into it. His gloved fingers trail the snow; the sensation is unexpectedly intimate, as if he’s touching a living thing. For a second he feels weightless and anchored at once. He breathes into heelside and the move clicks. The board arcs clean, his trunk opens, everything balances on a line thinner than pride.
He stands out of it laughing like he did when you backflipped. Small, surprised, happy.
You nod. It’s not a grin; you don’t give those away. It’s approval in your language: minimal, exact. “There he is.”
“Felt good,” he admits.
“Looked better,” you shoot back, and the barb is friendly enough for him to wear like jewelry.
“Again?”
“Again.”
They do it until the patch of snow looks like calligraphy torn in half and re-written. He learns the micro-movements that make macro-trust possible. Where his hips lie when his toes take; how his knee angles when his heel wants to stop; what his ribs say when the mountain is close enough to hear him. You teach without explaining the romance. Your corrections are a word here, a hand placed lightly on his shoulder to reposition his angle, a brief yes when he gets it right. He obeys because obedience, done well, is another form of control.
When they stop, the sun has climbed a rung and every breath leaves less of a ghost. Shaun drifts over, relaxed and observant.
“How’s the zen class?” he asks.
“Humbling,” Lewis says.
“Delicious,” you say.
Shaun’s eyes flick over Lewis, quick check, professional scan. “Nice. Didn’t know you were workable.”
“Neither did I,” Lewis answers.
“Everyone is, if they want it,” you say, and Shaun’s smile curves into something like relief. He ruffles your hair, an older brother gesture he’s earned the right to. Beneath the humor, Lewis reads the worry. That you rarely allow this kind of looseness, that even your fun is structured, that someone like you forgets softness because hardness has paid so consistently.
“It’s nice to see you relax,” Shaun says again, meaning it so hard the word relax stops being casual. “Even though you’re still strapped to a plank.”
You nudge him. “I’m deeply relaxed.”
“That’s why your resting heart rate is a war cry.”
“Jealous,” you sing.
He grins. “Terrified.”
Tim arrives with a digital squeal of joy. He flips his camera around to show. Still frames that look like cinema: you suspended upside down against a blue so pure it looks painted; Shaun mid-tweak, silhouette heroic; Lewis in a perfect, improbable eurocarve that makes him look like he’s lying down while still moving. The photos make something in Lewis’s chest go quiet and bright.
“These are insane,” you say, and your voice does a different thing, softer at the edges, genuine delight. “Send me everything.”
“Everything?” Tim blinks, already scrolling toward AirDrop with reverent hands. “Okay. Everything.”
You lean in, shoulder to his, and study an image like you’re inside it. You don’t perform for the camera; you thank it. Lewis watches you thank Tim, too, not for the work but for the attention shaped into art. Tim glows like a child praised by the right teacher.
Miles, framed by Ella and Noa like an overexcited border collie between two competent shepherds, arrives with commentary to spare. “I’ve seen many things,” he announces, “but I have never seen our boy lie down at speed on purpose.” He peers at Lewis’s photo again and fans himself with his own glove. “I’m writing poetry. Free verse. I’ll call it ‘Man Meets Gravity, Confesses Feelings.’”
Lewis reaches out, taps the back of Miles’s head with choreographed disdain. Miles gasps. Ella laughs. Noa says, “He needs it; don’t stop,” like she’s encouraging good posture.
They lap again. And again. The morning becomes a pageant of harmless escalation. Shaun finds lines, you turn them into declarations, Tim records miracles, Miles narrates his own religious conversion. Ella and Noa challenge Miles to a drag race on a green where he stands up too straight and loses for the sake of comedy; he claims sabotage and demands a rematch on flat ground. The whole thing is holiday fun stitched into natural excellence.
At one lift queue, with the world sunk into the righteous boredom of waiting, Miles elbows Shaun, not subtle at all. “If I were a betting man,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Lewis to hear, “I’d say we’re watching something very promising unfold.”
Shaun’s mouth twitches. “You think?”
Miles tilts his chin toward Lewis and you, a few feet ahead, your shoulders nearly but not quite aligned, the little distance two very controlled people keep to avoid touching the wire they both feel. “I’m not blind,” Miles says. “And I’m exceptionally experienced in Lewis Hamilton.”
“Behave,” Shaun says, though there’s a warmth in it. “Let them have air.”
“I’m a man of air,” Miles replies, affronted. “I merely observe thermals. The energy? Hot, mate.”
Lewis pretends not to hear and hears all of it. It doesn’t embarrass him; that would require panic. What he feels is simpler, older. Focus redistributing. A line appearing where previously there was only just white.
Near noon, the crowd fattens and the light flattens into a less poetic kindness. Shaun calls a pause with a nod at a mountainside café that looks like a woodcut illustration. You all shuffle in, a clatter of boards and polite stomping. The room smells like broth and butter and wet wool. A waitress with the patience of a saint seats your unruly table near a window where the snow keeps its appointment to fall.
Bowls arrive. Soup with proper thickness, bread with a crust that fights back. Miles immediately christens the bread “weaponized,” then demolishes his in three disreputable bites. Ella confiscates his butter and doles it out like medicine. Noa uses a spoon like a scalpel, surgical in her consumption. Tim looks at his photos between mouthfuls like he’s reading letters from someone he loves.
Lewis sits opposite you and watches you thaw. Your face still carries the warmth of the run, breath softening in the café air. A stray strand slips free of your hat and brushes your cheek; you push it back with a wrist, leaving a trail of snowmelt shining briefly on your skin. He still can’t force himself to stop looking. Under the table, your boot taps a quick, unconscious rhythm into the floor. Like you can't keep still. You don’t notice. He does.
You feel him looking, or you decide to let him see. Either way, your eyes rise to his. For a second there’s no board, no slope, no audience. It’s just two people who spend their lives measuring themselves against edges, sitting in a warm room with soup, realising they’re not as alone in that as they thought. Realising, too, that they’re unfathomably similar.
“Thanks for the lesson,” he says, the words ordinary enough to be safe.
“Thanks for listening,” you reply, which is a rarer gratitude.
He considers, then asks with a tilt of his head, “do you ever take a day off?”
You tip your head in a parody of thought. “This is a day off.”
He smiles, slow. “Right.”
“Do you?” you counter.
He picks up a piece of the ‘weaponised’ bread as if it might confess. “Sometimes,” he says. “I just forget to tell my body.”
“Figures.” You tear your bread with your teeth like a wolf in a polite sweater. “You can borrow my reminder system.”
“What’s that?”
“Fall in love with the next line more than the last one.”
He sits with it for a second, then lets it settle in him the way good advice should: not as an instruction, but as a change in weather.
After lunch, the mountain has the golden, post-meridian sheen that makes edges sing. People begin to leave to beat traffic; the lifts gossip less. You and Shaun exchange a look that translates as one more. Lewis knows that look. It's the same vibe drivers give engineers when the numbers say pit but the soul says one more lap.
“Last run,” Shaun calls, a cheerful threat in his voice. “Make it rude.”
You both do. A backflip from you that steals the ooh from someone’s throat behind Lewis; a backside 720 from Shaun that is so calm it might be illegal; a eurocarve from Lewis that feels like a small vow to the person who taught it to him and to the part of himself that still wants to learn.
At the bottom, you coast to a stop beside him, both of you breathing like people who forget sometimes that breath is free. You look at him and then at the hill, measuring the day as if it’s an object you can weigh.
“Again tomorrow?” you ask, like you’re checking a forecast you already know.
“Obviously,” he says, and it comes out sound, not strategy.
“Good.” You nudge the nose of his board lightly with yours. “I’ll teach you something useless and beautiful until you start asking for the hard things.”
“And then?”
You grin, cocky and kind at once. “Then we’ll see if you’re brave.”
Miles collapses between Ella and Noa like a fainting duchess. “I’ve witnessed history,” he announces. “Somebody hydrate me with champagne.”
Shaun slings an arm around your shoulders and squeezes once, a private code. “Good to see you happy, kid,” he says too softly for anyone else.
You tilt your head into his for half a second, letting it land. “Don’t get sentimental,” you warn.
“Too late,” he says, not sorry.
Tim lowers his camera finally, shaking out his hands. “I think I won the lottery,” he murmurs, dazed and blissful. “And then I found another ticket.”
The mountain stands indifferent and generous above you all, letting people act like it was built for their little stories. Lewis looks up at it and feels, for the first time in a while, the particular gladness of being exactly where he is: inside the ache of new effort, near the warmth of old friends, close to a person who looks at gravity like it’s a suggestion.
He doesn’t make promises to the afternoon any more than he did to the night. He only recognizes the shape of what it’s already set in motion, and steps closer to it, willingly.
The chalet holds the day like a warm hand. Boards lean in a regiment by the door, gloves steam on the radiator, and someone has found a playlist that knows when to step back and let the room breathe. Snow grits off boot treads onto the mat like salt. Miles narrates his suffering to the ceiling. Shaun raids the fridge with the furtive righteousness of a saint caught snacking.
Lewis moves through it all with that quiet afterglow he only gets from good effort: muscles humming in the agreeable register, lungs a size larger than they were this morning. He could happily sit in the corner and watch the evening fold itself, but Miles arrives with purpose, which means peace is canceled.
“Two nights left,” Miles says, planting himself on the arm of Lewis’s chair like a decorative gargoyle. “Tonight and tomorrow. Then we all fly, Monday comes and ruins lives. Time is fake. Love is real. Go for it.”
Lewis raises an eyebrow. “Go for what?”
Miles gives him the kind of stare that wants to be a mirror. “Don’t do that British thing where you pretend not to understand. She’s electric. She’s focused. She’s fun when she lets herself be. She likes you. Have some fun, man.”
From the sofa, Shaun groans like an old timber. “Good God, you sound like you’re trying to set my kid up for prom.”
“She’s twenty-five,” Miles says, flicking his wrist as if banishing a ghost. “Not twelve. And she can snap my spine with a heel edge, so trust me, I’m respectful. But also: if you don’t at least attempt a human experience outside of a telemetry readout before this season starts, I’m filing a formal complaint with destiny.”
Tim plucks at a guitar someone left by the hearth, three gentle notes that sound like winter letting its shoulders drop. “He’s not wrong,” he says softly, not looking up.
Lewis lets a smile touch and go. He doesn’t bother denying temptation; the lack of denial is its own admission. “She’s here with her teammates,” he says, aiming for responsible. “You’re here with your matchmaking degree.”
“Minor,” Miles says. “I majored in instigation.”
Shaun tosses a cushion into Miles’s chest. “Leave him alone.”
Miles clutches the cushion like a trophy. “I will do nothing of the sort.”
The door opens then, and cold air carries you in with Ella and Noa. Three streaks of black and laughter and loose hair, cheeks wind-bright. Your posture has that post-run looseness, a fatigue that looks like peace. You toe off your boots with the unapologetic efficiency of someone who has spent half her life in communal entryways.
“House rules,” Ella announces, stripping her gloves with her teeth and pointing at the coffee table, “no one gets to be a monk tonight. We travel to Norway on Monday. That gives us exactly forty-eight hours to pretend we’re not sponsored by discipline.”
Noa, camera already on the sideboard, eyes wicked, adds, “We brought mixers. We will be reasonable. But we will be festive.”
“I don’t drink,” you say automatically, the phrase so practiced it might as well be part of your kit.
“You don’t drink,” Ella echoes, patient as a doctor. “Except when you do, which is… once a year?”
Noa holds up two fingers an inch apart. “One and a half times.”
“Tonight can be the half,” Ella declares. “Two small ones. Tiny. Child-sized. Then water. Before the serious training kicks in. Come onnn.”
You glance at the boys, wary, amused. “I don’t need an audience.”
“We’re furniture,” Miles says expansively. “We are tasteful chairs.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tim murmurs.
Shaun lifts his hands. “I’m Switzerland. Abstaining from peer pressure. Merely observing that if anyone tries to race you to the bathroom later to vomit, I will throw them in a snowbank.”
You groan, but the edges of it are fond. “Fine,” you say, holding up two fingers like surrender. “Two.”
Ella cheers like a stadium. Noa is already at the counter, alchemizing something citrus and unobtrusive. You sink onto the sofa, a careful distance from Miles that he immediately, obliviously, eats up with his personality.
The first cocktail is bright and harmless, summer in a winter room. You sip, nose scrunching at the sweetness, and the whole table watches not like voyeurs but like people who have been waiting for a strict friend to set down her backpack for one evening. The second drink appears before you can decide against it, lighter on the sugar, heavier on the truth.
It happens quickly after that. You don’t become someone else; you just become more of the you that hides under the version you let the world have. Lewis sees it happen like a lens shifting focus: your laugh loosens, the walls of your sentences drop from stone to wood, and the flint of your humor sparks against everything. You and Miles fall into an unlikely duet, his theatrical nonsense meets your dry precision and somehow you end up dissecting the concept of the “weaponized bread” from earlier like it’s a political theory.
“So what constitutes a baguette’s moral failing?” Miles asks, eyes big with faux seriousness.
“Intent,” you say solemnly, then burst into laughter that makes Lewis’s chest go warm. “And density. It must be able to do structural damage to a mediocre Tinder date’s ego.”
Miles claps, giggling. “I knew I liked you.”
“It’s mutual, against my will,” you shoot back, and then hide another giggle against your knuckles.
Across the room, Shaun watches like a man who can’t help loving what he’s afraid of. “Two,” he mutters to Lewis, as if keeping count might be talismanic. “I swear she doesn’t do this. Stop looking at me like that. She is responsible.”
“She’s fine,” Lewis says, which is true and not meant to soothe. He can tell the difference between dangerous and unguarded. You’re the latter, tonight. An unlocked room, not a cliff edge.
You stand, a fraction wobbly, cheeks lit. “Bathroom,” you announce to no one specific, and slip down the hall.
Miles pivots like a weathervane finding wind. He edges onto the sofa arm nearest Lewis again, conspiratorial. “This is your moment,” he whispers, faux-quiet. “Stop meditating and move.”
Lewis huffs a laugh. “You’re relentless.”
“And right,” Miles insists. “You two sit in a room and I can feel the tension, mate.”
A cushion thuds against Miles’s head, Shaun again, long-suffering. “If you break her heart I’m coming for both your kneecaps,” he tells Lewis, but the threat is half prayer.
“I have no intention of breaking anything,” Lewis says, and hears how sincere it sounds.
Miles smirks and keeps his comment to himself.
“Good,” Shaun says, then adds, because he can’t help himself, “She’s twenty-five. She’s brilliant. Do not be a hurricane.”
“I’m very weather aware,” Lewis says.
Noa appears with a bottle of water and a look that says she knows exactly what men conspire to when a woman leaves the room. She raises an eyebrow at Miles. Miles raises both hands as if in surrender to a benevolent arrest.
The bathroom door opens. You return, hair raked back with your fingers, a small, unbothered smudge at the corner of your mouth that you’ll discover later in a mirror and laugh at. The room has softened in your absence; the music is a low, warm river, the fire a slow pulse. You look, briefly, unarmored, and entirely yourself.
You choose the cushion beside Lewis this time. Not a move, a preference, or that's what you tell yourself. The couch dips, a tiny tilt that slides both of you closer. Your thigh brushes his; the contact travels like a match being lit.
“Recovered?” he asks, voice aimed low so it lands between the two of you and not in the room.
“From the weaponized baguette debate?” you say, mouth curved. “Barely. Philosophically exhausting.”
“You held your own,” he says. “He’s very committed to rhetoric.”
“Tragic,” you murmur. “Imagine living like that.”
They both glance over at the same time and find Miles attempting to balance a breadstick on his nose while Ella times him for reasons no court could explain. You and Lewis share a quiet grin that feels like conspiring.
“You should’ve warned me you were that competitive,” he says, then realises how inadequate that sounds to contain the entire day.
“You should’ve kept up,” you answer, but there’s no sting in it, just the familiar, friendly arrogance you wear like a well-cut coat.
“I’m learning,” he says, honest.
“I noticed,” you say, quieter now, and the tone threads a seam through the noise of the room and ties only the two of you together. “You listen.”
He shrugs, not a deflection so much as a way to breathe around the truth. “I like getting better.”
You turn toward him a degree, knees angling, the kind of micro-shift that lets two people occupy a private space inside a public one. “Most people like being good,” you say. “Not the same thing.”
Your leg presses against his a little more certainly. He feels the inside of his ribcage collect itself.
“Tell me something you’re bad at,” he says. He’s aiming for teasing, but somehow it lands more as intimacy.
“Switch left on flats when I’m tired,” you reply immediately, then blink and smile at yourself. “Sorry. That’s a rehearsed answer. Um.” You tip your head, thinking. “Rest.”
He nods with a soft, knowing smile. “Same.”
You study him like you would a line you’re about to take. “Why’d you ask me to teach you the eurocarve?” you ask gently. “You could’ve stayed handsome and mysterious and untouched.”
He allows himself a small laugh. “I wanted to lean into the mountain and not break. Seemed like a useful metaphor.”
“That’s the most Lewis Hamilton sentence I’ve ever heard,” you say, amused and soft.
“Lew,” he corrects gently. “Out of uniform.”
“Lew,” you repeat, trying the name like a new trick. It does something pleasant to his name, a lift at the end. He will think about that later, in the quiet.
You don’t think about it; you just want to feel something solid, something warm, something real. Your hand, absent-minded or intentional he can’t tell, settles on his thigh. Not high. Not a claim yet. Just weight. Liquid courage, perhaps. It’s the weight that changes the air around him. His body lights up and calms down at once, like a circuit finding ground.
He leans in, because you did first. You meet him halfway, which feels right: two people practiced at control deciding neither has to be dragged. His hand comes down over yours, firm and certain. Then he shifts it higher, guiding your hand slowly up his leg until it stops where breath starts to hitch. His touch lingers, not rough but sure, his thumb dragging once across your skin in a slow, silent acknowledgment of what’s changed. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The air between you says everything.
When he looks up, your eyes are already on him. The room blurs at the edges. It’s just the two of you, suspended in that kind of silence that feels like it knows exactly what it’s doing. His mouth tilts into a smirk. Slow, deliberate, like he’s already heard the thought you haven’t said yet. His spare hand finds your waist, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric, testing how close he can get without crossing the line you haven’t drawn. The fire catches the gold in his skin, turning his eyes molten.
“I recognised you on the slope,” he says, low enough that even the fire wouldn’t dare to listen. “Not in the moment. Later. The photo. The headline. The… look.”
Your eyes flicker, not with vanity but with an old history being acknowledged correctly. “I figured,” you say. “Most people lead with it.”
“I didn’t want to be rude,” he says, grin tugging wider. “Or lazy.”
“Good instincts,” you reply, voice softer now. “I like being seen for something I chose today.”
“Then today it is.” His thumb draws an idle circle against your waist. “Still, you make it hard not to look, you know?”
You raise an eyebrow, try and hold back a smirk. “Is that a compliment or a confession?”
“Bit of both.” His tone drops half an octave, velvet and teasing. “You don’t exactly blend in, angel.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “And you do?”
“Please,” he says, leaning in slightly, that grin flirting with your mouth now. “I’ve spent twenty years pretending I’m not the centre of attention. You just show up unbothered, take the oxygen out of a room, smile like you don’t notice the collapse.”
“That’s one way to describe existing.”
“It’s one way to describe you.” His eyes drop to your lips for half a second, and when they come back up there’s heat behind the restraint. “You ever stop for air?”
“Only when someone earns it.”
You shouldn’t let it go this far. Training, Norway, discipline. All the rules you worship flicker through you and vanish under the heat of him.
He exhales a laugh, low and dangerous. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Maybe it is,” you say. “You like challenges.”
He studies you for a second, the corner of his mouth pulling into something wolfish. “I like winning them.”
“Careful,” you say, tilting your head. “I’m competitive.”
“That’s why I’m still here.” His hand tightens on your waist, just enough for you to feel the promise in it. “And because you haven’t told me to stop.”
Your pulse quickens, goosebumps forming from the heat his hand leaves behind. “Would you?”
“Eventually,” he says, smiling like it’s a secret he intends to keep.
The hand on his thigh tightens a fraction, a yes written in pressure. He feels it everywhere. The room recedes, the playlist a faint tide. He can hear Miles somewhere losing a bet with Ella about nothing. He can hear Shaun mutter to Noa, “If he hurts her I’m emigrating,” and Noa’s dry: “To where? Empathy?”
He turns his face toward you, and you mirror it without thinking. It isn’t planned, and it isn’t not planned. It’s the cleanest line he’s taken all day.
The first brush of your mouth is soft enough to be almost not a kiss. Just breath crossing that final centimetre, a shared exhale. He waits, because he knows about waiting when speed is coming; he gives you time to change your mind, to file paperwork, to laugh and push him away. You should. You don’t. You tilt. Your lips find his in a second pass that is definite and unhurried, the kind that says: this is not a stunt; this is intent.
He registers tiny things because that’s how his mind works. The lemon on your tongue from the drink, the way you exhale through your nose like you’re letting go of a thought, the way your fingers curl once against his leg and then stay steady. His hand on your waist tightens, not anchoring but claiming space, testing gravity. The kiss deepens just enough to suggest it could go further, if either of you stopped pretending you had restraint left.
When you part, you don’t go far. You keep your forehead near his, an inch of air that isn’t distance. Your heartbeat is loud enough you’re certain he can feel it; the room returns in a slow fade, like someone lifting the dimmer on reality.
“Well,” you say after a small huff of breath, voice roughened and amused. “That complicates Norway.”
He smiles, small and involuntary, not yet clocking that your brain has already leapt to how this could tangle your training block. “We’re very good at logistics.”
“Tragically,” you say, and your mouth curves like you’ve filed the moment somewhere safe.
Across the room, Miles is performing silent victory to an audience of none, fist pumping with the discretion of a method actor. Shaun notices, rolls his eyes so hard the ceiling should be grateful it doesn’t come down, and then, because he’s Shaun, looks at you and Lewis and softens around the edges in a way he will deny to his dying day.
“Water,” Noa says suddenly, appearing like a competent ghost with two glasses. She sets one on the table in front of you and one in front of Lewis, an implicit contract with reality. “Hydration is sexy.”
You pick it up obediently. “Always ruining the fun,” you say, affectionately, slightly embarrassed that you, of all people, had just done that in front of everyone.
“Always preserving the fun,” she counters. “For tomorrow.”
Tomorrow hangs there like a promise the air has already accepted. The fire rounds off the corners of the room. The bruises of the day settle into the kind that will feel better in the morning. Lewis leans back by a degree that doesn’t break anything, his hand still resting on your waist; your hand stays on his thigh because moving it now would mean admitting what it meant.
“Two nights,” Miles reminds nobody in particular, lying back like a smirking angel. “Make the gods jealous.”
Shaun groans in a way that contains less protest than prayer. Tim’s guitar finds those three winter notes again.
Lewis looks at you. You look back, entirely present, eyes unarmored but bright with that familiar challenge. He smirks, wets his bottom lip with his tongue and looks way agin. There’s nothing to announce or declare. There’s just the clean line of whatever this is, drawn without apology.
Outside, snow keeps falling at the speed of patience. Inside, two people who live by precision let themselves blur a little at the edges and find, to their surprise, that the shape holds.
