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1k Jukebox (1k Followers Celebration)
Agora Hills - Doja Cat (Fluff, bits of angst)
Nothing without you - The Weeknd (Fluff)
Through the night - Maeta (Angst)
Partition - Beyoncé (NSFW)
As you leave - Canaan Cox (Fluff)
Let me go - Lou Val (Angst and NSFW)
Die with a smile - Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars (Fluff)
No chill - PND (Fluff and Angst)
Bed chem - Sabrina Carpenter (NSFW)
Diamonds - Rihanna (Fluff)
Grovel - April Jai (Angst)
Steal my girl - 1D (Fluff)
Pretty please - Dua Lipa (NSFW)
Back to december - Taylor Swift pt.1 pt.2 (Fluff and Angst)
Sexual love - Maeta (Fluff)
Do me - Kim Petras (NSFW)
Let it happen - Gracie Abrams (Angst and Fluff)
Neva play - Meghan Thee Stallion (Fluff)
Dinasty - Miia (Angst)
Hold on til we're old - Jamie Miller (Fluff)
Rocket - Beyoncé (NSFW)
Kiss me - Cassie (NSFW)
Blessed - Daniel Caesar (Fluff)
That Girl - Olly Murs (Fluff)
London Boy - Taylor Swift (Fluff)
34+35 - Ariana Grande (NSFW)
You're in love - Taylor Swift (Fluff and Angst)
Won't say I'm in love - Hercules (Fluff and Angst)
Ruin my life - Zara Larsson (Fluff and Angst)
Nervous - John Legend (Fluff)
Hands on you - Austin George (NSFW)
Broke me first - Tate McRae (angst)
Sand - Dove Cameron (angst)
Bite-Sized Celebration (500 Followers) - Read the blurbs from the celebration
Lastest pieces
She's here because I chose you - Fluff
Before he was ever Dad, I had already picked him. But I’d never once stopped to think how much it would mean to them that I did.
Red Series - Angst and Fluff
Flashbacks and Echoes (pt.1) | Losing him was Blue (pt.2) | Missing him was grey (pt.3) | Loving him was Red (pt.4) | Burning Red (pt.5)
If you blink, you'll miss it - NSFW
“Kind of a California thing, doing it on a lookout. Somewhere high up, above the coast. Warm night, no one around but the ocean and the stars and... y’know.” “And you’ve never…?” “Not the right person. Not the right bike.”
What won't be said out loud - Collection of blurbs - Fluff
Small moments that aren't really that small in the grand scheme of things.
Superfine: Tell me again - MET 2025 Special - Fluff
“Tell me again. About your look.” “You’ve seen it.” “I know. But I want you to tell me. Tell me why it matters.”
I'd burn these bridges I've built - Angst ft. Ayrton Senna
“It’s the same few lines. I write them, I hate them, I change them. And then I write them again. I can’t tell anymore if I’m grieving or performing grief.”
The weight of Saudade - Fluff
“It’s on wanting time to slow down. So you can actually be in it. So you don’t have to spend half of it missing what’s not even gone.” “One of my favorite words I’ve learned from you.” “Yeah, and what’s the second?” “Gostoso”
Ferrari? Cars? Red things - Fluff
“You were staring.” “Caught…” “Looking at my mouth.” “You are pretty hot, so… Maybe next time, try being less… you. Ever thought about that?”
Lewis FULL Masterlist
I mainly write for Lewis Hamilton but I can be persuaded to write for Sebastian Vettel, Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz.
Also, I'm a huge Senna and Lauda fan, so they could be included as well.
There's little I consider too much, so feel free to send in anything. (This is a safe place ❤️)
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hiii before I read your fics I wanna ask do your write your y/n with like specific things about them like color or hair type or do you not mention anything about how they look bc it feels weird to me to read something and they have certain qualities and I don't apply to them 😭😭
hi lovely, I don't. like sometimes it might slip a "curl" or a "braid" but i try as hard as I can to not write specifics into looks or body types.
summary: you're frustrated by how auditions are going, which causes old insecurities to surface.
cw: suggestive
a/n: It's been a while since i've written romantic anything so if this sounds a little...flowery...that's why lol. I also know fuckall about ballet and I apologize in advance for getting any britishisms wrong
Rehearsals for Swan Lake had not gone well.
Your form was "perfect", and your lines were beautiful, but you were—apparently—not a black swan. When your fingers curled to form claws they had no deadly point, your movements fluid but just teetering on the cusp of sensuality, never making it all the way. And there was no villainy to be spoken of.
An Odette through and through.
Hours spent glaring into the mirror, trying to imbue your round brown eyes with a smoldering gaze were in vain. You sat cross-legged on your living room couch massaging your calves with your laptop on the glass coffee table, watching greater women than you become the very essence of Odile.
You paused occasionally, reaching for your phone to set it up against the larger screen. A video of you practicing played side by side with the ballet footage. You gnawed at your lip. Maybe this would demystify the elusive black swan and make the answer plain to you.
With earbuds in, you didn't hear Lewis enter the apartment. There was the rich smell of cologne, then suddenly a pair of soft lips pressed against the top of your forehead where your baby hairs had gotten fuzzy, and tore you away from your meticulous studying.
When you looked up, he smiled teasingly at your surprise. You looked something like a deer in headlights.
"Have I interrupted your practice session?"
You reached over to pause the video.
"No," a grin spread across your round face. "I'm just...looking things over."
Lewis tilted his head and leaned down, dark brown eyes evaluating the two videos with mild curiosity after you hit play again. As the two of you watched in silence, he must've noticed the furrow of your brow.
"You did a lovely job, far as I can tell."
You shook your head profusely.
"Something's missing."
Silence.
Odile enchants the prince with a caress.
"You're gonna be the black swan, you said?"
"Trying to be. I'm auditioning."
"Bit on-the-nose, innit."
This comment earned him a good shove in the arm, but it did get a barely-restrained giggle out of you.
"Lew, hush! I'm trying to focus."
He placed a hand on the small of your bent back and rubbed small circles into it with his thumb.
"Well, I'll let you do that—I'm about to hit the gym. See you in two hours?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure," you answered distractedly without looking away from your laptop.
You heard a chuckle from farther away as Lewis retreated into his natural habitat. He called the spacious extra room his "at-home gym", you called it his man cave. Though you were welcome to join him at any time, his posters and interior design sensibilities had begun to slowly creep into the space. It was once all carpet, but he told you once that he had it ripped out and replaced it with a wood floor. One wall was just a long mirror that reminded you of your company’s dance studio. The only remaining indicator that this had ever been a regular guest room was the light-slash-ceiling fan that cast a warm glow over everything in the evening.
About half an hour passed before your eyes began to strain from staring at two different screens for so long, and your left leg was beginning to feel like it had been replaced by TV static. You weren't getting anywhere, except in finding more fault with your dancing. Might as well get some core workouts in.
You entered Lewis' so-called gym at just the right time to catch him removing his tank top, giving you a good view of his back and the giant crucifix tattooed smack in the center. You clutched your mint-green yoga mat in your hand as you imagined tracing the ink with your index finger.
Would you feel his muscles tense beneath your touch? Or would you feel him chuckle in amusement at your curiosity? The sound of his voice cut through your thoughts before you could realize that he'd turned around.
"You finally joining me?"
The grin on his face meant that he had picked up on the silence and caught you staring.
Instead of laughing it off, though, a wave of embarrassment made you tear your eyes away and direct them towards the black leather La-Z-Boy chair sitting in the corner by the weights.
"Yeah," you replied without eye contact. "Just a little bit of...cardio."
"I actually don't mind you watching, you know."
Your head snapped back in his direction.
"Oh, I wasn't trying to—"
The skeptical lift of his eyebrow made you concede.
"...You have cool tats."
The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement as he moved towards where you had just been looking to grab a heavier dumbbell.
"I know."
You watched him from the opposite side of the room, stretching on your mat. At some point, Lewis paused his lifting to take a water break, and he noticed you doing the splits while in a forward stretch.
"See, now you're just showing off," he remarked.
You laughed, "You'd be able to do it if you stretched regularly."
"Stretch or no stretch," He sat down in front of your mat, criss-crossing his legs. "If I try one of those I'm not getting back up, then my racing career's over!"
As you quietly fell into your usual cardio routine, your instructor's advice gnawed at the back of your mind.
"To become Odile, you have to seduce us a bit."
Now, you weren’t sure if 'seductive' was even in your repertoire. You have played princesses, maidens and flowers your entire life. This was new territory, but you'd be damned if you didn't at least give it your best shot.
Your thoughts spiraled and went to other places as you occasionally glanced up at Lewis and the ink moving across the expanse of skin as he lifted weights.
Did he think of you that way?
You had been dating for six months. Just last week, you finally mustered the courage to straddle his hips while the two of you made out in the back of his car. The sudden movement made him hum in approval against your lips, and his ringed fingers pressed gently into your waist to keep you there. With your knees sinking a bit into the cool leather of the car seat, heat rose up from your middle to your chest and made you light-headed.
You almost slipped a hand under his shirt, if not to make him react then to feel the body heat directly. Almost.
Doubt suddenly cooled the heat coursing through you, snapping you out of your daze. Would it be tacky to have your way with him in the backseat? And what’s more, there was no telling if you would even know what to do should that line be crossed. You didn’t realize yet that the voice telling you that was not your own. So you pulled away.
"You alright?" He had asked in between heavy breaths. You gave him a tight smile.
"I'm fine."
You swung your leg back over and tugged the hem of your dress down. He watched, a little bewildered as you rushed to open the car door and inhaled the brisk evening air just outside his house.
-
The timer on your phone went off to mark the end of your workout session.
“All done over there?” Lewis asked.
He grabbed a towel off of a nearby rack to dab at his chest and neck, which currently glistened with sweat. His shirt was balled up in the other hand.
“Yup,” you replied, making a point to avoid meeting his eyes as you stepped off of your yoga mat, bending down to roll it up. “Back to Swan Lake.”
“What have I got to do to get you to forget about practice for five minutes?”
You rose to your feet and turned towards him, now only inches away with his tank top back on.
“I dunno, wear shorter sleeves?”
Lewis rolled his eyes before a more somber look took over.
“I'm being serious, love.”
Your eyes toggled between his face and his arms. If you weren't getting anywhere with auditions, there was always the other thing…
“Distract me.”
With a bold step forward, you pulled him by his shirt into an experimental kiss. It took no time at all for his arms to wrap around your waist, bringing you even closer to deepen it. Slowly, your fist unclenched so that you could drag both palms up the expanse of his sturdy chest, eventually looping both arms around the base of his neck.
One hand brushed over the roughness at his nape, and found the scrunchie loosely keeping his chin-length braids in a ponytail. It was the one he had “borrowed” from you before a race and never gave back, you realize.
Before you could think to resist the impulse, you pulled it out in one fluid motion. You stretched it out over your hand so that it slid onto your wrist. With a slow leisure, you carded your fingers through the braids as you felt Lewis’ hands mess with the hem of your pink t-shirt. They didn't move any higher until you tugged gently at his roots, and suddenly the tips of his fingers were digging into your bare skin.
He pulled his lips away from yours to focus on the soft skin between your jaw and throat, giving you a moment to catch your breath.
Only a moment, though.
You let out a yelp that turned into shrieks of laughter as your feet were lifted off the ground and you found your back pressed against the mirror.
Lewis looked down at you with a grin.
“You havin’ fun?”
“You could say that,” you breathed before grabbing his chin to go for a much surer, hungrier kiss.
Your hand felt its way around with your eyes closed and slipped underneath his tank top. You felt his breath hitch, and you gasped when his mouth made its way to your neck again, this time with tongue and the occasional scratch of teeth.
Lewis came up for air first, still hovering around your ear.
We’d barely pulled into the driveway when Roscoe let out a grunt from the backseat like ‘finally’.
I didn’t blame him. I mean we were all a little over the four days of living in a motorhome around a GP schedule.
Lewis leaned over the center console, reaching for the key fob and the garage clicker like it was muscle memory. “Home, sweet home” he muttered, mostly to himself. Then his eyes flicked toward me. “For me. Temporarily for you two, I guess.”
I quirked a brow. “Wow. Four days trapped together in one glorified tin can and I still get an invite inside? You must really like us.”
He smirked, one hand on the wheel, the other ruffling the fur on Roscoe’s big bulldog head. “Don’t flatter yourself. He’s the real MVP here.”
“So I am around for shared meal times only.”
“Obviously.”
We both knew he was full of it, but it felt easier to keep the tone light when the weight of ‘what now?’ hovered between us.
The house welcomed us with an uncharacteristic silence and the faint scent of lavender—his housekeeper’s doing, I imagined. Roscoe trotted in like he owned the place, tail stub doing a lazy wag as he sniffed around the hallway, then made a beeline to the living room rug. Plopped down like royalty.
I followed behind him with our overnight bags, or in my case, the overnight bag I brought and the tote full of just-in-case things I swore I wouldn’t unpack.
Lewis shut the door and glanced down the hallway where I was already toeing off my sneakers.
“You know” he said, voice mild “he doesn’t let just anyone crash on his rug like that.”
“He has standards. You, on the other hand, let me in knowing full well I hog the bathroom sink.”
He chuckled softly, stepping past me to grab a couple of glasses from the kitchen. “I should probably ask for a security deposit before you make yourself too at home.”
“You’re lucky I’m not charging you for emotional labor.”
“I pay in smoothies and questionable documentaries.”
And he did. I could already see the NutriBullet sitting on the counter, ready to ruin a perfectly good banana in the name of health.
I dropped my bags by the staircase, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. It wasn’t like this was the first time I’d been here, but it was the first time that I wasn’t just here for a weekend, or one of those rare mid-week sleepovers that happened when his calendar and mine lined up like a freak planetary event.
Roscoe snorted loudly in the next room, settling in for what I suspected was hisversion of nesting.
Lewis came back with two glasses of water and handed one to me. “To surviving Silverstone” he said.
“To surviving shared bathrooms” I replied, clinking the rim of my glass gently against his.
We sipped in sync, quiet for a beat longer than usual. Comfortable, not awkward. But definitely a shift. I felt it, low in my stomach, under the buzz of tiredness and soft afternoon lighting.
He leaned against the wall, one arm crossed over his chest, the other nursing his glass.
“You really stayed four full days” he said, like he was only just realizing it.
“Yeah.”
“With me. With Roscoe.”
I laughed. “He’s a good negotiator.”
“Better than me, apparently.”
I tilted my head, watching him. He was trying to play it cool, but there was something in the way he looked at me just then, like he was a little too aware. His voice didn’t hold jealousy, not exactly. But was it wonder, maybe? Or disbelief?
“You jealous of your own dog?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He shook his head, smiling but not meeting my eyes right away. “Not jealous. Just surprised. Took him two days and a few face licks. I’ve been trying to get you to stay longer for months.”
Oh.
Oh.
I sat down on the arm of the couch, half-facing him. “You never asked.”
“Didn’t want to push” He took a sip, then added, “Didn’t want to make it harder for you to leave if I did.”
That... that felt familiar. The exact thing I hadn’t been able to explain whenever I packed my bag on Sunday nights.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to stay. It’s just that staying would’ve meant missing him more once he was gone again.
“Anyway” he said, cutting the moment short like he felt it too “Roscoe’s got you now. Guess I’ll take the guest room.”
I grinned. “You’re assuming he’s not already there, hogging the pillows.”
Lewis laughed, and the tension broke just like that. But the thought lingered, soft and looping.
You stayed four full days.
Yeah. I had. And I didn’t hate it.
Not even a tiny bit.
I meant to go home Monday morning.
I said I’d go Tuesday.
Now it’s Wednesday, and I’ve somehow ended up in one of Lewis’s oversized and overprized sweats, curled into the corner of the bed with my laptop on one knee and a sleeping bulldog using my foot as a chin rest.
There’s a pink claw clip on his bathroom counter. My serum is wedged between his expensive face oil and a cologne bottle that costs more than my monthly phone bill. And when I woke up this morning, there was oat milk in the fridge.
“Hey,” Lewis calls from the hallway, voice a little muffled. “Do you want me to move some stuff in the drawer in the bathroom? Your… toner nearly killed me.”
I grin. “That’s acid, babe. It’s supposed to sting a little.”
He appears in the doorway, toothbrush in hand, and gives me a look. “How does your skin even survive that?”
“Tougher than yours, apparently.”
He raises a brow. “I’m a racer.”
“I exfoliate with chemicals. We all have our battles.” I wink back at him letting my grin out.
Lewis shakes his head and disappears again. I hear a drawer open, then close. A pause. Then he calls out, “You know you’ve officially moved in when your moisturizer has its own parking space.”
I snort. “Blame Roscoe. He’s the one who keeps looking personally offended when I try to leave.”
“I’m starting to feel like you’re the one staying for him.”
Oh. There it is again. That little thread in his voice, barely tugged but just enough to catch. He isn’t being cold. If anything, he’s being playful. But I’m starting to hear the question under the jokes.
Why now?
Roscoe grunts in his sleep like he’s agreeing with Lewis, or maybe just farting.
Both are on-brand.
I tuck my feet under me and trace a finger along the curve of Roscoe’s side, watching the rise and fall of his breath. “He’s got an excellent PR strategy, what can I say. Lots of head tilts. Big brown eyes. Deep understanding of my love language: cuddles and carbs.”
Lewis walks into the room now, toothbrush gone, hoodie sleeves pushed up, looking at me like he’s trying not to say something important. Like he’s weighing every syllable before he opens his mouth.
“I like it, you know,” he says.
I glance up.
“You, here. Just being here.”
Oh.
I look down at Roscoe. “Careful. Say something sweet again and I might stay another week.”
Lewis smiles, slow, crooked, the kind he only gets when he’s thinking something he knows he really shouldn’t say out loud.
And then he does say it anyway.
“Good. Then maybe I’ll finally stop pretending I don’t want you to.”
I mean, I should be freaked out.
Instead, I sink deeper into the bed and pretend not to notice how, for the first time in all our back-and-forth, I didn’t even look at the time when I woke up this morning. I just stayed.
Stayed.
You see, I’ve always liked my own space. Not because I’m one of those lone-wolf, hot-girl-with-a-therapist types.
Though, to be clear, I do go to therapy.
But because independence was easier than attachment. Independence doesn’t wake up with a Roscoe-shaped hole in your chest when you’re alone on a Qualifying Saturday or a Race Sunday.
But now…
Now there’s a dog on my foot and a man in the pretending he doesn’t let out the silliest of smiles when he finds my earrings on the bathroom counter. And this house that used to feel like his, only his, suddenly has soft reminders of my daily life all over it.
I glance at Roscoe, still snoring, then up at Lewis. He’s by mirror, choosing jewelry like he’s going somewhere and not only downstairs. When he catches me looking, he lifts a brow.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “You just look… domestic.”
He smirks. “What, like I don’t do this when you’re not here?”
And maybe that’s the whole point.
Now his routine has me included.
We’re three episodes into a show neither of us picked. I think Netflix just decided we’d had a long week and deserved something with lots of slow-motion dog footage.
Roscoe’s curled up between us, belly-up, snoring like he pays rent. One of his back legs keeps twitching, like he’s dreaming of sprinting somewhere.
I’m wrapped in a blanket I stole from Lewis’s guest room and haven’t returned. My feet are tucked under Roscoe, and my head’s on Lewis’s thigh, my cheek slightly pressed into the hem of his sweatpants. He’s playing with my hair absently, like his hand has a mind of its own.
I glance up and catch him watching the screen. But not really watching. His eyes keep drifting. To me. To Roscoe. To the half-empty mug on the coffee table.
Something’s on his mind.
“Okay,” I say, shifting slightly. “Spill.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You’re thinking too loud.”
He smirks, but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “I’m just... wondering.”
“That’s vague. I do that all the time and you call it spiraling.”
“I do.” He shrugs lightly, gaze still half-elsewhere. “I’m wondering how we got here.”
I sit up just enough to look at him properly. “As in... me, Roscoe, and a blanket that’s taking over your living room?”
He smiles, small. “As in... I’ve never wanted anyone to stay before. Not like this.”
Oh.
And there it is again. That honesty tucked inside understatement. Like if he says it too loud, it might scare one of us off.
“You say that like it’s a problem” I say gently.
He shakes his head. “It’s not. I just…” His hand drops from my hair. “You’ve always had this... lightness about you. You come and go and still manage to feel grounded. Like you know exactly who you are, no matter where you’re standing.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this your very poetic way of calling me stubborn?”
He huffs a laugh. “Independent.”
“Well,” I say, settling further into him “You’re not wrong. I like my space. I like my place. I like not having to answer to anyone.”
He’s quiet.
“But,” I add, “I also like it here. With you.”
Now he’s the one holding his breath.
“Roscoe too, obviously” I tease, nudging the bulldog with my foot. “But I’m not sleeping on your bed for him.”
That earns a real laugh from Lewis, low and soft, his fingers returning to my hair. “You do realize you’re the only person he’s ever picked over me, right?”
“He’s just tired of you nagging him.”
“Love language” Lewis corrects, deadpan.
I glance up at him again, this time watching a shadow pass behind his eyes.
“What?” I ask.
He hesitates, then: “You did stay for him.”
It’s not bitter. Just... soft. Like it still stings a little, even if he understands it.
I shift again, pulling the blanket tighter around us. “I stayed because I felt like I could. Because it felt like I wasn’t just visiting anymore. Like the door was open and you actually wanted me here.”
He exhales like I’ve just said something that cracked him open a little. Not in a bad way. Just in the way you exhale when something honest finally lands.
“I do” he says. “I do want you here.”
“Then stop acting like Roscoe tricked me into it.”
Lewis leans down, kisses my forehead. “He didn’t?”
“He did a bit. But you’re the reason I haven’t bolted yet.”
We fall quiet again. The show plays on, forgotten. Roscoe shifts in his sleep, half-buried under the blanket now. I tuck my hand under Lewis’s shirt, just at his side. He’s warm and real and here.
“You know” he says eventually, voice lower, “I’ve made a lot of room in this house for you without even noticing.”
I glance up.
“And in my schedule” he adds.
“That’s very romantic of you,” I whisper.
He smiles. “I didn’t do it to be romantic.”
I know.
And that’s why it is.
It’s one of those freakishly warm summer mornings that tricks Londoners into thinking they can trust the weather. I’m barefoot in the garden, in a pair of Lewis’s sweats I’ve rolled at the waist 5 times, trying to convince Roscoe to bring back the soggy tennis ball I threw ten seconds ago.
He’s pretending he didn’t see it.
Or maybe he’s just lobbying for me to go get it myself.
“You’re the retriever in this relationship” I tell him, hands on my hips.
Roscoe blinks at me, then walks in the opposite direction to sniff a very specific patch of lavender like I didn’t just say a word.
Behind me, the patio door slides open and I hear Lewis stepping out, stretching like a man who’s done three training sessions in four days and still hasn’t shaken Silverstone out of his spine.
“You two starting a morning ritual without me now?” he calls, voice still hoarse from sleep.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s barefoot too, shirtless in sweatpants, rubbing the back of his neck like he slept funny. There’s a faint pillow crease on his cheek.
“Roscoe’s punishing you” I reply. “You went out for a run yesterday and he never got his walk.”
Lewis grins. “He kept trying to chase squirrels last time. Nearly took my knee with him.”
I look back down at the soggy tennis ball. “Roscoe” I call, pointing. “Ball. Go on, bring it.”
And, miracle of miracles, he trots over, picks it up, waddles back, and drops it right on my foot with a satisfied huff.
Lewis stares, blinking once. Then again. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just… noted.” He lifts a brow. “Twelve years of loyalty, gone in a week.”
“Oh come on.” I laugh, bending to pick up the ball and wipe it on the leg of my pants. “Jealous of your own dog defecting to your girlfriend.”
He walks closer, hands in his pockets now, that lazy morning softness still clinging to his posture.
“I’m not jealous,” he says, drawing the word out like he’s still convincing himself. “Just… surprised. He’s never been this into anyone else. Not even Miles. And Miles used to sneak him food.”
I toss the ball again and Roscoe waddles after it with a grunt and zero urgency. I shrug. “Maybe I have a natural dog-mom vibe.”
“Right, because you talk to him like he’s a toddler.”
“He is a toddler. A big, snorting, vegan toddler with abandonment issues and a skincare routine.”
Lewis laughs, eyes crinkling, and it’s that same look he gets when he sees a photo of baby him somewhere: slightly amused, slightly shy, deeply sentimental.
Then he gets quiet. Still smiling, but quiet.
And I feel it before he says it. The shift. Like the breeze changed directions without warning.
“I used to wonder what it’d feel like to come home to someone.” he says
My breath catches, just slightly.
“Not in the movie sense” he adds quickly. “Just… someone who knows where the mugs are. Someone I know Roscoe likes more than me. Someone who stays.”
I swallow, not sure what to say yet.
He looks down at the grass, nudging a little clump of dirt with his toe. “Didn’t think I’d want that again. Not really. I thought I was better off keeping everything separate. Safer.”
I look at him. And he does look safe. A man with his world under control and making space in it for me anyway.
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything by staying.” I say softly.
“I know.”
“I just wanted more time. With him. With you”
His shoulders drop, like he was holding that breath for longer than he meant to. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I want to.”
He lifts his gaze again, eyes clear, open.
I sit by the porch and I tuck my knees up as he takes the non-said invitation to join, Roscoe adjusting with a lazy grunt as I move.
“I’ve spent so long thinking the healthiest thing I could do was keep my life in neat little sections. Work here. Love there. You, on weekends. Me, in my apartment. Like that would make the leaving easier. Like that would make missing you hurt less.” I said looking out on the grass, the sky, Roscoe ... anywhere but him.
He watches me. Doesn’t interrupt.
“But this week …” I glance down at Roscoe, plopped down like he saved the world and now deserves a nap. “I still missed you. Even with you right here. Even when we were in the same room. It was just… a want. A real one.”
His fingers graze mine then, for the first time that morning and it felt like the first time ever. It somehow always did. “I know that kind. That one’s the realest.”
“Roscoe made it easy,” I say, with a half-laugh. “But you…”
“I made it hard?” he finishes, mouth twitching up.
“No” I say, turning to face him fully. “You let me chose to stay”
He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Just looks at me like he’s seeing the version of me I didn’t know I’d been offering all week. The one who left her phone charger by his bed, who learned where the mugs were without asking, who stayed.
Then, with a voice so quiet I almost miss it, he says, “I really like you here.”
The words are simple. But they hit like a promise.
I smile, slow and certain. “I like me here too.”
Roscoe lets out another snore, dramatic and wheezy like the perfect punctuation.
And we both laugh, real, unguarded, laughing like we’ve made it somewhere without meaning to.
He leans in and kisses me, soft and unhurried, like there’s no need to rush this now. Like we’ve got time.
Because we actually do.
Because I actually stayed.
I wake up to the sound of rain tapping the windows, steady and soft, like the world knows we needed one more reason to stay in bed.
Lewis is already awake, which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is that he hasn’t moved. He’s lying on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other curled around my waist like he’s afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip. His thumb draws slow, lazy circles on my back, skin to skin. Not urgent. Not expectant. Just… there.
Roscoe’s snoring at our feet again, head resting on my calf, his body a warm weight anchoring us both.
For once, there’s no flight to catch. No call time. No planning for the next stretch of cities on a calendar I still don’t fully understand.
There’s just this. Him. Me. And the dog who may or may not have orchestrated this entire thing.
“Morning,” Lewis murmurs, voice husky with sleep.
“Mmm.”
“You’re cold.”
“You’re the radiator in this relationship.”
He hums, doesn’t deny it. Nuzzles a little closer, pressing his lips to my shoulder like he can’t help it.
I shift just enough to look at him, my hand brushing gently through the curls at his temple.
“I don’t wanna move” I whisper.
“You don’t have to.”
A pause.
“Not today” he adds.
Another pause.
Then, quieter: “Not if you don’t want to.”
It sits there for a moment, between us. Not quite a question. Not quite an ask. Just… an opening.
“You’re gonna spoil me” I mumble.
“Good.”
I smile into the pillow. “Then what’ll you do if I start staying all the time?”
He brushes the skin on my face, thumb gently going through my cheek and then my jaw. “Make sure there’s oat milk in the fridge.”
“Oh, so we’re getting serious.”
He laughs softly. “I already made you a drawer. What more do you want from me?”
“A closet.”
He kisses my head. “Done.”
We fall quiet again, and I don’t realize I doze off again until the rain slows and the light outside shifts just a little. That lazy kind of late morning you only get when no one’s rushing anywhere.
Lewis breaks the silence whispering by my ear. “You ever think about Christmas?”
I blink, surprised, voice husky. “Like, the holiday?”
He grins. “No, like the concept.”
I swat him lightly.
He catches my hand, laces our fingers. “I just mean... I usually go to Colorado. It’s quiet there. Roscoe’s with me. My family is as well.”
I stay still, listening.
He keeps going, softer now. “I was thinking… maybe you’d come. If you want. You could see him again. Spend a little more time. We could do something small. Chill. No pressure.”
I turn to face him fully, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Is this a very elaborate way to get me more time with Roscoe? Because I respect it.”
He smirks. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the only way I know how to say I want you there. With me. With us.”
And he’s not saying “move in.” He’s not making promises he can’t keep. He’s just offering me space. Offering me time.
Offering me more.
Just a man, with his heart cracked open quietly, offering me the kind of love that makes room without pushing.
I leaned in and pressed my forehead to his, eyes fluttering closed.
“Okay” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let’s spend Christmas with your dog.”
He chuckles, breath warm against my cheek. “Not just him.”
“Your family too”
I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then settling into his chest, my hand finding his under the sheets.
And this time, when I think about staying, about more, about us, it doesn’t scare me.
It just feels like something I’ve already said yes to.
Series: She's here and she's ours / She's here and she's not only ours / She's here and she's just like you / She's not here, but she'll be / She's here and she won't be the only one / She's here and he won't let her give up / She's here and so is he / She's here and so are we / She's here because I chose you
(they can all be read as one-shots)
and also
Part of 1K Jukebox Event
song: Always - Isak Danielson, @palefacestudentlove (hope I did it justice and hope you don't mind i turned into a part of this series)
Father’s Day in our house always started with the same rules: no alarms, no early workouts, no pretending Lewis wasn’t going to soak up every minute of being spoiled by his favorites, still not fully grown, humans.
It was his day. Lewis’ day as we called it.
I’d woken to the clattering of bowls, the hiss of the pancake griddle, and the sound of our son’s delighted giggles echoing through the house like morning birdsong. By the time I shuffled out of bed and padded down the stairs I found the scene I already knew by heart.
Lewis was behind the kitchen island, shirtless and with the same sweatpants he had on the day before, warm smile on his lips, spatula in hand.
Our pre-teen drama queen sat perched on the stool beside him like she was too cool for it all. But her mismatched socks and the tiny smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
And our son… well.
He was absolutely demolishing a tower of pancakes, his little hands sticky with syrup, crumbs all over like confetti.
“Slow down, pancake monster” I said, coming over to ruffle his curls. “You’re going to vibrate off the chair.”
“Carbo-loading,” he announced proudly, as if he knew what that meant. “It’s Dad’s day. We need fuel.”
Lewis chuckled behind him, flipping another pancake with one hand and slipping an arm around my waist with the other as I leaned in. I pressed a kiss to his shoulder, letting myself sink into the comfort of the scene.
There was something about the smell of vanilla, the low music playing from the speaker and our daughter yawning dramatically while still holding a fork like a weapon, that made my chest ache in the best way.
“So” Lewis said, sliding another pancake onto the plate and setting it in front of our son. “Are you both going to tell me why I’m the best dad in the universe now, or do I have to wait until later?”
The twelve-year-old rolled her eyes, but I caught the glimmer of amusement in them. “You wish you were the best dad in the universe.”
“Correction” the 9-year-old chirped in, his voice rising with every word “he’s the best dad in this world and the universe.”
He stuffed another piece of pancake in his mouth and raised his syrup-stained finger looking at you. “Because… he lets me stay up ten whole minutes later when you’re not home.”
I chuckled. “Of course, he does”
Lewis tried, emphasis here on tried, to look apologetic. “Father’s Day immunity. You can’t arrest me.”
“Also” our son went on, completely ignoring us now and swinging his legs under the stool, “he carries me to bed even when I pretend I’m already asleep. And he brushes my teeth when I’m too tired. And he lets me pick songs in the car. And he makes you coffee every morning so you don’t get grumpy.”
“Oh, so it’s self-preservation then” I muttered under my breath, but I was already laughing.
Our daughter finally cracked a smile too. “You are grumpy without coffee, mum.”
I gave her a look, and she gave me one right back. But there was no bite in it, not today.
“And!” the boy continued, bouncing now, totally sugar-drunk, “he promised to build the bike ramp in the garden this morning, even though you said no.”
“That was not Father’s Day immunity” I shot Lewis a glare, but even I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t soft about it all.
Our son turned fully toward Lewis then, pancake forgotten, his face bright and messy and so full of affection it made something pinch behind my ribs.
“And he gives you the last pancake, mum” he said softly, “every time. Even when it’s the best one.”
I blinked, my heart stuttering.
Lewis looked at me, then at him, smile slowing.
“And I’ll forever be grateful,” our son said, a little quieter now, like it just came to him in the moment “that mum chose you, dad.”
Just like that, the room went quiet. Our daughter looked up from her plate, fork paused mid-air. Lewis froze, spatula in hand, and my breath caught just a second too long.
The words settled like sunlight.
Gentle. Warm. True.
I blinked rapidly, trying not to let it get to me, although my throat was already tight, and my eyes starting to sting, and God, it wasn’t even 9 AM yet.
Lewis set the spatula down, came around the island and pulled our son in for a hug. He didn’t say anything at first, just a kiss a the top of his head like it was instinct.
Because with Lewis, it always was.
“Thanks, bug,” he murmured. “That means more than you’ll ever know.”
I stepped back a little, retreating to lean on the courter, letting the moment stretch without my interruption.
I don’t know what it was about the way he said it. Maybe the quiet certainty in his little voice, or just how easy it seemed to come to him, but the words kept echoing long after their chatter picked back up.
It was such a small thing, that line.
But he was right, wasn’t he?
I had chosen Lewis. I’d chosen him long before him or his sister had arrived. Before the tiny shoes and midnight feeds, before the garden races and pancake mornings.
Before he was ever Dad, I had already picked him.
But I’d never once stopped to think how much it would mean to them that I did.
That one choice - Lewis - was the root of everything that came after.
And for a second, I wasn’t standing in a sun-drenched kitchen with pancake syrup in the air. I was in a different home. A different time. The air still and warm,.
I don’t know what exactly made the memory surface just then, maybe how Lewis was still hugging our son, or the way our daughter looked at them when she thought no one noticed, but I was back there.
Back to that afternoon, almost thirteen years ago.
It was quiet in our Monaco flat, one of those rare afternoons when I’d actually managed to nap, tucked sideways on the couch with a pillow between my knees and my belly protruding forward.
Seven months pregnant, swollen ankles, heartburn, the whole nine yards. And yet… somehow content.
I remember waking slowly, that hazy kind of in-between where you don’t really know if it’s morning or night. The air thick with humidity, and the soft hum of Lewis’s voice the first thing I heard.
Not speaking to me though, just reading aloud, steady.
I cracked one eye open and found him beside me, sitting sideways on the floor with his legs stretched out beneath the coffee table, a paperback in one hand and the other gently resting on my bump.
It was such a gentle thing. His hand didn’t move, just lay there, like he was reminding himself she was real. That she was here, growing beneath his fingertips.
“You’re awake,” he whispered, brushing my hair back with a gentleness that still got me every time.
I nodded, barely.
“Wasn’t” I croaked, voice still scratchy with sleep, “but you’ve been narrating what sounds like the world’s most wholesome science textbook.”
He looked back at the book like it was the most thrilling thing he’d read in years. “Learned something today” he said, and there was that boyish glint in his eye, the one that came out whenever he had something he couldn’t wait to share.
I blinked a few more times, letting the light settle around me. “Please tell me you didn’t just spend my whole nap reading about placenta development.”
“Worse” he grinned. “Genes.”
I groaned, flopping back. “I don’t need to know your dominant traits. I’m already growing her, I’ve done my part.”
His hand moved absentmindedly over my stomach and kept going. “Apparently, the father’s genes… my genes ... they influence more than we think.”
“Such as?”
“Sleep patterns,” he started, holding up a finger like this was a TED Talk and not our living room. “If I don’t need a full eight hours to function, chances are, she won’t either.”
I narrowed my eyes. “So she’s going to be up at 3 AM, just vibing?”
“Probably. We’ll bond.”
“While I cry.”
He laughed and reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine before continuing, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Her fingerprint patterns? Mostly influenced me. Isn’t that wild? Little loops and whorls, just like mine.”
I glanced down at our joined hands and imagined it, tiny fingers, swirled with his same markings.
“She’ll have your hands,” I murmured, quieter now because his hands had always fascinated me. So much strength in them. Precision. Purpose. And still, they were soft with me.
Always.
“And her voice pitch?” He leaned in, gently brushing his thumb along the side of my bump. “More me than you.”
I tilted my head, studying his profile. The way his lashes curled, the slope of his nose, the way his mouth barely moved when he spoke softly, like he didn’t want to wake her, even though she was still inside me.
His voice had always had this richness to it. Low and calming, like warm honey. If she inherited even a part of that, she would lull strangers into trust just by existing.
“She’ll get my teeth too” he added after a beat. “There’s a high chance, apparently.”
I blinked at him, processing. “The… gap?”
He looked a little sheepish. “Yeah.”
And I don’t know why, but that made something twist so gently in my chest I almost couldn’t breathe. That small, beautiful imperfection I loved so much about him.
That might find its way into our daughter’s smile.
Then he added “And risk-taking tendencies. That’s… apparently, mostly me.”
I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. The man raced at 300 km/h for a living and still thought diving off boats for fun was a good idea.
But what I didn’t say out loud, what I couldn’t, was how I was already picture it.
Our daughter, still a mystery, felt suddenly vivid in my mind. She wasn’t even here yet, and I could see her.
See him in her.
“So, you’re telling me we’re having a tiny, high-risk-taking, low-sleeping, baritone-sounding baby with the exact same fingerprints and tooth gap as Lewis Hamilton?”
His lips curved slowly. “Basically… yeah.”
I laughed to myself then. I couldn’t help it. It felt ridiculous and perfect all at once.
But even as I teased, I could feel my heart cracking open in the way it only did around him. Because beneath all the facts and grins and biology trivia, there was him.
Choosing to know. To prepare. To understand who he was going to be to her.
The way his hand still rested on my belly like she might kick to say hi. The way his smile turned soft around the edges when he talked about her.
It wasn’t just that he was going to be a good dad. It was that he was already becoming one.
That soft, proud look on his face, that wonder, that absolute commitment, that’s what I’d chosen.
This was the man I’d chosen.
Not just to love, but to raise a child with. The one who’d learn about her before she was even physically with us. Who’d stay up reading articles about fetal development just so he could feel like he was part of it all, too.
That was the first time I knew.
Not just that we were going to be okay.
But that she would be, too.
The sound of Lewis laughing in the kitchen snapped me gently back. I blinked, still leaning against the counter, letting the memory settle behind like a warm exhale.
Our daughter was now standing on her stool, stacking leftover pancakes on a plate with the seriousness of a Michelin chef. Lewis had frosting on the edge of his cheek and no idea. Our son was now under the table with the dog, presumably plotting something.
I watched it all with a full heart and all I could think was how right our boy had been.
Because I did choose Lewis.
And every day since, he’s made me feel like I chose right.
“Are you just going to stand there being all soft and dreamy-looking, or are you going to eat your pancakes?”
I blinked, realizing Lewis was watching me from the kitchen, head tilted, that familiar curve to his mouth that never quite turned into a full smile, a promise that it could, and would, as soon as I reached him.
“Just enjoying the show” I called back.
Our daughter looked over her shoulder, caught me watching, and rolled her eyes in the most affectionate way possible. “Mum’s getting sappy again” she declared, stacking another pancake and pressing it down like she was building a tower.
The plate was still warm when Lewis slid it toward me on the island, the last pancake resting in the center like it had been waiting just for me.
He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow like he dared me to pretend this wasn’t tradition. His last pancake, always mine. The golden rule of every morning he cooked, and especially today.
Our son was quick to catch it, grinning as he popped up triumphantly. “See? Told you. Best dad ever.”
Lewis gave him a wink, and I just shook my head, smiling as I picked up my fork. The edges were crisp, just how I liked it. He knew.
Of course he knew.
I sat down on the stool, the seat pressing into the back of my thighs, our daughter’s knee knocking softly into mine beneath the table.
She didn’t say anything, her too-cool-for-family phase in full swing already. But her head tilted ever so slightly toward us, and when Lewis reached to tuck a curl behind her ear, she didn’t flinch away, just a faint smile then, and for a flash, I saw it.
The tiniest tooth gap in her front teeth. A little echo of him etched right into her grin.
And I remembered thinking even then: Let her. Let her have that imperfection. Let her carry something soft and familiar in her smile.
Let her carry him.
And how could I have foreseen the weight of that choice. Of choosing him.
Because now, this was enough.
This kitchen island. Their childhood. This man beside me, laughing with a kind of ease that made me feel young again.
This family.
That decision had brought here, to the place where our children could giggle over golden crispy pancakes and see love for what we believe it is.
Lewis nudged my ankle under the table.
“What?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “Thank you”
My throat caught on something that could be seen as such a small gesture but was the foundation of what we were now.
Hey Ella, I hope you're okay and that your shoulder is better, I really miss you because you had us so spoiled because you were always updating stories. But don't worry, I'm not doing this to pressure you. I miss you and your writing style so much. And I'll always be waiting for your return.
hiya bestie, and your message came just in time for something that i really want done by today (👀)
thanks for checking up, i'm clear to do most things now ❤️
I've noticed you've been mia and looked your blog to check if everything was alright and saw your message about your shoulder, omg Ella I hope you're alright and feeling better. All the best to you 💕
hiii lovely, i'm way better now, and finally all clear to do most things (including having both my arms free to write/type again 👀). thank you for checking up though and i'm sorry it took this long to answer i wanted to take the time to be away for a bit. ❤️
Hii, just wanted to say i haven't totally abandoned here, i did however smash and dislocate my shoulder last weekend and i couldn't write/type anything (computer or phone) with the sling without pain for the past week.
thank you to everyone who read the Red Series ❤️ (i'll try to answer later)
The city moves slow in the way only Italy can: golden hour sinking into cobblestone, espresso-sweet air still heavy with celebration. Somewhere nearby, bells are ringing. Someone’s leaning out a window with a cigarette and a song. Tourists pass us on the street, but no one stares.
Not yet.
We’re just another couple walking hand-in-hand under red and amber streetlights, soft laughter behind us, cooler air finally settling over overheated asphalt.
And I feel him.
Not just his hand in mine, though that alone feels like an open wound being kissed. I feel the shape of him in the space beside me. The rhythm of his breath when our shoulders brush. The quiet charge under his skin that I never forgot how to read.
Touch was always our language before words. Before the war of us.
Now it’s cautious. Gentle. Like he’s learning me again with his fingertips.
His thumb brushes the side of mine, a half-circle. Like a question. My fingers twitch in reply before I even realize I’m answering.
Every time his palm tightens around mine, I feel it everywhere. In my stomach. In the base of my throat. In the echo of the years we lost.
He hasn’t said much. Neither have I.
But he keeps looking over at me like he still can’t believe I’m real. Like he’s afraid I might vanish if he blinks too long.
And I don’t tell him this, but I keep looking forward on purpose. Because every time I turn my head and catch his gaze, it rips something loose inside me that’s barely stitched back together.
He’s red. And for the first time in years, it doesn’t look like grief.
It looks like light.
His first win with Ferrari. The paddock had erupted like someone finally remembered how to breathe again. Mechanics hugging. Tifosi singing. Confetti everywhere. And him, eyes bright, smile wide, arms flung to the sky like a man baptized in flame and finally forgiven.
And when I found him on the garage floor, head bowed … I didn’t say anything, just stood there in the corner while the chaos spun around him.
And then he looked up.
Sweat still streaking his face. Hands trembling from adrenaline or time, I’ll never know. And when he saw me, his whole body went still.
Like a man who’d been searching for something and stopped trying years ago. Only to find it waiting exactly where he left it.
He didn’t speak. Neither did I.
But he stood. Walked to me. And when he reached for my hand, I didn’t move.
His fingers slid into mine like they belonged there. And that was it. That was everything.
But later that night he knocked on my hotel door. Just one knock. And I opened it before I even knew I’d moved.
We didn’t speak then either.
His hands cupped my face like a question and an apology at once. And when his lips met mine for the first time in so many months, it didn’t feel like a kiss. It felt like gravity had finally stopped arguing with the stars.
It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t rough. He kissed me like he had to memorize it. Like he didn’t trust that it was real.
And when we finally made it to the bed, his hands moved across my skin like he was cataloging each version of me he’d missed.
There was no music. No ceremony.
Just breath. And heat.
And his voice, ragged and reverent, whispering my name like it had weight again.
I cried after. Quietly, into his collarbone.
He didn’t say anything, just held me tighter. His fingers in my skin, slow and steady, like he knew I needed to unravel before I could trust.
We slept like that.
Tangled. Still. Finally warm.
And in the morning, when I woke up to find him already watching me he smiled.
Soft. Earnest. Familiar.
"Hi," he whispered.
And it was the most devastating thing I’d ever heard. Because he said it like nothing had broken. Like we hadn’t been war and winter and wildfire.
Like we were just us. Again.
Now we’re here.
In the city built for second chances and slow love.
He points out a trattoria across the piazza, says it’s where he went alone once during a summer break in ‘22. A year we haven’t talked about. I squeeze his hand and don’t say anything.
The silence between us isn’t hollow anymore though. It’s full of memory. Of failure. Of forgiveness we’re still figuring out.
There’s no hard launch. No statement.
Just a carousel post: three blurry photos of Florence, and the last one is of us. Walking. Laughing. My hand in his. Sunglasses hiding nothing.
He likes it. Then, ten minutes later, a comment: 🔥❤️
The top reply reads “Red looks good on both of you.”
I stare at it for longer than I should. Not because of what it says, but because of how right it feels.
Red used to mean fire. Destruction. The aftermath of everything we couldn’t survive.
Now red is joy blooming again where nothing should have grown. Red is the sound of his laugh under Italian sun. Red is his fingers laced with mine. Steady.
It started quietly. A text, then another. Shared playlists again. Old photos reappearing in the archive when neither of us asked.
He sent me a selfie in the simulator one morning. “Feels good again,” the caption read.
I knew what he meant.
And then the first time he flew me to Maranello. Quiet. Private. A few stares, a few whispers. But mostly just us, walking the floor.
I watched him talk to the mechanics like he’d been born in red. Like he hadn’t spent a decade bleeding silver.
And when he introduced me to the team principal as someone “important,” I didn’t flinch.
We didn’t define anything. We didn’t need to. We let the world figure it out for themselves.
Coffee runs together in Monaco. Dinner in Milan that was caught on camera, leaked online, dissected in threads.
And slowly we started reclaiming what had always been ours.
Not with declarations. But with Sunday mornings. Inside jokes. His hand at the small of my back when no one was watching.
There was a morning I woke up in his apartment in Monaco. Sun slicing through white curtains, the smell of espresso, and his voice humming something I didn’t recognize in the kitchen.
I watched him from the doorway. Shirtless. Focused. At peace.
I’d never seen him that soft before. Even when we were good, we were never this quiet.
He looked up. “Hungry?”
And I almost said no because I was already full. With him. With this. With the possibility that maybe we weren’t broken. Just paused.
He walks a little slower now, like he wants to stretch the moment. Like time is something we finally stopped fighting.
And when he stops at the foot of a bridge, still lit by post dusk gold, I let him pull me close.
His hand leaves mine, moves to my waist with a quiet reverence that makes me ache. He touches like he’s afraid he’ll be punished for it. Like he remembers every night I cried beside him, and every morning I woke up more gone.
But I’m here. And I press closer.
When I look up, the way he’s watching me - God.
Like the man who used to look at me with fury and shame and grief has burned away. Like what’s left is nothing but devotion so quiet it feels like prayer.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice barely louder than the wind.
I nod, but it’s not enough. “Yeah,” I whisper. “You?”
He swallows hard, and I feel the breath he exhales against my cheek. “I am, now.”
It’s too much. Too tender. Too earned.
My hands come up to his chest, to feel the solidity of him. He’s real. Warm under the thin cotton of his shirt, his heart steady beneath my fingers. He’s older. Softer. Somehow more here than he’s ever been.
And when he bends slightly, lips brushing the skin on my neck, I close my eyes and try not to fall apart.
Because I remember it all.
I remember losing him was blue: cold and brutal, like winter after war.
I remember missing him was gray: endless, dull, unrelenting.
And I remember loving him is red.
Not the firestorm people imagined. But the warmth of something that refused to die. Even when it should’ve. Even when we begged it to.
Now I know that maybe we weren’t meant to work back then.
We had to lose the blue. We had to survive the gray.
Maybe red is what we were always headed towards.
Not the red of blood or ruin. Not the red of Ferrari alone. But the red of coming home to something scorched and finding it still burning, still tender, still reaching for you.
He squeezes me once more. The world moves on without us. And I let myself lean in.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to let him feel it.
One of our friends posted a photo with me in front of a canvas, head tilted, half-laughing, caught off guard in the gallery’s amber light.
It wasn’t meant to be seen widely. Just a story post. One of those fleeting digital ghosts that disappear in 24 hours.
But then I saw it.
His name. That handle. That small, red heart.
I blinked, refreshed the screen. Still there.
It meant nothing. It meant everything.
Because Lewis never liked things casually. He wasn’t the type to scroll mindlessly. If he tapped, he meant it. Even now.
I didn’t screenshot it. Didn’t text anyone. I just sat with it for an hour, my phone burning in my palm like it might say more if I stared long enough.
Then I muted the story.
And tried not to read into it.
Failing miserably.
FERRARI PRE-SEASON
I saw the photos everywhere. Who didn't?
He was wearing the red. Not just on his body, but on his face, in his posture, in his smile. That reckless grin, dimples deep like they used to be when things were simpler.
The way he used to smile at me, when I’d wake up next to him in cities we never had time to see. That grin used to mean “I’m in love with something right now.”
I used to be the something. Now, I was just someone watching.
Fans were making edits already. Side-by-sides: Lewis now, beaming in Ferrari red and Lewis then, quieted in the silver. Some photos had us cropped too tightly, grainy screenshots of moments we never made public, but they still found them. “He smiled like that with her” one tweet read. Another said “She was his soft era.”
I hated that I saved them. I hated that I knew they were right.
But mostly, I hated how happy I had gotten at how happy he looked.
Because it reminded me how much I hadn’t been, for so long.
BAHRAIN
I didn’t know he’d be at the dinner. Or maybe I did.
I showed up anyway.
It was one of those sponsor evenings, half formal, half forgettable. White linens, badge-stamped wine glasses, and a guest list that felt like a trap. He was already seated when I arrived. I almost turned around.
We didn’t speak.
But we looked.
He caught my eye across the table, halfway through the second course. And again, when I reached for my drink. And again, when the laughter got too loud, and we both retreated into silence at the same time, like muscle memory.
One of the rookies asked if we knew each other.
I said, “Used to.”
He didn’t correct me.
SPRING 2025
There were weeks of this. Quiet almosts.
He’d pass by in the paddock and hesitate for just a second longer than necessary.
I’d pretend not to notice. But I did. I always did.
Once, we arrived at the same airport gate. He was wearing a cap low over his eyes. I was in oversized sunglasses and earbuds with nothing playing.
He didn’t say hi.
Neither did I.
But he stood closer than needed in the security line. And when I dropped my boarding pass, he bent down first.
Our hands didn’t touch. But they could’ve.
People had started posting about our almosts then. “Are they talking again?” “Hamilton looking like he’s been punched in the gut every time she walks by” “He’s so soft around her”
I didn’t like any of them. But I saved every comment.
MIAMI
It happened during a break between sessions.
I was lingering near hospitality at dusk, pretending to scroll, when I felt him before I saw him.
“Hey” he said. Soft. Casual. Dangerous.
I looked up. Nodded. My heart kicked like it had remembered how to be sixteen again.
“You want to walk a bit?”
It wasn’t a grand gesture. Not a “let’s talk.” Not a “I miss you.” Just a question.
But God, it felt like a door I’d boarded up swinging open anyway.
We walked the loop. Past the garages, around the press barricades. The way we used to, when no one knew yet.
He asked how work was. I asked how the car felt. We didn’t talk about us.
But everything in me remembered him.
How he speaks when he’s tired, how he uses his hands too much when he’s over-explaining, how his smile gets uneven when he’s trying not to sound too hopeful.
I mentioned a joke from Austria, 2021. An inside thing I didn’t think he’d remember.
He laughed. Fully.
“I think about that sometimes” he said. “You made that year bearable.”
I smiled, but I didn’t say anything back. Because I couldn’t trust my voice. Not with that weight in my throat.
When I got back to my hotel, I shut the door and cried into my sleeves.
Not because it hurt. But because, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t.
I was remembering him without reopening the wound. And that scared me more than any goodbye ever had.
IMOLA
I was invited to an after-hours party on Thursday. One of those rich people facades dressed up in candlelight and exclusivity.
He was there too. Of course he was.
We didn’t speak. Barely made eye contact.
But someone took a photo from across the balcony. A blurry zoom-in from an upper loop. Me, leaning against a rail, looking out. And him, half in shadow, a drink forgotten in his hand, staring at me like I was the last thing left in the world.
They posted it. Captioned “He’s so in love.”
It went viral.
Edits rolled in within hours and my messages were full. Threads comparing our every movement that weekend. “She fixed his smile.” “He never stopped looking at her like that.”
I didn’t like it. But I didn’t silence the words either.
It wasn’t new. It wasn’t even surprising.
It was just true.
MONACO
It’s always the little things that give him away.
A nod across the briefing room.
A shared glance when a journalist asks about "reconnecting with old rivals."
A half-smile that stretches when he sees me laughing with someone else.
He doesn’t speak much. Neither do I.
But the silence isn’t avoidance anymore. It’s protection.
Like we’re both holding something breakable in our mouths and don’t want to drop it too soon.
He follows me out of a press tent once. Doesn’t say anything. Just walks beside me for a few seconds before peeling off in another direction.
But his fingers graze mine.
And I remember what it was like to be his choice. Quietly, fully, undeniably.
And I didn’t even had to touch him to feel it. That pull.
Loving him was never quiet. Loving him was red.
BARCELONA
He sits next to me during a meeting with the fia. Not on purpose. Not obviously.
But he does. At the media pen.
He doesn’t say much. We’re surrounded by noise, managers, logistics people, team leads and photographers. But every time I shift, he notices.
Every time someone makes a joke, he checks my reaction.
And when someone asks about the Ferrari adjustment, about how red suits him, he doesn’t answer right away.
Then, finally: “It’s different. But it feels natural.”
He doesn’t look at the anyone when he says it.
He looks at me.
Like I’m the only one who knows what that sentence really means.
And I do.
CANADA
Another photo surfaces. Me again, this time laughing with someone else, someone younger. A harmless moment.
But Lewis likes that one too.
I don’t mute it this time. I don’t need to.
Because I know he’s watching again. Not out of nostalgia. Out of recognition.
Like he’s trying to relearn the rhythm of my life. Quietly. Respectfully. Like he knows he forfeited his right to just… be in it.
But maybe not forever.
AUSTRIA
There’s a storm outside the paddock at night. Cars delayed. Schedules shuffled.
The media room is emptier than usual. So is the hospitality suite.
I’m sitting near the window, nursing a coffee. He walks in, sees me, stops.
He asks if the seat next to me is taken.
I shake my head.
He sits.
We don’t speak for a while. Just listen to the rain hitting the roof, the occasional echo of laughter from someone passing through.
Finally, he says, “You always loved this circuit.”
I nod. “You hated it.”
“I still do.”
I smile.
It’s the softest conversation we’ve had since everything broke.
It doesn’t mean everything’s fixed. But it means something.
And when he stands to leave, he hesitates—hand on the back of my chair, voice barely audible.
“I’m not trying to start over.”
I look up and he meets my eyes.
“I just don’t want it to end like that.”
I don’t respond. Not because I don’t believe him. But because I do.
And because some truths don’t need answering. they just need staying.
This wasn’t a reunion. This wasn’t redemption.
This is the murky middle. The echo chamber of maybe.
We haven’t said we’re starting again.
But we’ve stopped pretending we’re not still orbiting.
And I’ve learned love, real love, isn’t about the declarations or the clean slates.
It’s about choosing to stay in the same room even when the past is screaming between you.
It’s about letting someone become familiar again, even when it’s slow, when it’s painful.
