Hey queen, can I request a blurb of Lewis and a reader that is loved by everyone in the paddock including fans, no matter what team they support the reader has somehow made them fall in love with them. Remember to take care of yourself and take breaks ❤️❤️
Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: none, pure fluff, comfort, paddock family dynamics, fake results
Summary: Navigating the high-stakes world of Ferrari alongside Lewis, you find yourself becoming the unexpected darling of the entire F1 grid, capturing the hearts of rivals, rookies, and fans alike during a magical weekend in Monaco.
Author’s note: Hope you love this sweet Monaco weekend, let me know your favorite driver interaction in the comments, xx
The morning sun in Monaco always seemed to hit the harbor at an angle that made everything look like a movie set. The water was a sharp, brilliant blue, and the yachts lined up against the concrete docks were so white they practically hurt your eyes. You sat on the edge of the small terrace attached to the back of the Ferrari hospitality building, a warm porcelain mug of coffee held between both of your hands. The paddock was already alive with the sharp, rhythmic buzz of wheel guns, the distant shout of mechanics, and the low, heavy rumble of engines being fired up for morning checks.
It was your second year fully traveling with Lewis, but this year felt entirely different. The deep, familiar silver and black of his old garage had been replaced by a sea of bright, unapologetic scarlet. Seeing him in red was still a bit of a shock to the system when you looked at him first thing in the morning, but the team had welcomed both of you with open arms. Well, more than open arms. They had treated you like royalty from the exact moment you stepped through the turnstiles at pre-season testing.
A shadow fell over your table, and you looked up to see Charles Leclerc sliding into the plastic chair opposite you. He was already wearing his red team polo, his hair slightly damp from a morning shower, looking remarkably awake for eight o clock on a Thursday.
“Good morning, y/n,” Charles said, his voice carrying that soft, melodic Monégasque lilt. He reached over without asking and plucked a small piece of pastry from the plate in front of you, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Please tell me you brought some of those biscuits from London this weekend. The ones with the chocolate on the bottom. My trainer says I cannot have them, but if you give them to me, he cannot argue with you.”
You laughed, leaning back against your chair. “I might have a packet or two hidden in my suitcase, Charles. But if Andrea comes looking for me, I am telling him it was your idea.”
“Deal,” Charles smiled, leaning his elbows on the table. “Lewis is still in the engineering room. They are arguing about the front wing endplates again. He has been there since seven. I think he forgets to breathe sometimes when he is looking at telemetry.”
“He does,” a deep, familiar voice rumbled from behind you.
You turned your head as a pair of strong, tattooed arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind. Lewis leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your neck, his freshly braided hair brushing against your cheek. He smelled like hotel soap, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of the garage. He looked tired around the eyes, but the moment he looked down at you, his face softened completely.
“Morning, beautiful,” Lewis murmured, pulling up a third chair to sit close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. He reached out and took a sip directly from your coffee mug, sighing as the caffeine hit him. “Charles, stop trying to steal my girlfriend’s biscuits. Go find your own.”
“She likes me better anyway, Lewis,” Charles teased, though he stood up, giving you a quick pat on the shoulder. “I have to go do a media brief for Canal Plus. Y/n, come by the garage later, okay? My mother is coming this afternoon and she specifically asked if you were going to be here.”
“Tell her I will be there by lunch,” you called out as Charles waved and walked away, disappearing into the red-clad crowd of mechanics moving through the hospitality area.
Lewis watched him go, then turned his full attention back to you. His hand slid into yours under the table, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles over the back of your knuckles. “Did you sleep alright? The boats in the harbor were making so much noise last light with those parties.”
“I slept fine, Lewis,” you smiled, using your free hand to smooth down a stray hair near his temple. “You are the one who looks like you need another three hours of sleep. Are the balances that bad?”
“Just trying to get the car to rotate the way I want in the low-speed corners,” he admitted, his eyes drifting over the paddock for a second before coming back to you. “It is Monaco. If we do not get the front end working perfectly on Thursday, Saturday is going to be a nightmare. But enough about the car. Are you coming to the fan stage with me later?”
“If you want me to,” you said.
“I always want you there,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he saved just for you. “Besides, the fans miss you. I saw a sign outside the main gates this morning that had your name on it instead of mine.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “That was probably just one person, Lewis.”
“It was not,” he insisted, a proud little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “They love you, y/n. The whole place loves you.”
It was an undeniable truth that you still had a hard time wrapping your head around. You did not work in motorsport. You did not have a background in engineering, public relations, or management. You were simply Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend, there to support him through the grueling twenty-four race season. Yet, over the last two years, you had somehow become a fixture of the paddock that everyone, from the highest-paid drivers to the people washing the tires, seemed to protect.
When Lewis made the earth-shattering announcement that he was leaving Mercedes for Ferrari, the internet had gone into a frenzy. But amid all the talk of contracts, championships, and legacies, there had been an overwhelming wave of social media posts from fans of every single team saying the exact same thing, we do not care what car Lewis drives, as long as y/n is still in the paddock.
After Lewis went back to his engineering meeting, you decided to take a walk down the pit lane before the support races started and the track went hot. The Monaco pit lane was notoriously narrow, cramped, and chaotic, but this early in the morning, it had a strange, industrial peace to it.
As you walked past the Alpine garage, Pierre Gasly caught sight of you from inside the back of the garage. He immediately dropped the tire pressure gauge he was holding and jogged out into the pit lane, a massive grin on his face.
“Y/n!” Pierre cried, wrapping you in a quick, enthusiastic hug. “You are finally here! I was looking for you in Miami but Lewis said you had to stay home for work.”
“I had a huge project to finish, Pierre,” you laughed, hugging him back. “But I am here for the whole European leg now. How is the car looking?”
Pierre made a comical grimace, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling of the garage. “Ah, you know. It is a tractor, but it is a pretty tractor for Monaco. Listen, Kika and I are doing dinner tomorrow night at that little place up by the casino. You must come. Tell Lewis he can come too if he promises not to talk about tyre degradation for one evening.”
“I will hold him to that,” you promised.
Continuing down the pit lane, you passed the Mercedes garage. It felt strange not seeing Lewis’ number forty-four sitting above the door, but the atmosphere inside still felt familiar. George Russell was standing near the front scales, talking in hushed tones to his race engineer. When he saw you walking past, his eyes lit up and he broke off his conversation mid-sentence, stepping across the yellow line into the pit lane.
“Y/n, thank goodness,” George said, adjusting his white team overalls. “Can you please go into our hospitality and tell Toto that his new diet plan for the team is a disaster? He has banned the chocolate croissants from the morning hospitality buffet. We are living like prisoners.”
“George, you are a professional athlete,” you teased, though you reached out to give his arm a friendly squeeze. “I am sure you can survive without a pastry for one weekend.”
“I cannot,” George said with utter seriousness. “But seriously, how are you? How is the red suits treating you?”
“They are wonderful, George. Very loud, very passionate, but wonderful.”
“Good,” George smiled softly, his expression turning genuine. “We miss you around here, you know. It is too quiet without you popping in to steal our energy drinks.”
Before you could reply, a loud, energetic shout echoed from the adjacent garage. Williams had occupied the space right next to them, and standing there, leaning against the pit wall with a massive, goofy grin, was Carlos Sainz.
“Look who it is!” Carlos shouted, throwing his arms wide open. “The star of the paddock! Come here, y/n!”
You walked over to him, and Carlos lifted you completely off your feet in a massive bear hug, swinging you around slightly before setting you down. He looked incredibly striking in his new blue Williams kit, though it was still a bit odd to see him out of Ferrari red.
“Carlos! How are you adjusting?” you asked, looking at his new overalls.
“It is fantastic, really,” Carlos said, his dark eyes shining with that familiar warmth. “The team is amazing. James is a genius. But I miss my favorite person to argue with about football. Have you been watching the matches?”
“Every single one,” you said. “And your team looks terrible right now, Carlos.”
Carlos clutched his chest as if he had been shot, looking over at George for support. “Do you hear this, George? She comes to my new garage just to break my heart. Unbelievable.”
“She is right, mate,” George chimed in, laughing as he stepped back toward his car.
While you were laughing with Carlos, a younger, slightly built teenager walked out from the back of the Mercedes garage. It was Kimi Antonelli, the young Italian rookie who had been handed the monumental task of filling Lewis Hamilton’s shoes at Mercedes. He looked incredibly young, his curls slightly unruly, and his eyes wide as he took in the sheer scale of the Monaco event. He looked nervous, his hands fidgeting with the zippers of his race suit.
When Kimi saw you standing with Carlos, he slowed down, looking a bit shy, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to intrude. You noticed his hesitation immediately. Breaking away from Carlos for a moment, you walked over to the young Italian with a warm, welcoming smile.
“Hi, Kimi,” you said gently.
Kimi blinked, a flush of pink rising to his cheeks as he realized you knew his name. “Ah, hello, y/n. I did not think you would know who I am.”
“Of course I know who you are,” you said, reaching out to pat his shoulder reassuringly. “You are doing an incredible job. Taking over that seat is not easy, but everyone can see how talented you are. How are you holding up with the pressure this weekend?”
Kimi let out a small, relieved breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. “It is a lot, you know? Monaco is so narrow. The walls feel very close. And the media, they keep asking me if I am going to be the next Lewis.”
“Do not listen to them,” you told him firmly, looking directly into his eyes. “You do not need to be the next Lewis. You just need to be Kimi. Lewis thinks you are brilliant, you know. He told me himself that Mercedes chose the right person.”
Kimi’s face lit up with a mixture of awe and pure relief. “He said that? Really?”
“He did,” you lied slightly, though you knew Lewis genuinely respected the kid’s speed. “If you ever feel overwhelmed or just need a quiet place to escape the cameras, you can always come find me in the Ferrari motorhome. We have excellent pasta, and I will make sure nobody bothers you.”
“Thank you, y/n,” Kimi said, his voice full of genuine gratitude. “That means a lot. Truly.”
Carlos watched the exchange from a few feet away, a soft, knowing smile on his face. When Kimi walked back into his garage looking significantly more confident, Carlos leaned closer to you. “You see? This is what I mean. You have been a Ferrari person for five minutes, and you are already adopting the Mercedes children. You are too good for this paddock, y/n.”
“I just want everyone to be happy, Carlos,” you said softly.
“Which is exactly why everyone loves you,” Carlos replied, giving your shoulder a final squeeze before heading toward his engineering station.
By the time lunch rolled around, the paddock was packed to capacity with VIPs, celebrities, and special guests. Walking through the crowded paths between the massive motorhomes was usually a challenge for the drivers, who required teams of security guards just to move ten feet. For you, it was a completely different experience. Every few steps, a hand would wave from a hospitality balcony, or a mechanic from a rival team would stop to say hello.
You made your way back to Ferrari, where Charles’ mother, Pascale, was already waiting for you at one of the corner tables. She stood up immediately, wrapping you in a warm, motherly hug that smelled of expensive lavender perfume.
“Y/n, ma chérie,” Pascale said, pulling back to look at you. “You look beautiful. Come, sit down. I have been waiting to talk to you. Charles tells me nothing about his life, so I have to ask you instead.”
You spent the next hour chatting with her, laughing as she shared embarrassing stories of Charles as a young karting driver. To the rest of the world, Charles Leclerc was the golden boy of Monaco, a racing superstar. To Pascale, and through her to you, he was just a boy who used to cry when he lost his favorite pair of racing gloves.
While you were talking, a group of fans leaning over the paddock fence near the Ferrari entrance caught your attention. They were holding up a massive, hand-painted banner. It didn't have the famous prancing horse on it, nor did it have Lewis’ or Charles’ numbers. Instead, it was painted in a bright, cheerful yellow, and written in big, bold block letters were the words, y/n fan club official paddock chapter.
Pascale followed your gaze and let out a soft laugh. “You see that? They adore you. I have never seen anything like it in all my years coming to these tracks. Usually, the fans only care about the men in the cars.”
“I do not understand it, Pascale,” you admitted, a bit embarrassed. “I am just here because of Lewis.”
“No,” Pascale said gently, reaching across the table to cover your hand with hers. “You are here because you bring a piece of humanity to a place that is often very cold and very corporate. Look at these boys, y/n. They are under so much pressure. They have millions of dollars, millions of fans, but very few people they can just talk to without a camera in their face. You treat them like real people. The fans see that, and the drivers need that.”
Her words stayed with you long after lunch ended.
As the afternoon approached, the tension in the paddock began to ramp up. Free Practice Two was about to start, and the relaxed atmosphere of the morning melted away, replaced by the intense, hyper-focused energy of a race weekend.
You walked into the Ferrari garage, putting on a pair of heavy noise-canceling headphones to protect your ears from the deafening scream of the engines. The garage was a masterpiece of organized chaos. Dozens of mechanics in red fire suits moved with surgical precision around the two cars.
Lewis was already sitting in his car, his helmet on, his dark visor down. He looked like a machine, completely locked into his own world. You walked over to the side of his cockpit, standing just clear of the mechanics working on the front suspension. Even with his visor down, you knew the exact moment his eyes found you.
He reached up with a gloved hand, holding it out over the edge of the carbon fiber cockpit. You stepped closer, placing your hand in his. He squeezed your fingers tightly, a silent, deeply grounded communication between the two of you amidst the noise and the pressure. You leaned down slightly, nodding at him, letting him know you were right there. He nodded back once, a sharp, determined movement, before releasing your hand to grip the steering wheel.
For the next hour, you stood at the back of the garage, watching the timing screens. Monaco was all about confidence, and Lewis was building it lap by lap. His name moved up the leaderboard, trading fastest sectors with Charles and Oscar Piastri in the McLaren. Every time he went purple in a sector, the garage would erupt in a subtle, coordinated rustle of excitement.
When the session ended and the cars rolled back into the pit lane, Lewis ended up second fastest, a mere three hundredths of a second behind Charles. It was a perfect result for a Friday, showing that the Scuderia had the pace to fight for pole position.
Once Lewis was out of the car and deep into his post-session debrief with his engineers, you decided to slip out of the back of the garage to get some fresh air. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, golden shadows across the harbor.
As you walked past the Red Bull hospitality unit, you ran into Max Verstappen. He was walking with his trainer, looking thoroughly annoyed after a difficult session where he had complained loudly over the radio about the car bouncing over the curbs.
When Max saw you, however, the hard, aggressive scowl on his face instantly vanished. He stopped in his tracks, ignoring his trainer who kept walking for a few steps before realizing his driver had disappeared.
“Hey, y/n,” Max said, his voice surprisingly soft compared to his usual curt tone during media sessions.
“Hi, Max,” you smiled, stopping to talk to him. “Tough session out there?”
“The car is a complete nightmare on these bumps,” Max grumbled, though there was no real heat in it now. “It feels like a go-kart with no suspension. I think my spine is two centimeters shorter than it was this morning.”
“Well, if you need some real food to recover, come over to Ferrari,” you joked. “I can steal some pasta from Charles’ personal stash for you.”
Max let out a rare, genuine laugh, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do not say that too loud, or Christian will think I am trying to sign a contract with them. But thank you. How are you enjoying the red? It suits you better than Lewis, I think.”
“Do not let him hear you say that,” you giggled.
“He knows I am faster anyway,” Max teased, waving his hand as he started to walk backward toward his team building. “See you tomorrow, y/n. Make sure you don't let Lewis eat too much pasta, he needs to stay light for the hills.”
You shook your head, smiling as you continued your walk. It was almost absurd how easily you could transition from comforting a nervous rookie like Kimi to joking around with a multiple-time world champion like Max. To you, they weren't icons or brands, they were just the boys who lived in this strange, traveling circus that you happened to share with them.
The next day, Saturday, was the day that truly mattered in Monaco. Qualifying was everything. The energy in the paddock had shifted from intense to downright suffocating. Nobody was laughing today. Drivers walked with their heads down, hoods pulled up, music blasting through their headphones to block out the noise.
You spent the morning trying to keep Lewis as calm as possible. You made him tea, helped him manage his media schedule, and sat quietly with him in his private driver room while he listened to his pre-race playlists. You didn't talk about apexes, tyre temperatures, or track evolution. Instead, you talked about the house you wanted to look at in the English countryside, and what kind of dog you should get when the season ended.
When it was time for Qualifying, you took your spot at the back of the garage, your heart hammering against your ribs. The twenty minutes of Q1 and Q2 were a blur of tension, but both Ferrari cars made it through to Q3 without any major issues.
The final ten minutes of Q3 were nothing short of spectacular. The atmosphere in Monaco during a shootout for pole position was unlike anything else in sports. The fans lining the grandstands and the yachts were screaming, their voices echoing off the rock walls of the principality.
On the final flying laps, Charles set a blistering time, putting himself provisionally on pole. A few seconds later, Lewis crossed the line. The timing screen flashed. Number forty-four moved into second place, just a tenth of a second behind his teammate. A Ferrari front row lockout for the Monaco Grand Prix.
The garage exploded into a frenzy of cheering, mechanics throwing their arms around each other, high-fiving and shouting in a mix of Italian and English. You let out a breath you felt like you had been holding for two days, a massive smile breaking across your face.
When Lewis came back to the pit lane, he jumped out of the car and immediately went over to celebrate with Charles and the team. After the official television interviews and the FIA press conference, he finally made his way back into the private engineering area behind the garage.
He was completely drenched in sweat, his hair wild, his face flushed with adrenaline. The moment he saw you standing by the door, he didn't care about the cameras, the engineers, or the team bosses. He strode straight over to you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into a fierce, sweaty hug.
“Front row, babe,” he whispered into your ear, his voice thick with emotion. “Front row in Monaco.”
“You were amazing, Lewis,” you said, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, ignoring the dampness of his race suit. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your hips. “I could hear the crowd on the cool-down lap. They were waving those yellow signs for you again. I think you have more fans here than Charles does, and this is his home race.”
“Oh, stop it,” you blushed, hitting his chest playfully. “Go take a shower, you smell like a burnt tire.”
“A fast burnt tire,” he corrected with a wink before heading toward the drivers area.
Sunday morning arrived with a clear sky and an underlying current of absolute electricity. The Monaco Grand Prix was the jewel in the crown of Formula One, and today, the paddock was a veritable red carpet of global stardom. Actors, musicians, and legendary athletes walked the narrow paths, but as you walked from the hotel to the track beside Lewis, the attention of the crowd lining the fences remained firmly fixed on the two of you.
When you reached the paddock entrance, a massive group of fans screamed your name. Lewis stopped, turning to you with a smile. “Go ahead, go say hi. We have a few minutes before I have the drivers parade.”
You walked over to the catch fencing, where hundreds of fans were pushed against the metal barriers. Many of them were wearing Ferrari red, but there were McLaren oranges, Red Bull blues, and Mercedes greens mixed in.
“Y/n! Y/n! Can you sign my hat?” a young girl shouted, pushing a bright orange Lando Norris cap through the gap in the fence.
“Of course,” you smiled, taking the marker from her hand. As you signed the brim, you looked up at her. “Are you excited for the race?”
“Yes! I hope Lando wins, but if he cannot, I want Lewis to win for you!” the girl said excitedly.
An older man wearing a classic Michael Schumacher Ferrari shirt reached out, offering you a beautiful, small bouquet of local Monaco roses. “For you, y/n. Thank you for making our Lewis so happy. We are glad to have you in the Ferrari family.”
You felt a lump form in your throat at the sheer, unprompted kindness of these strangers. “Thank you so much. That is beautiful.”
You spent ten minutes talking to the fans, signing autographs, and taking photos. Lewis stood a few feet back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. He didn't care that they were taking up time that could be spent on media. He just loved seeing how much joy you brought to the people who supported him.
The race itself was a masterclass in tension. From the start, Charles and Lewis managed to maintain their positions into Turn One, entering Saint Devote in perfect formation. For seventy-eight laps, the red cars controlled the pace of the Grand Prix.
Monaco was famously difficult for overtaking, but that didn't mean it was easy. One wrong move, one millimeter too close to the barriers at the Swimming Pool or Casino Square, and the race would be over. You stood in the garage, your fingers tightly clenched together, watching the telemetry screens with a tightness in your chest.
In the final laps, Max Verstappen made a late charge on fresher tires, closing the gap to Lewis to under half a second. Every time they passed the pit wall, the roar of the engines was deafening, the pressure inside the garage thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Two laps to go, Lewis, you are doing great, keep the focus,” his race engineer said over the radio, his voice remarkably calm.
“Tires are dropping off, but I have got this,” Lewis replied, his voice strained but steady.
When the checkered flag finally waved, it was Charles Leclerc who crossed the line first to win his home race, with Lewis Hamilton crossing the line right behind him in second place. The garage erupted. It was a perfect, historic Sunday for Scuderia Ferrari.
You broke out into a massive smile, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as you watched the mechanics leap onto the pit wall pit signaling boards, cheering and waving their flags.
The podium ceremony was a beautiful chaos of red confetti, spraying champagne, and the booming notes of the Italian national anthem echoing across the harbor. You stood in the crowded pit lane below the podium, tucked in among the Ferrari mechanics.
As Lewis stood on the second step of the podium, his trophy held high above his head, his eyes searched the massive crowd below. When he found you, his smile widened. He lowered the trophy slightly, pointing it directly at you, acknowledging that this achievement belonged to you just as much as it did to him.
After the podium, the celebrations moved back to the Ferrari motorhome. The entire building was packed to capacity, champagne flowing freely, music blasting from the speakers.
You were standing near the drinks station, holding a glass of sparkling water, when Lando Norris walked into the Ferrari hospitality area. He was still in his McLaren race suit, his hair messy from his helmet, looking exhausted but happy after finishing fourth. He didn't look at the team bosses or the sponsors. He walked straight over to you.
“Y/n,” Lando said, a tired grin on his face. “Please tell me you have some of that proper British food hidden in here. The food on our side is all healthy vegetables and I am starving.”
“Lando, you just drove a brilliant race,” you laughed, reaching behind the counter to grab a secret plate of mini sliders the catering staff had saved for you. “Here. Do not let Oscar see you, or he will want some too.”
“You are a lifesaver,” Lando said, taking a massive bite of a slider. “Seriously, y/n, great job this weekend. Lewis drove out of his skin to keep Max back. I think he wanted to make sure he got on the podium for you.”
“He did it for the team, Lando,” you said modestly.
“No, trust me, he did it for you,” Lando insisted, giving you a quick, affectionate squeeze around the shoulders. “We all know who really runs this paddock.”
As the night began to wind down, the loud music faded into a mellow, relaxed playlist. The celebrities had left for the exclusive yacht parties, leaving only the core group of drivers, mechanics, and close friends in the hospitality area.
Lewis had finally changed out of his race suit into a comfortable black linen shirt and trousers. He looked incredibly relaxed, the weight of the weekend completely lifted from his shoulders. He walked over to where you were sitting on the low lounge sofa near the balcony, sitting down beside you and immediately pulling you into his side.
You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. Outside, the lights of Monaco reflected off the calm water of the harbor, the boats gently rocking in the evening breeze.
Charles walked over, holding two glasses of champagne, handing one to Lewis and a glass of juice to you. He sat down on the armrest of the sofa, looking incredibly content.
“We did it, Lewis,” Charles said softly, clinking his glass against Lewis’. “A perfect weekend.”
“A perfect weekend, mate,” Lewis agreed, taking a sip. “You drove beautifully. Your dad would be so proud of you today, Charles.”
Charles’ eyes softened, a faint, emotional smile touching his lips. “Thank you, Lewis. That means a lot coming from you.” He turned his gaze to you, his expression turning warm. “And thank you, y/n. For everything you do. For keeping this old man calm on Saturday, and for making sure my mom had someone to talk to today.”
“I didn't do anything, Charles,” you murmured, leaning closer into Lewis.
“You do everything just by being here,” Lewis said down to you, his voice thick with a deep, quiet sincerity. He leaned down, pressing a long, tender kiss to the top of your head. “Every driver in this paddock wishes they had what I have, y/n. They are all envious of me, not because of the championships or the car, but because I have you by my side.”
You looked up at him, meeting his dark, beautiful eyes. In this fast-paced, high-stakes world where everything was measured in milliseconds and millions of dollars, you had found a quiet, immovable sanctuary in his arms. And as you looked around the room, seeing Carlos laughing with George near the door, Pierre waving at you from across the room, and young Kimi Antonelli giving you a shy, respectful wave before he left, you realized that you hadn't just found a home with Lewis. You had found a home with an entire family that extended far beyond the boundaries of any racing team.
“I love you, Lewis,” you whispered against his neck.
“I love you more, y/n,” he murmured back, tightening his grip around you as the stars shone brightly over the quiet harbor of Monaco.
