pairing: lewis hamilton x black fem oc; swazi coleman.
summary: a glimpse into swazi
settings: atlanta, georgia & new orleans, louisiana
warnings: misogyny at church, a character getting hurt, a trance, typos probably.
saint’s team radio 🐦⬛: hi my angels! i hope you enjoy this first chapter! shouldn’t have taken me this long to post it but oh well! this is deffo something new and i hope it’s received well. i’m writing this to show respect to voodoo practices and african spirituality as my culture so if you have any questions, i’m right here!
love y’all!
faceclaim: boity thulo (ig: boity)
tags are dzown below 🫦
pls like, comment and reblog, i’m in your walls
blackbiird masterlist
🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️
“And to what we owe this great day, this nation…is to the Saviour Himself, Jesus Christ. Amen, congregation, Amen!” A chuckle followed as voices from the pews bounced across the walls of the church, the stained glass windows holding songs of worship and praise with a slight ring from the sun outside.
“Today, people, I have an important duty in my life and that is to spread the gospel. Simple and easy yet…companionship is what is necessary in this world. You see, useless things such as divorce and-and-and complaints would not ever heal the relationship…”
The wood creaked a bit under the pillow, William’s posture now slightly slouched whilst his hand gripped the bible as if it were to grow legs. His knee bounced once. Twice. Then his foot tapped as the pianist pressed the one key that caused the congregation to cheer for that split second. His watch, a vintage Audamers Piguet, had been shined just that morning, knowing it would catch the attention of the bishops, as William hoped.
The handkerchief was still neatly folded inside her handbag just in case a speck of dust were to touch the time piece.
The wood creaked once more, barely drawing attention to him but her eyes darted to him, to his posture. A squeeze to her customised bible and she focused on the sermon.
“My wife, Janae and I have been together for 40 years and although, I have made my mistakes and confessed my sins, I’m a healed, happier man with J.” Another chuckle, dry as his hands holding the mic while the pastor’s sunglasses were threatening to fall off his head.
Bullshit. The noise from his office the previous week had caused Swazi to back away and be on her husband’s side. Not that she wanted to be by his side but she couldn’t tell anyone about what she heard.
“Now, what helps our marriage is that I, Pastor TJ Vince, am the one to bring in all the money. This new generation just loves making our wives work and continue on in school when really, women build our homes and lives.” Another chuckle, an awkward one at that from the women in the room.
A nudge. Another nudge on her waist and all she could do was sigh. William has been ranting on and on about taking care of her, wanting Swazi to lean on him at all times, to never spend a day working on her feet again. One evening, he came back home smelling like Chanel no.5 with a bouquet of roses and began his romances that fell flat.
“Will, stop.” Swazi spoke quietly, patting the man’s elbow from her body. Her husband shrugged her words off and refocused his attention on the pastor.
“Now, People of the Lord, it is tithing time. Ushers will be headin’ to each row and give y’all the bags…” The pastor’s voice drowned out and Swazi swung herself side to side as gently as she could, pretending as if the music was speaking to her soul but all she felt was the tightness of her throat.
Her eyes stung for the umpteenth time that week, lowering her head and hastily putting sunglasses on to avoid being seen. The entire place felt so suffocating, the smell of the oak wood of the pews, the distinct scent of the chairs and strong perfume from the family in front of her. Her chest shook a bit as she patted her knee, trying to calm herself down.
“Oh Swazi!” A shrill voice pierced through her personal bubble and in that moment, she already felt defeated. “First Lady Sheryl, hello.” The younger woman forced a smile as she faced the pastor’s wife, dressed every bit for church, including the Loubotins on her feet that were most definitely bought with tithes.
Sheryl sat herself down, the veneer smile blinding her by the flourescent lights. “It has been such a hassle to get to talk to you. Your husband had mentioned you were busy with….work, was it?” The older woman spoke, almost as if the word work pained her to utter.
“Well enough of that. I do want to say that I am so proud of William for offering to revamp the Sunday School building right outside. Lord knows it’s just what we needed.” A giggle left Sheryl’s lips. Swazi was confused but not necessarily upset at the lack of communication from her husband. “I just wasn’t aware but at least the kids will have a space to themselves.” Another forced smile, a push of her glasses.
Sheryl seemed to analyse the younger woman a bit. “Were you crying?”
“Y’know, the word of God will always bring me to tears!” A bold face lie. Your husband just asked you to give up independence.
“Oh, that’s lovely, dear! Do tell him he’s doing a stellar job and to pass by my office, I’ve got a few files for him.” Another chuckle from Sheryl, this time leaving the pew and heading herself back to her man. Swazi knew that he wasn’t by her side anymore, gliding her eyes to see him talk to someone and tolerating his spew of the morning.
With that golden opportunity rising, she rose up from her seat, heading to the car to fully bask in her tears.
However, as she stepped right beside her car, a hand wrapped around her wrist with a slight sting from her bracelets sinking into her skin. The perfume hit Swazi stronger before she could turn her head. “Yes, Sheryl? Did I forget something in the church?” The sweetness of her voice stuck out like a sore thumb but it was music to Sheryl’s ears.
“Well, I just wanted to find out if you’ll be stayin’ for the church leadership and associates meeting in 30 minutes?” The pastor’s wife asked, still not letting go of the younger’s wrist.
A head tilt and slightly furrowed eyebrows was enough of a question.
“Oh, you know! Your husband signed the both of you in for this permanent membership. Not to mention his generous donation of $1 million, on top of building that Sunday School!” Sheryl said excitedly, “He said you contributed most of it, he said something about giving up your dream home renovations. If that ain’t Jesus-”
“Sheryl.” Swazi cut the woman off, untangling her hand out of the painful grasp. “Y’know how I come from the bayou? Yeah, I do voodoo and I suggest you get the fuck outta my sight before I collapse that Sunday school again.” She flashed a grin at the older woman, her eyes widening a bit and that seemed to scare her off, running back into the church.
A sigh left her lips once again as she closed the door to her own car, Swazi’s face buried in her hands as she tried to gain control of her emotions. “Fuck, man.” She sniffled, hands now on the steering wheel. And with the shrill of her ringtone breaking the silence, she immediately answered.
“…Mama?” The word softly uttered, a recently manicured nail in her mouth.
“My angel, why are you crying? I can feel the heaviness in my chest. Tell me what’s wrong.” Her mother, Etta, spoke through the phone, the sounds of dishes coming through the quiet space of the car.
Another sniffle. “Ma, I need to divorce this man immediately. He’s just such a nut case. He wants me to stay home and give him kids then he spent my money for this…damn church.” Swazi vented with a raspy voice, trying to hold it together.
“He wants who to stay at home? You?! The astrophysicist?!” Her mother expressed
“The one and only.” The laugh that escaped Swazi was painful. “I don’t understand…I’ve done everything right. I ran from- you know what, ma? I’m coming home. I’ll settle everything with my lawyers.” The last sniffle came with a wipe of the nose.
A beat of silence passed. “Swazi, just come home. We’ll discuss the divorce and what I can do with my church, okay?” Her mom spoke, feeling her throat tightening at the thought of her daughter hurting.
“Yeah, I’ll let you know when I land. Love you.” Swazi smiled even though she knew no one could see her.
As she hung up, she lifted her head to see William standing on the side of her car, right where his foot met the front tyre. His eyes were low and his fist clenched together, the very time piece she meticulously cleaned that morning shined bright.
“If you put that fist of yours anywhere near my car, we’re going to have a serious problem, brother.” She scoffed after rolling her window and the engine running.
He huffed. “You can’t leave, Swazi. You just going to run back to that swamp like you always do when nothing goes your way. Just stay for the fuckin’ meeting then we’ll go home and talk about this, damn!” William huffed again through his teeth, pointing at her.
The smile that grew on her face was slow and her heart beat a bit slower than usual, balancing her chin on the car door interior and pressing her red bottom on the accelerator and slightly pushing the suv forward. Hearing the crunch of bones underneath her tyre was music to her ears and his screech was at the same pitch as his screams from his nightmares she induces.
“You bitch! Ah, fuck, my foot. How dare you?!” He yelled, clutching on his dress shoe.
“Tell that new girl of yours to take care of it. Now, you best return my millions before you spend it on a Birkin for her. Or what, you already stole mine? Goodbye William.” Swazi spoke, keeping that same smile on her while his yelling never stopped.
Driving away felt like freedom. The last thing to do now was to pack everything and move back home to New Orleans and take a damn sabbatical while she was at it.
“Fuck.” Her head began pounding again and her fingers tingling. The familiar sound of chanting and drums echoed through her car, even when trying to listen to her own music. “This happens every week, I keep getting surprised.” Swazi said to herself, rolling her eyes and yawning. Reaching for the glove compartment, she took out a white headwrap and wrapped it around her head when she stopped at a red light.
Peace.
She needs to get home.
—
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
The beaded jewellery was neatly stacked on her feet and wrist along with the white headwrap that had become her staple lately. The white sage was well lit in her hand as she spoke affirmations into her new home.
“Ma, am I even doing this right? Aunt Yvette told you everything I need to do?” Swazi asked with a bit of exasperation in her tone, cold tears streaming down her face with no sadness behind them.
“Because your gift has become much stronger since accepting it on my behalf, it’s mandatory you do this once a week. Calling on your ancestors….or something like that.” Her mom blinked at her daughter, the bible held in her hands. “Not to mention you must begin workin’ with people to become high priestess.” She added on, a little pep in her stocking clad feet.
Swazi nodded, walking closer to the room she claimed as her spiritual room, the shrine of her ancestors, her work on the universe, various different candles and little trinkets sat on a large straw mat up against the wall. Shelves filled with spiritual books she has yet to read and pictures of the women before her.
Before she could say a word, her vision blurred then completely whitened. “Ma! I can’t see! I…can’t…see…” Her voice softened as she dropped to her knees in the middle of the room with her mom standing by the doorframe, watching her daughter stare into space.
It was red. It was loud and the waves crashing in the background flowed in the chatter. Sounds like an engine, okay a lotta engines. French words being thrown around or were they Italian? Fuel and Perfume was an odd scent but it was good. A figure in front of her, wherever the fuck she was standing, the energy halo around him was white but his…soul was turning dark and not the dark of evil. Of defeat. Whoever this man was looked into her eyes then looked away and somehow the number 44 sprung up….
Then she pulled out of it.
A blood curling scream left Swazi’s body, her vision returning as she feels her limbs go limp, falling flat to the floor. Her mother ran over, shaking her frantically and holding her head to bring her back to reality. After a moment, Swazi rose back to her knees crawling to the straw mat and holding the well lit blue candle in her grasp with the wax dripping all over her hand.
A voice that wasn’t hers spoke. “I need to go to him. He needs help. Now.” Swazi’s voice now hauntingly lighter floated through the room, her eyes piercing into her mother’s.
“Swazi, nana, l-let’s go to the cathedral. I can’t watch you go through this-”
“You rejected this so you are going to help your darling angel, Khanyisi.” The voice spoke again out of Swazi’s mouth with a sickening smile before turning her head back to the shrine.
Taking a deep breath, Swazi was back.
“Ma, get me out of this room, please. This is too powerful.” Her voice shaky as she placed the candle back where it was and ran out of the room barefoot with her mother following her right out.
And on the other side of the world, a man sat among his friends in a speakeasy, laughing at a stupid joke when he felt his left eye become heavy and a tug at his pinky. Brushing it off, he continued on laughing whilst feeling a shift in the air.
Something was amiss.
-
saint’s notes: i’m back and better than EVERRRRRRR. i hope you enjoyed this one, babies! let me know what you think! i feel like i improved on my writing a little but im so excited for the rest of this series 🥹
tags: @mauvecherie-writes @purplelewlew @purplesectorlew @iamryanl @simplyyalika @yeea-nah @henneseyhoe @saturnville @lewisroscoelove @cocobutterqwueen @httpsserene @serpenttines @iamquiantrelle @queenshikongo3 @goodgyalgonebadd @muglermami (let me know if you guys want to be added 😛)
pairing: lewis hamilton x black fem oc; swazi coleman.
summary: a glimpse into swazi
settings: atlanta, georgia & new orleans, louisiana
warnings: misogyny at church, a character getting hurt, a trance, typos probably.
saint’s team radio 🐦⬛: hi my angels! i hope you enjoy this first chapter! shouldn’t have taken me this long to post it but oh well! this is deffo something new and i hope it’s received well. i’m writing this to show respect to voodoo practices and african spirituality as my culture so if you have any questions, i’m right here!
love y’all!
faceclaim: boity thulo (ig: boity)
tags are dzown below 🫦
pls like, comment and reblog, i’m in your walls
blackbiird masterlist
🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️
“And to what we owe this great day, this nation…is to the Saviour Himself, Jesus Christ. Amen, congregation, Amen!” A chuckle followed as voices from the pews bounced across the walls of the church, the stained glass windows holding songs of worship and praise with a slight ring from the sun outside.
“Today, people, I have an important duty in my life and that is to spread the gospel. Simple and easy yet…companionship is what is necessary in this world. You see, useless things such as divorce and-and-and complaints would not ever heal the relationship…”
The wood creaked a bit under the pillow, William’s posture now slightly slouched whilst his hand gripped the bible as if it were to grow legs. His knee bounced once. Twice. Then his foot tapped as the pianist pressed the one key that caused the congregation to cheer for that split second. His watch, a vintage Audamers Piguet, had been shined just that morning, knowing it would catch the attention of the bishops, as William hoped.
The handkerchief was still neatly folded inside her handbag just in case a speck of dust were to touch the time piece.
The wood creaked once more, barely drawing attention to him but her eyes darted to him, to his posture. A squeeze to her customised bible and she focused on the sermon.
“My wife, Janae and I have been together for 40 years and although, I have made my mistakes and confessed my sins, I’m a healed, happier man with J.” Another chuckle, dry as his hands holding the mic while the pastor’s sunglasses were threatening to fall off his head.
Bullshit. The noise from his office the previous week had caused Swazi to back away and be on her husband’s side. Not that she wanted to be by his side but she couldn’t tell anyone about what she heard.
“Now, what helps our marriage is that I, Pastor TJ Vince, am the one to bring in all the money. This new generation just loves making our wives work and continue on in school when really, women build our homes and lives.” Another chuckle, an awkward one at that from the women in the room.
A nudge. Another nudge on her waist and all she could do was sigh. William has been ranting on and on about taking care of her, wanting Swazi to lean on him at all times, to never spend a day working on her feet again. One evening, he came back home smelling like Chanel no.5 with a bouquet of roses and began his romances that fell flat.
“Will, stop.” Swazi spoke quietly, patting the man’s elbow from her body. Her husband shrugged her words off and refocused his attention on the pastor.
“Now, People of the Lord, it is tithing time. Ushers will be headin’ to each row and give y’all the bags…” The pastor’s voice drowned out and Swazi swung herself side to side as gently as she could, pretending as if the music was speaking to her soul but all she felt was the tightness of her throat.
Her eyes stung for the umpteenth time that week, lowering her head and hastily putting sunglasses on to avoid being seen. The entire place felt so suffocating, the smell of the oak wood of the pews, the distinct scent of the chairs and strong perfume from the family in front of her. Her chest shook a bit as she patted her knee, trying to calm herself down.
“Oh Swazi!” A shrill voice pierced through her personal bubble and in that moment, she already felt defeated. “First Lady Sheryl, hello.” The younger woman forced a smile as she faced the pastor’s wife, dressed every bit for church, including the Loubotins on her feet that were most definitely bought with tithes.
Sheryl sat herself down, the veneer smile blinding her by the flourescent lights. “It has been such a hassle to get to talk to you. Your husband had mentioned you were busy with….work, was it?” The older woman spoke, almost as if the word work pained her to utter.
“Well enough of that. I do want to say that I am so proud of William for offering to revamp the Sunday School building right outside. Lord knows it’s just what we needed.” A giggle left Sheryl’s lips. Swazi was confused but not necessarily upset at the lack of communication from her husband. “I just wasn’t aware but at least the kids will have a space to themselves.” Another forced smile, a push of her glasses.
Sheryl seemed to analyse the younger woman a bit. “Were you crying?”
“Y’know, the word of God will always bring me to tears!” A bold face lie. Your husband just asked you to give up independence.
“Oh, that’s lovely, dear! Do tell him he’s doing a stellar job and to pass by my office, I’ve got a few files for him.” Another chuckle from Sheryl, this time leaving the pew and heading herself back to her man. Swazi knew that he wasn’t by her side anymore, gliding her eyes to see him talk to someone and tolerating his spew of the morning.
With that golden opportunity rising, she rose up from her seat, heading to the car to fully bask in her tears.
However, as she stepped right beside her car, a hand wrapped around her wrist with a slight sting from her bracelets sinking into her skin. The perfume hit Swazi stronger before she could turn her head. “Yes, Sheryl? Did I forget something in the church?” The sweetness of her voice stuck out like a sore thumb but it was music to Sheryl’s ears.
“Well, I just wanted to find out if you’ll be stayin’ for the church leadership and associates meeting in 30 minutes?” The pastor’s wife asked, still not letting go of the younger’s wrist.
A head tilt and slightly furrowed eyebrows was enough of a question.
“Oh, you know! Your husband signed the both of you in for this permanent membership. Not to mention his generous donation of $1 million, on top of building that Sunday School!” Sheryl said excitedly, “He said you contributed most of it, he said something about giving up your dream home renovations. If that ain’t Jesus-”
“Sheryl.” Swazi cut the woman off, untangling her hand out of the painful grasp. “Y’know how I come from the bayou? Yeah, I do voodoo and I suggest you get the fuck outta my sight before I collapse that Sunday school again.” She flashed a grin at the older woman, her eyes widening a bit and that seemed to scare her off, running back into the church.
A sigh left her lips once again as she closed the door to her own car, Swazi’s face buried in her hands as she tried to gain control of her emotions. “Fuck, man.” She sniffled, hands now on the steering wheel. And with the shrill of her ringtone breaking the silence, she immediately answered.
“…Mama?” The word softly uttered, a recently manicured nail in her mouth.
“My angel, why are you crying? I can feel the heaviness in my chest. Tell me what’s wrong.” Her mother, Etta, spoke through the phone, the sounds of dishes coming through the quiet space of the car.
Another sniffle. “Ma, I need to divorce this man immediately. He’s just such a nut case. He wants me to stay home and give him kids then he spent my money for this…damn church.” Swazi vented with a raspy voice, trying to hold it together.
“He wants who to stay at home? You?! The astrophysicist?!” Her mother expressed
“The one and only.” The laugh that escaped Swazi was painful. “I don’t understand…I’ve done everything right. I ran from- you know what, ma? I’m coming home. I’ll settle everything with my lawyers.” The last sniffle came with a wipe of the nose.
A beat of silence passed. “Swazi, just come home. We’ll discuss the divorce and what I can do with my church, okay?” Her mom spoke, feeling her throat tightening at the thought of her daughter hurting.
“Yeah, I’ll let you know when I land. Love you.” Swazi smiled even though she knew no one could see her.
As she hung up, she lifted her head to see William standing on the side of her car, right where his foot met the front tyre. His eyes were low and his fist clenched together, the very time piece she meticulously cleaned that morning shined bright.
“If you put that fist of yours anywhere near my car, we’re going to have a serious problem, brother.” She scoffed after rolling her window and the engine running.
He huffed. “You can’t leave, Swazi. You just going to run back to that swamp like you always do when nothing goes your way. Just stay for the fuckin’ meeting then we’ll go home and talk about this, damn!” William huffed again through his teeth, pointing at her.
The smile that grew on her face was slow and her heart beat a bit slower than usual, balancing her chin on the car door interior and pressing her red bottom on the accelerator and slightly pushing the suv forward. Hearing the crunch of bones underneath her tyre was music to her ears and his screech was at the same pitch as his screams from his nightmares she induces.
“You bitch! Ah, fuck, my foot. How dare you?!” He yelled, clutching on his dress shoe.
“Tell that new girl of yours to take care of it. Now, you best return my millions before you spend it on a Birkin for her. Or what, you already stole mine? Goodbye William.” Swazi spoke, keeping that same smile on her while his yelling never stopped.
Driving away felt like freedom. The last thing to do now was to pack everything and move back home to New Orleans and take a damn sabbatical while she was at it.
“Fuck.” Her head began pounding again and her fingers tingling. The familiar sound of chanting and drums echoed through her car, even when trying to listen to her own music. “This happens every week, I keep getting surprised.” Swazi said to herself, rolling her eyes and yawning. Reaching for the glove compartment, she took out a white headwrap and wrapped it around her head when she stopped at a red light.
Peace.
She needs to get home.
—
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
The beaded jewellery was neatly stacked on her feet and wrist along with the white headwrap that had become her staple lately. The white sage was well lit in her hand as she spoke affirmations into her new home.
“Ma, am I even doing this right? Aunt Yvette told you everything I need to do?” Swazi asked with a bit of exasperation in her tone, cold tears streaming down her face with no sadness behind them.
“Because your gift has become much stronger since accepting it on my behalf, it’s mandatory you do this once a week. Calling on your ancestors….or something like that.” Her mom blinked at her daughter, the bible held in her hands. “Not to mention you must begin workin’ with people to become high priestess.” She added on, a little pep in her stocking clad feet.
Swazi nodded, walking closer to the room she claimed as her spiritual room, the shrine of her ancestors, her work on the universe, various different candles and little trinkets sat on a large straw mat up against the wall. Shelves filled with spiritual books she has yet to read and pictures of the women before her.
Before she could say a word, her vision blurred then completely whitened. “Ma! I can’t see! I…can’t…see…” Her voice softened as she dropped to her knees in the middle of the room with her mom standing by the doorframe, watching her daughter stare into space.
It was red. It was loud and the waves crashing in the background flowed in the chatter. Sounds like an engine, okay a lotta engines. French words being thrown around or were they Italian? Fuel and Perfume was an odd scent but it was good. A figure in front of her, wherever the fuck she was standing, the energy halo around him was white but his…soul was turning dark and not the dark of evil. Of defeat. Whoever this man was looked into her eyes then looked away and somehow the number 44 sprung up….
Then she pulled out of it.
A blood curling scream left Swazi’s body, her vision returning as she feels her limbs go limp, falling flat to the floor. Her mother ran over, shaking her frantically and holding her head to bring her back to reality. After a moment, Swazi rose back to her knees crawling to the straw mat and holding the well lit blue candle in her grasp with the wax dripping all over her hand.
A voice that wasn’t hers spoke. “I need to go to him. He needs help. Now.” Swazi’s voice now hauntingly lighter floated through the room, her eyes piercing into her mother’s.
“Swazi, nana, l-let’s go to the cathedral. I can’t watch you go through this-”
“You rejected this so you are going to help your darling angel, Khanyisi.” The voice spoke again out of Swazi’s mouth with a sickening smile before turning her head back to the shrine.
Taking a deep breath, Swazi was back.
“Ma, get me out of this room, please. This is too powerful.” Her voice shaky as she placed the candle back where it was and ran out of the room barefoot with her mother following her right out.
And on the other side of the world, a man sat among his friends in a speakeasy, laughing at a stupid joke when he felt his left eye become heavy and a tug at his pinky. Brushing it off, he continued on laughing whilst feeling a shift in the air.
Something was amiss.
-
saint’s notes: i’m back and better than EVERRRRRRR. i hope you enjoyed this one, babies! let me know what you think! i feel like i improved on my writing a little but im so excited for the rest of this series 🥹
tags: @mauvecherie-writes @purplelewlew @purplesectorlew @iamryanl @simplyyalika @yeea-nah @henneseyhoe @saturnville @lewisroscoelove @cocobutterqwueen @httpsserene @serpenttines @iamquiantrelle @queenshikongo3 @goodgyalgonebadd @muglermami (let me know if you guys want to be added 😛)
pairing: Lewis Hamilton [XNDA] AU x f!Artist Black Reader.
summary: When you had started your journey in the music industry, your mother had warned you time and time again to not fall for the games of the industry. You should have headed her warning and taken her words to heart. Because now you were left in the crosshairs of one of the biggest artists struggling with wanting to escape and wanting to explore more …
warning: 18+ MDNI, NSFW, smut, slapping, choking, rough handling, dirty talk, daddy kink, slight bratty behaviour, dom/sub dynamics, slight toxic relationship. Please understand its all nastiness in here, thank you.
notes: another asshole Lewis fic lmao. He’s not a F1 driver, he’s just a musician. I was going to edit it all but I got tired so just ignore the mistakes please and thank you. @lostinlewis sorry it’s late babe but hope you love it 😘
࣪ ִֶָ☾. occupation: singer, songwriter, music producer
࣪ ִֶָ☾. character background: born in stevenage, a town on the fringes of london with one dream; to be a success. luckily for him, he had the musical talents to make it big on the centre stage and further. despite his humble beginnings, fame is a monster with many entrapments and it was threatening to drown him. but the ego was too big and the pride was too strong to succumb to the dark side - so he dwelled in the silver linings.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. character traits: egotistic, manwhorish, asshole, brazen, obsessive, possessive, pleasure dominant (will have hard dom tendencies during scenes), family man, lover boy for the right lady.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. vices: boxing, weed, alcohol, sex - really, really good sex.
ᥫ᭡. character background: this british born starlet got a late start to stardom but that did not matter - she was dominating the space. she was the industry darling in every way possible, her team manufacturing her to be the “perfect doll”. a monicker she detested with a passion. solené just wanted to write her own music and sing, all the glitz and glam was beginning to take its toll. her growing resentment for the fame she’d lusted for leads to bad decisions …. and bad men.
ᥫ᭡. character traits: sheltered, naive (mainly about the entertainment industry), stubborn, a rebel spirit, sexually inexperienced, submissive, a lover girl, eldest daughter, an addictive personality.
ᥫ᭡. vices: cooking, swimming, alcohol, eventually smoking and sex.
Y’all @iamquiantrelle gave me so much shit to read I’ve been confused, overwhelmed and so fucking happy! I don’t know where to start🥴😭.
Likeee, take all the breaks y’all all need ngl, @mauvecherie-writes and @saintslewis cause y’all? My trifecta right there🤏🏽🤏🏽🤏🏽🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
Shiiiiii, honestly I’ve been screaming into the void the past three months cause life as a black woman is so great but so…not, esp in a Caribbean household that swears we’re Ba Sing Se.
I haven’t been as vocal as I used to be (for mercy we plead) but when I do get notifs of being tagged by y’all I do a lil shimmy in my seat cause I can’t wait to get home, wrap up and read what is no doubt a good read.
I appreciate you guys and thank you for writing all the thoughts that come to mind and then making them elaborate universes or scenarios that we can enjoy❤️
FIC UPDATES (here is a short list of fics that have been updated in the past couple of weeks, please comment and reblog as your engagement is important)
MEET ME AT THE MET: one shot, mdni
THE COMEBACK LAP: chapter 8, mdni
LADY HAMILTON: part two (finale)
BL**D OATH: chapter 19, mob!lewis
BESTIE BOO: part two, friend to lovers
THE MANEATER: part two, smart mouth/maneater! reader
# summary: it's not cheating...if you're separated. the paperwork's already filed...
# pairings: lewis hamilton x broncos!player ex wife (black female reader)
# warnings: mentions of infidelity (cheating), abortions, typical drama being a wag/married to an athlete, horrible husband/spouse, separation/divorce, cursing, drinking, usage of the 'n' word - minors dni and if uncomfortable, do not read.
# tags: @lewismcqueen, @beauty-gurl, @issfaith, @palefacestudentlove, @kinggbl, @vintagesoul-01, @peyiswriting, @scorpiobleue, @purplelewlew, @rethasavedlives, @lovelymilaa, @butterpas2, @jessnotwiththemess, @muglermami, @pinkcatcus, @plan3tch1ld, @iamryanl, @weetjy, @camillak97, @snowseasonmademe, @differentmentalityduck, @itisiyourfemur @bbreezyxoxo
The house felt different without Lewis in it.
Which was ridiculous, considering he'd never actually lived here. But after spending nearly every night together for those few weeks—his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his presence filling up every corner of your space—the absence of him felt like a physical thing.
He'd been gone for two weeks now. Amsterdam for the Dutch Grand Prix, then Monza, then Azerbaijan coming up. The racing season had resumed with a vengeance after summer break, and you'd watched every session from your living room, your heart in your throat every time his car went into a corner too fast or someone got too close to him.
"Y/N, baby, you want some coffee?"
Your mother's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She was standing in your kitchen doorway in her robe and slippers, her hair wrapped in a silk scarf, looking at you with that knowing mother expression that saw too much.
"Yeah, Mama. Thanks." You closed your laptop—you'd been staring at the same email for twenty minutes without actually reading it. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven. De'Ariel's gonna need to be up soon for school."
Right. School. First grade had started a week ago, and establishing a routine had been... challenging. De'Ariel was adjusting to her new teacher, new classmates, new schedule. And you were adjusting to having your mother and aunt living with you temporarily, which was both a blessing and slowly driving you insane.
"I'll get her up in a minute." You accepted the coffee your mother handed you, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. "Where's Auntie?"
"Still sleep. You know she don't get up before eight unless the house is on fire." Your mother settled into the chair across from you, her own coffee in hand. "You look tired, baby. You sleeping okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Mm-hmm." That tone that said she knew you were lying. "This about that man of yours being gone? Or this about the custody mess with DeAndre?"
"Can it be both?"
Your mother reached across the table and squeezed your hand. "It's gonna be okay. You did the right thing with the custody arrangement. Don't let nobody tell you different."
But people were definitely trying to tell you different.
The custody situation had played out exactly as you'd expected: lots of noise, minimal consequences. The Broncos' general manager had called DeAndre into his office, given him what was probably a fifteen-minute lecture about "family values" and "setting a good example," slapped him with a fine that was laughable compared to his salary, and told him he'd be "praying for him to get on the right track."
No suspension. No benching. Not even a public statement acknowledging what had happened.
Because why would there be? You were a Black woman in America, and you were well accustomed to being treated as third class. The message was crystal clear: DeAndre's ability to catch a football mattered more than your daughter's safety and wellbeing. His career, his potential, his future—all of that was more important than the fact that he'd been high and drinking while he was supposed to be caring for a six-year-old.
The internet had been even worse.
Sports blogs, Twitter, Instagram—everyone had an opinion. And most of those opinions painted you as the villain. The bitter baby mama. The scorned woman trying to tear down a successful Black man. The vindictive ex using her child as a weapon.
Never mind that DeAndre had been the one who cheated. Who'd had women DMing you about abortions. Who'd chosen partying with his boys over taking care of his daughter. Who'd scared De'Ariel so badly she'd called you crying.
None of that mattered to the court of public opinion. Someone had to be the bad guy, and apparently, that someone was you.
"I know I did the right thing," you told your mother. "But it doesn't make it easier dealing with all the bullshit commentary."
"Baby, people are always gonna talk. Especially when a woman stands up for herself and her child." Your mother's expression hardened slightly. "And speaking of standing up—your aunt wants to 'have a conversation' with DeAndre's mother. I been trying to talk her down, but you know Sandra. She's determined."
You groaned. "Mama, please keep Auntie away from Ms. Williams. The last thing I need is Sandra catching a case because she beat down my ex's mother."
"I'm doing my best. But you might want to hide her good earrings. You know how she gets."
"Already did. And her good rings. And I'm monitoring her movements like she's on house arrest."
Your mother laughed, shaking her head. "That's my smart girl."
After getting De'Ariel ready for school—a process that involved negotiations over which shoes to wear, and why she couldn't have ice cream for breakfast—you finally got her out the door and on the bus.
Your aunt was awake by then, immediately launching into her morning routine of finding things to clean or organize or "fix" even though nothing was broken.
"Y/N, baby, when's the last time you cleaned out these cabinets?" Sandra called from the kitchen. "Some of these spices expired in 2023."
"Auntie, please don't reorganize my kitchen."
"Too late. Already started."
You looked at your mother, who just shrugged with a "what can you do?" expression.
This was your life now. Managing your business, coparenting with a man you were divorcing, dealing with internet trolls, keeping your aunt from committing assault, and missing Lewis so badly it physically hurt.
Your phone buzzed. Speak of the devil.
Lewis: Morning, beautiful. How'd the school drop-off go?
Despite everything, you smiled.
You: Survived. De'Ariel wanted to bring her stuffed bunny to school. Had to negotiate her down to a photo of it in her backpack.
Lewis: Smart compromise. How are you holding up?
You: Tired. Auntie is reorganizing my entire kitchen. Mama keeps giving me "you need to rest" looks. The internet still thinks I'm the devil. You know, the usual.
Lewis: Fuck the internet. You're doing what's best for your daughter. That's all that matters.
You: I know. Just gets exhausting being the villain.
Lewis: You're not the villain. You're the hero. And I wish I was there to remind you of that in person.
Your chest tightened.
You: Me too. When do you fly to Azerbaijan?
Lewis: Wednesday. Race is Sunday. Then I've got two weeks before Austin.
You: That's so far away.
Lewis: I know. But I'll be back in the States for Austin. And I was thinking... maybe you could come? Bring De'Ariel if you want. Or just you. Either way, I need to see you, baby.
You wanted to say yes. Wanted to jump on a plane and meet him in Texas, spend the weekend wrapped around him, remember what it felt like to have his hands on you instead of just his voice in your ear.
But there was De'Ariel to think about. School. Routine. The fact that you still hadn't figured out how to navigate Lewis being in your life when you had a daughter who didn't know him, who couldn't know him yet, who you were protecting from getting attached to someone who might not stay.
You: Let me think about it. Check my schedule, figure out childcare. I want to. You know I want to.
Lewis: But?
You: But it's complicated. Everything is complicated right now.
Lewis: I know. I'm not trying to pressure you. Just miss you like crazy and want to see you when I can.
You: I miss you too. So much.
Lewis: Enough to send me something to help with that?
You felt heat flush through you.
You: Lewis, are you asking me for nudes?
Lewis: I'm asking my woman to send me something to look forward to. There's a difference. 😏
You: Your woman, huh?
Lewis: Yes. My woman. That a problem?
It shouldn't have made your stomach flip the way it did. Shouldn't have made you feel like a giddy college girl instead of a thirty-two-year-old mother going through a divorce.
But it did.
You: No problem at all. I'll see what I can do.
Lewis: You're going to kill me. You know that, right?
You: That's the plan. Talk later?
Lewis: Always. Have a good day, Boo.
You: You too. Be safe out there.
Lewis: Always am. ❤️
Work kept you busy for most of the day. Client calls, building campaigns. You were good at what you did. Really good. And it felt amazing to have something that was entirely yours, that you'd built from the ground up, that had nothing to do with being someone's wife or mother.
By the time you picked De'Ariel up from school and got through homework and dinner and bath time, you were exhausted. Your mother and aunt had cooked—thank God—and cleaned up afterward, giving you time to just be present with your daughter.
"Mama, can we FaceTime Daddy?" De'Ariel asked as you were tucking her in.
Your stomach tightened. "Baby, it's late. Daddy's probably busy."
"But I miss him." Her eyes were so sincere, so hopeful. "Please?"
You couldn't say no to that face. "Okay. Let me try calling him."
DeAndre answered on the third ring, and you could immediately tell he was at a club or restaurant—loud music in the background, people talking and laughing.
"Yeah?" His accent was thick, slightly slurred. He was drinking.
"De'Ariel wanted to say goodnight," you said flatly, handing your daughter the phone before she could pick up on your irritation.
"Hi, Daddy!" De'Ariel's face lit up, and you moved to sit on the edge of her bed, watching carefully.
"Hey, princess. You good?"
"Yeah! I had a good day at school. We learned about adding and subtracting, and I got all my math problems right!"
"That's good, baybeeh. That's real good." But you could tell he wasn't really listening, his attention elsewhere. Someone called his name in the background, and he looked away from the camera.
"Daddy, are you coming to visit soon?" De'Ariel asked, and your heart broke at the hope in her voice.
"Yeah, yeah. Soon. I just been busy with football, you know? But I'ma see you soon."
"When?"
"I don't know yet, princess. But soon. I promise."
Empty promises. The only kind DeAndre knew how to make.
"Okay, Daddy. I love you."
"Love you too, baybeeh. Be good for your mama." And then he was gone, ending the call without even saying goodbye to you.
De'Ariel handed you back your phone, her expression already closing off in that way she did when she was trying not to be sad.
"He's busy with football," she said, like she was trying to convince herself. "That's why he can't come see me."
"Yeah, baby." You pulled her close, kissing her forehead. "But you know what? You've got Grandma and Auntie Sandra here. And Mama. And we all love you so much."
"I know." She hugged her stuffed bunny tighter. "Mama?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think Daddy misses me?"
The question gutted you. "I think he loves you very much. But sometimes grown-ups don't know how to show love the right way."
She seemed to accept this, settling deeper into her pillows. "Goodnight, Mama."
"Goodnight, baby girl. Sweet dreams."
You left her room feeling like you'd been hit by a truck. This was the part that killed you—watching your daughter long for a father who couldn't be bothered to show up consistently, who made promises he never kept, who chose everything and everyone else over her.
Back in your own room, you sat on your bed and let yourself have five minutes to just feel it. The anger, the frustration, the bone-deep exhaustion of doing this alone.
Then your phone buzzed.
Lewis: You okay?
How did he always know?
You: De'Ariel wanted to FaceTime DeAndre. He answered from what looked like a club, drunk, barely paid attention to her. Broke her heart without even realizing it.
Lewis: Fuck. I'm sorry, baby.
You: Me too. I just hate that she keeps hoping he'll step up and he keeps disappointing her.
Lewis: She's got you though. You're not doing this alone. You know that, right?
You: It feels like I am sometimes.
Lewis: You're not. I'm here. Even when I'm not physically there, I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere.
Something about that promise, coming from him, felt different than when DeAndre said it. Felt real.
You: Thank you. For always knowing what to say.
Lewis: I just tell you the truth. Now, are you going to let me distract you from this bullshit, or are you going to keep being sad?
You: Distract me how?
Lewis: Well, there's that thing you said you'd "see what you could do about" earlier...
You: You're insatiable.
Lewis: Only for you. So?
You looked at yourself in the mirror across from your bed. Hair in twists, face clean, wearing an old t-shirt and sleep shorts. Not exactly sexy.
But then again, Lewis had seen you in worse. Had worshipped your body regardless of whether you were done up or completely natural.
And honestly? You needed this. Needed to feel desired, wanted, like you were more than just a mom and an ex-wife and someone's villain.
You: Give me 20 minutes.
Lewis: Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
Twenty minutes later, you'd transformed. Shower, lotion, the good perfume. Hair down and fluffed out. And the lingerie—God, the lingerie.
You'd bought it months ago but never had occasion to wear it. Deep purple lace that looked incredible against your skin, barely covering anything, leaving just enough to the imagination.
You set up your phone, angled it just right, and took your time. Photos first—teasing shots that showed hints of what was underneath, your hand trailing down your body, your lips parted slightly.
Then a video. You lay back on your bed, the camera positioned to capture everything, and let your hands wander. Touching yourself the way Lewis would touch you, remembering the feel of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your neck, his voice in your ear telling you how beautiful you were.
You didn't film everything—kept it sexy but not explicit, suggestive but leaving room for imagination. Your hand between your thighs, your back arching, small sounds escaping your lips.
When you finished, you felt breathless and warm and powerful in a way you hadn't in weeks.
You: [3 images attached] You: [1 video attached] You: This what you wanted?
His response came within seconds.
Lewis: Fuck, baby. You're going to kill me.
Lewis: You're so beautiful. So perfect. Wish I was there to touch you.
You: Tell me what you'd do if you were here.
And he did. In explicit detail, his texts coming fast and filthy, describing exactly how he'd worship your body, where he'd kiss, where he'd taste, how he'd make you come over and over until you were begging him to stop.
You: Show me.
Another few seconds, then a video popped up.
Lewis, in what was clearly his hotel room, shirtless and beautiful, his hand wrapped around his dick, working slowly. His braids were down, his face flushed, his breathing heavy.
"This what you do to me, baby," his voice came through the speaker, rough and accented and so fucking sexy you felt it between your legs. "Can't stop thinking about you. About your body. About how good you feel."
You watched, transfixed, as his hand moved faster, as his hips rolled, as his head fell back against the headboard. He was gorgeous like this—uninhibited and raw and completely focused on his pleasure.
When he came, it was with your name on his lips, and the sight of it made you clench with need.
You: Fuck, Lewis.
Lewis: Was it good?
You: That was the hottest thing I've ever seen. And I've seen it in person.
Lewis: You've seen it in person multiple times. And every time, you make me lose my mind.
It was true. You'd been together sexually a handful of times now. And every time, Lewis had left you thoroughly satisfied and slightly amazed.
The man's stamina was no joke. He could cum and keep going, could work your body until you were the one begging for a break. Could make you feel things you hadn't felt in years.
You: I miss you. Miss having your hands on me.
Lewis: I miss you too. Miss everything about you. Your smell, your taste, the sounds you make.
You: Lewis...
Lewis: Tell me you'll come to Austin. Please. I need to see you.
You thought about De'Ariel, about school, about all the reasons you'd been using to keep distance between your life and Lewis's.
But you also thought about how good it felt to be wanted, to be touched, to be seen as more than just a mother or an ex-wife.
You: I'll try. I want to. Let me figure out the logistics.
Lewis: That's all I'm asking. Now get some sleep. You've got an early morning.
You: You too. Good luck with practice tomorrow.
Lewis: Thanks, baby. Sweet dreams.
You: Sweet dreams.
You set your phone down, your body still humming with arousal, your heart full in a way it hadn't been in weeks.
This thing with Lewis—whatever it was—felt different. Felt real. Felt like maybe, just maybe, you were allowed to have something good for yourself.
Even if you were still legally married. Even if the internet thought you were the villain. Even if your life was complicated and messy and sometimes overwhelming.
Lewis made you feel like you deserved good things. Deserved to be happy. Deserved to be loved properly.
The next morning, you woke to your aunt Sandra's voice cutting through the house.
"Y/N! Y/N, you need to see this!"
You stumbled out of bed, your heart racing. "What? What's wrong?"
Sandra was in the living room, laptop open, her expression a mixture of fury and vindication. "Look at this shit."
You moved to look at the screen. It was a gossip blog—one of those trashy celebrity sites—and the headline made your stomach drop.
"Broncos WR DeAndre Williams Spotted with Mystery Woman at Denver Club—Is This Why His Baby Mama is Mad?"
Below it were photos. DeAndre at a club, his arm around some woman you didn't recognize, laughing and clearly drunk. More photos of them leaving together, his hand on her ass.
"That motherfucker," Sandra hissed. "And people have the nerve to call YOU the villain?"
Your mother appeared from the kitchen, took one look at the screen, and shook her head. "Baby, you need to send this to your lawyer. Right now."
"Already screenshotted it," Sandra said, pulling out her phone. "I'll send it to you. You send it to your lawyer and to the team's front office. Let them see what their golden boy is really doing while they're praying for him to 'get on the right track.'"
You stared at the photos, feeling a strange mixture of vindication and sadness. This was exactly who DeAndre was. Had always been. Would probably always be.
And yet people still wanted to paint you as the bad guy.
Your phone buzzed. Lewis, probably seeing his schedule for the day.
But when you looked at the screen, it was a text from him with a link to the same article.
Lewis: I'm assuming you've seen this?
You: Unfortunately.
Lewis: You good?
You thought about it. Were you good? Your ex-husband was publicly embarrassing himself and by extension your daughter. The internet would probably somehow blame you for this too. Your aunt was literally vibrating with rage and planning violence.
But you also had your mother making coffee, your daughter still sleeping peacefully upstairs, and a man thousands of miles away checking on you first thing in the morning.
You: I'm good. Better than good, actually. Because this just proves I made the right call with the custody arrangement.
Lewis: Damn right you did. Now send that shit to your lawyer and let them handle it.
You: Already on it.
Lewis: That's my girl. Proud of you.
Your chest tightened.
You: You always know what to say.
Lewis: I just tell you the truth. Now go handle your business. And Y/N?
You: Yeah?
Lewis: Austin. Think about it. I really need to see you.
You: I will. Promise.
And you meant it. Because maybe it was time to stop putting your life on hold. Stop letting DeAndre's chaos dictate your happiness. Stop denying yourself good things because you felt guilty or scared or unsure.
Lewis wasn't going anywhere. He'd proven that over and over.
Maybe it was time you let yourself believe it.
"Mama, where are we going again?"
You looked down at De'Ariel, who was clutching her stuffed bunny and looking up at you with those big curious eyes as you walked through Denver International Airport.
"Austin, Texas, baby girl. Remember I told you? We're going to watch a car race."
"A car race?"
"Yes, a Formula 1 race. Very fast cars."
Your mother walked beside you, pulling her own small suitcase, looking far too amused by this whole situation. "You sure about this, baby?"
"No," you admitted quietly, keeping your voice low so De'Ariel wouldn't hear. "But I'm doing it anyway."
The decision to bring De'Ariel to Austin had come after DeAndre posted that Instagram statement. A whole paragraph of bullshit about how he was "legally separated and moving forward," how he "respected Y/N as the mother of his child but they'd grown apart," how he was "focusing on football and personal growth."
Personal growth. The man who'd been photographed leaving a club with a different woman every other day this week was talking about personal growth.
The comments had been predictably split—half the people praising him for "being honest and moving on," the other half calling him out for the transparent PR move it was. But the message was clear: DeAndre was done pretending to want his family back. Was publicly moving on.
Which meant you could too.
Things with Lewis had gotten... intense over the past couple of weeks. The texting was constant—good morning messages, check-ins throughout the day, goodnight texts that sometimes turned into something more. FaceTime calls that started innocent and ended with both of you breathing hard, cameras angled just right, saying things that made you grateful for the mute button.
And the videos. God, the videos.
You'd sent him more since that first night. Different lingerie, different positions, different levels of teasing. And Lewis's responses—both verbal and visual—left no doubt about how much he appreciated them.
But videos could only do so much. Masturbating to the memory of his hands on you, his mouth on your skin, the weight of him between your thighs—it was good, but it wasn't enough. You needed the real thing. Needed to feel him, touch him, finally scratch this itch that had been building for weeks.
You were going to jump him the second you got him alone. That was the plan.
Hence bringing your mother along to babysit.
"You're really doing this," your mother said as you settled into your seats on the plane. De'Ariel was already absorbed in her tablet, headphones on, watching some cartoon.
"Doing what?"
"Introducing your daughter to your... what are we calling Lewis? Your boyfriend? Your situation?"
"He's..." You paused, not sure how to label it. "He's important to me. And things are getting serious. She should meet him."
"And you're not worried about her getting attached?"
"I'm terrified about her getting attached." You kept your voice low. "But Lewis isn't going anywhere, Mama. He's been consistent, patient, understanding about all my boundaries. And after DeAndre's little statement, I don't have to worry about protecting his feelings anymore."
Your mother reached over and squeezed your hand. "Okay, baby. I trust your judgment. And for what it's worth? Lewis seems like a good man."
"He is." You felt your chest warm. "He really is."
Austin-Bergstrom International Airport was chaos—people everywhere, most of them wearing various Formula 1 team merch. You spotted Lewis in an ad in his Ferrari red race suit. The race was a big deal here, apparently.
Lewis had arranged everything—car service to pick you up, hotel rooms already booked (two rooms: one for you and De'Ariel, one for your mother, with Lewis staying at a different hotel). He'd thought of everything, made sure you didn't have to stress about logistics.
Your phone buzzed as you collected your luggage.
Lewis: You land okay?
You: Just got our bags. Heading to the car now.
Lewis: Good. I'm at the track for some sponsor stuff but I should be done by 6. Dinner at 7?
You: Sounds perfect. You sure you're ready for this?
Lewis: Been ready. Can't wait to properly meet her. And to see you.
You: Me too. On both counts.
Lewis: How you feeling? Nervous?
You: Terrified. But good terrified.
Lewis: She's gonna love me. How could she not? I'm delightful.
You laughed, earning a curious look from De'Ariel.
The hotel was beautiful—an upscale place downtown with a view of the city. Your room had two queen beds, and De'Ariel immediately claimed the one by the window, bouncing on it with glee.
"Mama, this is so cool! Can we go swimming in the pool?"
"Maybe tomorrow, baby. Tonight we're having dinner with... with a friend of Mama's."
"What friend?"
"His name is Lewis. He's very nice, and he's excited to meet you."
De'Ariel seemed to accept this easily, already distracted by the view from the window. Kids were resilient like that—adaptable in ways adults forgot how to be.
You, on the other hand, were a mess of nerves.
You changed outfits three times. Subtle makeup, hair in loose curls. You looked good. Felt good.
Felt ready.
"You look pretty, Mama," De'Ariel said when you emerged from the bathroom.
"Thank you, baby girl. You ready to go meet my friend?"
"Uh-huh!"
Your mother was already in the lobby when you came down, and she gave you an encouraging smile. "Breathe, Y/N. It's gonna be fine."
Lewis had chosen a restaurant that was family-friendly but still nice—the kind of place with a kids' menu and crayons but also wine and actual adult food. When you walked in and spotted him at a corner table, your heart jumped.
He stood immediately, and God, he looked good. Dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, his braids pulled back, that smile that made your stomach flip. And in his hands was a wrapped present.
"Hey," he said, his eyes on you first—warm and appreciative and full of something that made you want to skip dinner entirely and go straight to his hotel room.
"Hey yourself." You moved in for a hug, and his arms came around you naturally, his lips brushing your temple. "You look amazing," he murmured.
"So do you."
He pulled back and turned his attention to De'Ariel, crouching down to her level. "Hi, De'Ariel."
De'Ariel tilted her head, studying him with that serious expression she got sometimes. "I know you."
Lewis's eyebrows raised. "You do?"
"Yeah. You were at that dinner. With the football players." She pointed at him. "You're the race car driver. Uncle Monty said you're really famous."
Lewis laughed, clearly delighted. "Your memory is excellent. Yes, that was me. It's nice to meet you again, sweetheart." He reached into the bag he'd had next to him—you hadn't even noticed it until now—and pulled out a wrapped box. "Your mum told me you've been doing really well in school. All A's on your interim report card, she said."
De'Ariel's eyes went wide. "You got me something?"
"Yeah. I wanted your first proper meeting with me to be memorable." He held out the box, his fingers still tapping slightly against the wrapping paper. "This is for working so hard in school."
De'Ariel looked at you for permission, and you nodded. She tore into the wrapping paper with typical six-year-old enthusiasm, and when she saw what was inside, she gasped.
"A Nintendo Switch!"
"Lewis, that's too much," you started, but he shook his head.
"Nah, she earned it. Besides—" He looked at De'Ariel, then back at you, his eyes holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. "I wanted to."
"Can I play it, Mama?" De'Ariel was already pulling the box open.
"Later, baby. Let's talk with Lewis for a bit first, okay?"
Your mother chose that moment to appear from behind you, and you made introductions. "Lewis, this is my mother. Mama, this is Lewis Hamilton."
"Mrs. Y/L/N," Lewis said, extending his hand. His posture straightened, respectful. "It's an honor to meet you. Thank you for making the trip."
"Call me Stacy," your mother said, taking his hand and giving him that assessing look that had made grown men nervous. "And you're welcome. Though I have a feeling this trip is more for my daughter's benefit than mine."
"Mama," you hissed, but Lewis's mouth quirked into a smile.
"You're not wrong," he said, his accent thickening slightly on those words. "I've been wanting to see Y/N for weeks now. Feels like forever. Shall we sit?" he asked, stepping aside so you, your mother, and De'Ariel could take a seat.
Dinner was easier than you'd expected. De'Ariel warmed up to Lewis almost immediately, peppering him with questions about racing ("How fast do you go?" "Do you ever get scared?") that he answered with patience and enthusiasm.
He asked her about school, about her favorite subjects, about her friends. Listened when she told him about her teacher Ms. Rodriguez and how they were learning multiplication and how she wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up.
He treated her like a person, not just some kid he had to tolerate to get to you.
And watching them together—Lewis's genuine interest, De'Ariel's animated chatter—made something in your chest crack open.
This could work. This could actually work.
After dinner, you and your mother brought De'Ariel back to the hotel.
"How'd you think it went?" your mother asked as De'Ariel immediately started messing with her Nintendo Switch.
"Really well." You kissed De'Ariel's forehead. "Be good for Grandma, okay? Mama will be back later."
"Where are you going?"
"Just... out with Lewis. Grown-up time."
"Okay. Can I play my new game?"
"Yes, but only for an hour before bed."
"Deal!"
Your mother walked you to the door. "Go. Have fun. Don't rush back. And Y/N?"
Lewis's hotel was different from yours—even more upscale, if that was possible. His suite was on the top floor, and when you walked in, you had to stop and stare. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of downtown Austin. A living area, a full bar, a dining table, and through an open doorway, you could see a massive bed.
"This is insane," you said, setting your purse down. "How much is this costing?"
"Doesn't matter." Lewis closed the door behind you, and suddenly the energy in the room shifted. "I'm just glad you're here."
You turned to face him, and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing that mattered, like he'd been waiting weeks for this moment—made heat pool low in your belly.
"I missed you," you said simply.
"I missed you too." He closed the distance between you, his hands settling on your waist. "So much, sweetheart. Felt like I was losing my mind."
"Just a month."
"Longest month of my life." His forehead pressed to yours. "Those videos helped though."
You smiled, your hands sliding up his chest. "Yeah? You liked those?"
"You know I did. Been thinking about them. About you. About all the things I want to do to you now that you're finally here."
"So stop thinking and do them."
That was all the invitation he needed. His mouth found yours in a kiss that was immediately hungry, demanding, like he'd been holding back for weeks and couldn't anymore. Your back hit the wall—when had you moved?—and his body pressed against yours, his hands everywhere.
"Bedroom," you managed between kisses. "Lewis, bedroom."
"Yeah. Okay. Good idea."
Clothes started coming off before you even made it through the door. Your dress hit the floor, his shirt following. By the time you reached the bed, you were down to your lingerie—a new set, deep red lace that you'd bought specifically for this—and Lewis was staring at you like you'd just given him the best gift of his life.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he breathed, his hands sliding up your thighs. "So perfect."
"Less talking, more touching," you demanded, pulling him down onto the bed with you.
His weight settled over you, solid and warm, as his lips crashed back onto yours. The kiss turned sloppy fast—tongues sliding messily, teeth grazing, breaths mingling in hot pants. You tasted the faint salt of his skin, felt the stubble on his jaw scrape your chin. His hands roamed your body, thumbs brushing the lace edges of your bra before unhooking it with a flick. The fabric fell away, and he broke the kiss just long enough to stare at your bare breasts, nipples hardening under his gaze.
"God, these," he muttered, lowering his head to suck one peak into his mouth, tongue swirling wet and firm. You arched up, fingers tangling in his braids, pulling him closer as pleasure shot straight to your core. Your panties were soaked already, the lace clinging to your folds.
He switched to the other breast, nipping lightly while his hand dipped between your thighs, rubbing over the damp fabric. "So wet for me already," he said against your skin, voice rough. "I've been hard for you all month, thinking about this pussy."
"Then take it," you breathed, shimmying out of your panties and kicking them aside. You tugged at his boxers next, freeing his thick length—it sprang out, heavy and veined, the tip glistening with pre-cum. No barriers tonight. "I'm on the pill, Lewis. I want you raw. Want to feel every inch without anything between us."
His eyes darkened, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he positioned himself between your spread legs. The head of his dick nudged your entrance, slick and ready. He pushed in slowly, stretching you open, and that first bare slide made him shudder. "Fuck," he groaned, voice strained, forehead dropping to yours. "You're so hot inside, so tight—nothing like this. Bare feels… incredible. Like you're pulling me in deeper."
You gasped at the fullness, the direct heat of him filling you completely, skin to skin. No latex dulling the sensation—just pure, intimate friction as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours in missionary. Your legs wrapped around him, heels pressing into his lower back to hold him there for a beat, savoring the stretch.
He started moving then, slow thrusts at first, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, each one dragging along your walls. Sloppy kisses peppered your mouth, your neck, his tongue tracing messy paths as saliva slicked your skin. "Taste so good," he murmured between licks, one hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple.
The pace built, his hips snapping harder, fucking you into the mattress with steady force. The bed creaked under you, your bodies slick with sweat. You met every thrust, rolling your hips up, clit grinding against his pelvis. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, but you wanted more—wanted him to claim you rougher.
His hand slid up your throat, fingers wrapping lightly around it—not squeezing hard, just enough pressure to make your pulse race under his palm. "Like this?" he asked, voice husky, eyes locked on yours as he thrust deeper, the choke adding a thrill that made your pussy clench around him.
"Yes," you moaned, the light hold making everything sharper, more intense. "Choke me while you fuck me, Lewis. Make me feel owned."
He obliged, thumb pressing gently on your windpipe as his dick pounded into you, the mattress dipping with each drive. Your breaths came in short gasps, the restriction heightening every sensation—the wet sounds of him sliding in and out, the slap of his balls against your ass. More sloppy kisses followed, his mouth devouring yours messily, tongues tangling as he growled into you.
"You're mine," he panted, releasing your throat to brace on his forearms, driving harder. "This tight pussy gripping my dick—gonna fill you up, baby. No pulling out."
The words sent you spiraling, orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your walls fluttered and squeezed him, milking his length as you cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. He followed seconds later, groaning loud as he buried deep, hot spurts of cum flooding your core, marking you from the inside.
But he wasn't done. Still hard inside you, he pulled out with a wet pop, cum leaking from your pussy. "Turn over," he said, voice thick with lingering need. "Want you on your knees. Need to see that ass while I fuck you again."
You rolled eagerly, pushing up onto all fours, arching your back to present yourself. He knelt behind you, hands gripping your hips as he lined up and thrust back in—deeper this way, the angle hitting new spots. The raw slide was even more intense now, his cum easing the way, making everything slicker.
"Fuck, look at you," he said, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back lightly. He leaned over you, chest to your back, kisses landing on your shoulder, your neck. His other hand returned to your throat from behind, fingers curling just enough to control your breaths as he slammed forward.
Doggy let him go harder, hips pistoning, plunging deep with each rough stroke. You pushed back, meeting him, the position making your breasts sway and your ass jiggle against his pelvis. "Harder," you begged, voice muffled against the sheets. "Fuck me like you missed me."
"Every day," he grunted, the light choke tightening a fraction as he railed you into the bed. Sweat dripped from him onto your skin, mixing with the mess between your thighs. His free hand smacked your ass once, then soothed the sting, thumb circling your clit to build you up again.
The dual sensations—his dick stretching you, the pressure on your throat, the rub on your swollen nub—pushed you over the edge fast. You came with a sob, pussy spasming around him, and he thrust through it, chasing his own peak.
"Gonna cum again," he warned, voice breaking. "Take it all, baby—every drop deep in this pussy."
He did, hips stuttering as he emptied into you once more, groaning your name like a curse. You both collapsed forward, him still inside, bodies tangled and spent. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, breaths syncing in the afterglow.
"Worth the wait," he whispered, kissing the back of your neck softly now, the hunger sated but the connection deeper than before. Lewis traced patterns on your legs with his fingertips. "So," he said finally after a few beats of silence. "De'Ariel."
"She likes you."
"I like her too. She's smart. Funny. Looks exactly like you."
"She looks like her father."
"She has your expressions. Your mannerisms." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Thank you for bringing her. For letting me meet her properly."
"I was terrified you wouldn't like her. Or she wouldn't like you. Or it would be awkward."
"Could never not like her. She's part of you." He shifted so he could see your face. "I meant what I said, you know. About you being the only one."
Your heart squeezed. "Lewis—"
"I'm not asking you to say it back. Not yet. Just want you to know where I'm at." His thumb brushed your cheek. "I'm all in with you, Y/N. Have been for a while now."
"Even though I come with a kid and a messy divorce and internet trolls who think I'm the devil?"
"Especially because of all that. Because you're handling it with grace and strength and you're still standing. Because you're an amazing mother and a brilliant businesswoman and the most beautiful woman I've ever known." He kissed you softly. "All of it. I want all of it."
You felt tears prick your eyes. "You're making it really hard not to fall in love with you, you know that?"
"Good." He grinned. "That's the plan."
Race weekend at Circuit of the Americas was unlike anything you'd ever experienced.
The track was massive, the crowds insane, and the energy was electric. Lewis had arranged for credentials that kept you and De'Ariel and your mother away from the main cameras—VIP passes that gave you access but maintained privacy.
Friday, you explored the +44 pop-up shop that Lewis had. The line was wrapped around the building, people desperate to get their hands on the limited edition merch. Inside, the space was beautifully curated—racing memorabilia mixed with streetwear, music playing, people genuinely excited to be there.
"This is so cool, Mama," De'Ariel said, looking at everything with wide eyes.
"It really is, baby girl."
And now, you, your mother, and De'Ariel watched qualifying from the +44 hospitality lounge—a private space where you could see everything without being exposed to cameras.
"Look at the cars, Mama!" De'Ariel pressed her face against the window overlooking the paddock, watching as team members rushed back and forth.
"I see, baby."
Your phone buzzed.
Lewis: You settled in okay?
You: Yeah. De'Ariel loves it here. She can see everything.
Lewis: Good. Come to my motorhome in 20? Want to see you before qualifying.
You: We'll be there.
Lewis' motorhome was tucked away from the main thoroughfare—private, quiet. He was waiting outside when you arrived, and his face lit up when he saw De'Ariel.
"There's my favorite genius," he said, crouching down again. "You ready to watch me drive really fast?"
"So fast!" De'Ariel nodded enthusiastically.
Inside the motorhome, Lewis showed De'Ariel his racing suit, his helmet, explained how everything worked in terms she could understand. You watched him—patient, engaged, genuinely interested in her questions—and felt something in your chest crack open.
"Can I try on your helmet?" De'Ariel asked.
"It's gonna be way too big for you, but sure." Lewis carefully placed it on her head, and it immediately slid down over her eyes. She giggled, and Lewis laughed—that genuine, warm sound that made you weak.
"See? Told you. You'll have to grow into it."
"When I'm big, can I drive fast cars too?"
Lewis glanced at you, a smile playing at his lips. "If your mum says it's okay, and you work really hard in school, then maybe. Most drivers start when they're about your age, actually."
"Really?" De'Ariel looked at you hopefully.
"We'll see, baby," you said, shooting Lewis a look that said stop putting ideas in my daughter's head.
But he just grinned, unapologetic.
When it was time for him to head to the garage for qualifying, he walked you both back to the hospitality lounge. In the relative privacy of the hallway, he pulled you close, his hand on your lower back.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For trusting me with her. For bringing her here. For..." He trailed off, his eyes searching yours. "For letting me be part of this."
"Lewis—"
"I know it's complicated. I know we're still figuring things out. But I meant what I said—I'm all in." His thumb brushed your cheek. "With both of you."
Then he was gone, heading toward the garage, and you were left standing there with your heart pounding and your daughter tugging on your hand.
***********************************************
Lewis qualified P4, which seemed good based on the team's reaction you could see on the screens. De'Ariel watched with wide eyes, her special ear protection making her look like a tiny race engineer.
"Mama, he's so fast!" she said when the session ended. "Like really really fast!"
"I know, baby!"
That evening, Lewis took all of you to a local taco place he knew—away from the track, away from cameras. He'd changed into comfortable clothes, his braids down now, and he seemed more relaxed than you'd seen him all day.
"So," he said, his fingers tapping against the table as he looked at De'Ariel. "What'd you think of qualifying? Was it cool?"
"It was so cool! You almost crashed!"
Lewis laughed, reaching over to gently tug one of her pigtails. "Almost, but I didn't. That's the important part, yeah?"
"Will you win tomorrow?"
"I'm gonna try my absolute best. But even if I don't win, I'll still have had a pretty brilliant weekend." His eyes found yours across the table. "Because you're here."
Your mother caught your eye and smiled, and you felt your face heat.
Throughout dinner, Lewis was attentive to everyone—making sure De'Ariel had what she needed, asking your mother about her life in a way that felt genuine, occasionally reaching under the table to squeeze your hand.
His fingers drummed against his thigh when he wasn't eating, that constant need for movement, and you found it endearing rather than distracting.
"You do that a lot," De'Ariel observed, pointing at his tapping fingers.
"Do what, sweetheart?"
"That." She mimicked his finger tapping.
Lewis glanced at his hand, then smiled. "You're right, I do. Can't help it—my brain just works like that. Always needs to be moving."
"My friend Emma does that too. Teacher says she has ADHD."
"Well, your friend Emma and I have something in common then." Lewis's voice was gentle, matter-of-fact. "ADHD just means our brains work a little differently. Makes us good at some things and need extra help with others."
"What are you good at?"
"Driving fast, for one." He grinned. "And making music. And... well, lots of things. But I'm terrible at sitting still."
De'Ariel seemed to accept this completely, already moving on to her next question. "Do you have a dog? Mama says that you do!"
"I do! His name is Roscoe. He's a bulldog."
"I want a dog so bad, but Mama says we have to wait."
"Well, when you do get one, I'll help you pick out the best one." Lewis looked at you, something playful in his eyes. "If your mum says it's okay."
"You're terrible," you muttered, but you were smiling.
************************************************
The atmosphere on race day was electric. The stands were packed, the noise was deafening even from the hospitality lounge, and you found yourself gripping your mother's hand as the race started.
Lewis had qualified P4 but got a brilliant start, overtaking both cars ahead of him in the first lap to take the lead.
"Mama, he's winning!" De'Ariel bounced in her seat, her ear protection slightly askew.
"I know, baby! He's doing so good!"
For fifty-two laps, Lewis battled with both his car and the others. You watched on the screens as he defended, attacked, managed his tires, stayed calm under pressure. This was what he was meant to do—this was where he came alive.
Lewis finished P4, and you could see the frustration in his body language even through the screen—the way he sat in the car a moment longer, the tight set of his shoulders as he climbed out.
"Did he win?" De'Ariel asked.
"Fourth place, baby. He did amazing."
After the podium ceremony, you waited in the hospitality lounge like he'd instructed. Your mother had taken De'Ariel to use the bathroom, giving you a moment alone.
When Lewis finally appeared, he looked exhausted. Still in his race suit, braids messy from his helmet, sweat-stained and clearly frustrated.
But when his eyes found yours, something in his expression softened.
"Hey," he said, his voice rough.
"Hey." You moved toward him, and he pulled you into a hug that probably got sweat all over your clothes, but you didn't care. "You were incredible out there."
"Not incredible enough." His face was buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"P4 is still amazing, Lewis."
"I know. I just—" He pulled back to look at you, and there was something vulnerable in his eyes. "I wanted to win. Wanted to win for me, but also... I wanted to win for you. For De'Ariel. Wanted to show her that her mum's—whatever I am to you—is a winner."
"You are a winner. You're a seven-time world champion. No race will change that."
"Yeah." But he didn't sound convinced.
"Lewis!" De'Ariel's voice cut through the moment, and he immediately straightened, plastering on a smile as she ran over. "You were so fast!"
"I was, wasn't I?" He scooped her up, and you could see him pushing aside his disappointment to be present for her. "Did you have fun watching?"
"So much fun! Can we come back?"
Lewis looked at you over De'Ariel's head, hope and question in his eyes.
"We'll see, baby," you said, but you were smiling.
After De'Ariel was asleep in your hotel room and your mother had retreated to her own room with a knowing "take your time," you found yourself back in Lewis's suite.
"Come here," Lewis said as soon as the door closed. He pulled you close, and this kiss was different from the quick ones during the race weekend. This was slow, deep, promising things that made heat pool low in your belly.
"How are you really feeling?" you asked when you pulled back for air. "About the race."
Lewis sighed, his forehead resting against yours. "Frustrated. I had it, you know? Had the lead, had the pace. Just... couldn't hold it when it mattered."
"You will get a win soon. Your first win with Ferrari."
"Second win. But yeah." His fingers tapped against your hip. "Just feels like it's not enough. Like I keep getting so close and then..."
"Lewis." You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. "You're still one of the best drivers in the world."
"You sound like my therapist." But he was smiling slightly now.
"Maybe your therapist is onto something."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to your hips and pulling you flush against him. You could feel the shift in him—from frustration to need, channeling that restless energy into something else.
"I need you," he murmured against your mouth. "Need to stop thinking about the race and just... feel you."
"Then take me to bed."
What followed was different from your first desperate reunion. Lewis took his time, almost reverent in the way he undressed you, kissing each new bit of skin revealed, telling you how beautiful you were.
When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on yours, his breathing already ragged.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned. "So perfect. Like you were made for me."
His hands were everywhere. When his fingers found your clit, circling with just the right pressure, you cried out his name.
"That's it, baby," he murmured, his accent thicker now. "Let me hear you. Wanna hear those pretty sounds you make."
You came with his name on your lips and his mouth swallowing your cries. He followed soon after, his hips stuttering, your name a prayer that made your chest tight.
Afterward, Lewis pulled you close. His fingers traced patterns on your back—that constant need to move, to touch, to feel.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For..." He paused, his fingers stilling for a moment. "For making me feel like maybe I'm not just a driver. Like maybe I'm allowed to want things outside of racing."
"You are allowed. Lewis, you're allowed to want everything."
"I want you." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Want this. Want to be part of your life—your real life, not just stolen weekends."
"That's a lot."
"I know. But I mean it." He shifted so he could see your face. "I want to pick De'Ariel up from school sometimes. Want to be there for the boring Tuesday nights, not just the exciting race weekends. Want to be someone she can count on."
Your chest tightened. "Lewis—"
"I know we're still figuring this out. I know the divorce isn't final, I know it's complicated. But I'm patient. I can wait until you're ready."
"What if I don't want you to wait?"
Something flickered in his eyes. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." You took a breath. "I'm saying I'm tired of being careful. Tired of worrying about what people will think. DeAndre moved on publicly—why can't I?"
"Because you're better than him." Lewis's thumb brushed your cheek. "You're not him, sweetheart. You never will be."
"But I want this. Want you. Want to stop hiding like we're doing something wrong."
"We're not doing anything wrong." His voice was firm. "You're separated. Legally separated. The divorce will be final in another month. We're not doing anything wrong."
"Then let's stop acting like we are."
Lewis studied your face for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his features. "You sure about this?"
"I'm sure."
He kissed you then—deep and claiming and full of promise. "Alright then. We do this. But we do it right. I'm not hiding you, but I'm also not throwing you to the wolves. We'll be smart about it."
"Okay."
"And Y/N?" He pressed his forehead to yours. "I'm all in. Complications and all. You, De'Ariel, all of it. I'm all in."
"I know," you whispered. "Me too."
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, the Austin skyline glittering beyond the windows, feeling safer and more hopeful than you had in years.
Tomorrow you'd go back to Denver, back to reality, back to the complications of your divorce and DeAndre's drama.
But tonight, you let yourself have this. Let yourself believe that maybe you'd found something real.
Someone who saw you for who you were and wanted you anyway.
Someone who was all in—complications, daughter, messy divorce and all.
Y’all @iamquiantrelle gave me so much shit to read I’ve been confused, overwhelmed and so fucking happy! I don’t know where to start🥴😭.
Likeee, take all the breaks y’all all need ngl, @mauvecherie-writes and @saintslewis cause y’all? My trifecta right there🤏🏽🤏🏽🤏🏽🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
Shiiiiii, honestly I’ve been screaming into the void the past three months cause life as a black woman is so great but so…not, esp in a Caribbean household that swears we’re Ba Sing Se.
I haven’t been as vocal as I used to be (for mercy we plead) but when I do get notifs of being tagged by y’all I do a lil shimmy in my seat cause I can’t wait to get home, wrap up and read what is no doubt a good read.
I appreciate you guys and thank you for writing all the thoughts that come to mind and then making them elaborate universes or scenarios that we can enjoy❤️
# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist
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The morning light filtered through the gauze curtains of the Nassau safe house bedroom, casting soft patterns across rumpled sheets that told the story of a night well spent. You lay on your side, watching Lewis sleep—or pretend to sleep, it was hard to tell with him—while your body reminded you in exquisite detail exactly why the doctor had specified "limited exertion" when clearing Lewis for extracurricular activities.
Limited. Right.
Lewis didn't do anything with limitation, apparently including making love to his wife after two weeks of forced abstinence. Your thighs ached, your hips felt bruised in the best possible way, and there was a particularly insistent tenderness between your legs that promised you'd be feeling last night for at least the next twenty-four hours.
Not that you were complaining. Much.
The conversation with Petrov three days ago still sat heavy in your mind, intruding even on this peaceful morning moment. The Russian had been smooth as silk, all charm and reasonable propositions about mutual benefit and shared enemies. He'd painted a picture of cooperation that almost made sense—Jensen was a threat to both of you now, and Petrov had resources and intelligence that could prove useful in hunting down the traitor.
Almost.
You didn't trust Petrov as far as you could throw him. Which, given the man was probably six-foot-three and built like someone who'd survived decades in the Russian underworld, was precisely not at all. Every instinct you'd developed through captivity and violence screamed that the Russian was playing a longer game, one where you and Lewis were pieces to be moved and sacrificed rather than genuine partners.
If it was up to you, you'd put a fucking bullet in his head and be done with it.
But it wasn't just up to you. Partnership meant considering strategic value over personal satisfaction, meant recognizing that sometimes useful allies were also dangerous snakes that needed careful handling. Petrov had connections throughout Eastern Europe, intelligence networks that could track Jensen's movements, and most importantly, he clearly wanted something badly enough to risk reaching out when he could have simply disappeared into whatever hole he'd been hiding in since Suarez's compound burned.
So you'd play nice. For now. Until Petrov's usefulness expired or he made a move that justified the bullet you'd been mentally reserving for him since the moment Miles had announced his call.
Lewis shifted beside you, the movement pulling you from your dark thoughts about Russian arms dealers. His hand found your hip beneath the sheet, fingers tracing idle patterns that sent warmth spreading through your already oversensitized body.
"You're thinking too loud," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. "Can hear the wheels turning from here."
"Go back to sleep," you replied softly, your own hand moving to trace the compass tattoo in the center of his chest. The ink was beautiful—geometric precision that appealed to your sense of order, directional markers that spoke to Lewis's need for control and navigation through complex situations.
"Can't sleep when you're awake," Lewis said, his eyes still closed but a smile playing at his lips. "Your energy is too... present."
"My energy," you repeated with amusement. "That's what we're calling it?"
"We are," he agreed, his hand sliding from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you closer with surprising strength for someone who'd been stabbed two weeks ago. "Come closer. You're too far away."
"I'm literally right here," you pointed out, though you allowed yourself to be drawn against his chest, careful of the still-healing wound beneath the bandages.
"Still too far," Lewis insisted, his arms wrapping around you with possessive certainty. The lion tattoo on his shoulder flexed as he moved, the detailed artwork somehow making him look even more dangerous despite his current state of undress and vulnerability.
You nestled against him, breathing in the scent of his skin mixed with sex and the faint antiseptic smell that still clung to his bandages. "The doctor said limited exertion, you know. Pretty sure what we did last night doesn't qualify."
"Doctor said I could engage in extracurricular activities as long as I wasn't putting undue stress on the wound," Lewis corrected, his hand tracing lazy patterns along your spine. "You were on top. Perfectly within medical guidelines."
"For the first round," you reminded him, heat rising in your cheeks at the memory. "The second and third rounds were decidedly not guideline-compliant."
Lewis's chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against your body in ways that made your already oversensitized nerves sing with awareness. "You didn't seem to mind at the time."
"That's not the point," you protested weakly. "The point is you're supposed to be healing, not acting like you're trying to make up for two weeks of missed opportunities in one night."
"Can you blame me?" Lewis asked, his lips finding your temple. "One week of you being away from me and another two weeks lying in a hospital bed, not being able to touch you properly... I had a lot of lost time to make up for."
The confession sent warmth flooding through you that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with the unexpected depth of feeling this man inspired. "You were unconscious for a whole week."
"Doesn't mean I wasn't dreaming about it," Lewis replied, his voice dropping to that low register that made your stomach flip. "And then when I woke up and you were there, looking exhausted and beautiful and so fucking relieved... all I wanted was to pull you into bed with me and never let you leave."
You tilted your head to look at him properly, noting the honesty in his dark eyes. "That's surprisingly romantic for a crime lord who nearly died from a stab wound."
"Near-death experiences make you reassess priorities," Lewis said with a small smile. "Like how important it is to tell your wife exactly what she means to you while you still have the chance."
The vulnerability in his admission made your throat tight. "I love you," you said simply, the words carrying all the weight of everything you'd survived together.
"I love you too, babygirl," Lewis replied, his hand cupping your face with reverent gentleness. "More than I probably should, given our profession. Makes me vulnerable in ways I swore I'd never be again."
"We're vulnerable together," you corrected, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "That's different."
"Is it?" Lewis asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"It is," you confirmed. "Because I'd burn down the world to keep you safe, just like you'd do for me. That's not weakness—that's partnership."
Lewis's kiss in response was soft and sweet, lacking the desperate hunger of the night before but carrying something deeper—gratitude, love, and bone-deep commitment that transcended strategic alliance or convenient arrangement.
When you finally separated, slightly breathless, you became aware of another pressing need that had nothing to do with romance or desire. "I have to pee," you announced, already pulling away from his embrace.
Lewis made a sound of pure protest, his arms tightening around you. "No. Stay."
"I'll be right back," you promised, extricating yourself with more difficulty than should be necessary. "Literally two minutes."
"That's two minutes too long," Lewis grumbled, finally releasing you with obvious reluctance. "I think I need more lovin', babygirl. Come back quick."
You rolled your eyes even as heat pooled low in your stomach at his words. "Horndog," you muttered, reaching for the silk robe draped over the chair beside the bed.
"Your horndog," Lewis corrected with entirely too much satisfaction, watching you tie the robe with eyes that promised exactly what he planned to do when you returned.
"Lucky me," you replied dryly, though you couldn't suppress your smile as you padded toward the bathroom.
The cool tile felt good against your bare feet, a contrast to the warmth that had been building under Lewis's focused attention. You took care of necessities quickly, splashing water on your face and running fingers through your thoroughly disheveled hair. The woman in the mirror looked well-loved—kiss-swollen lips, marks blooming along your neck and collarbone, eyes bright with satisfaction despite the soreness that made itself known with every movement.
Lewis had certainly made his presence felt last night. Multiple times.
When you emerged from the bathroom, you found Lewis exactly where you'd left him—sprawled across the bed in a way that should have looked ridiculous but instead just looked unfairly attractive. The morning light caught the angles of his face, highlighted the defined muscles of his chest and arms, drew attention to the tattoos that marked his skin like a personal map of significance and meaning.
"Took you long enough," he said, extending one hand toward you in invitation.
"It's been three minutes," you pointed out, but moved toward the bed anyway, drawn by the magnetic pull that seemed to exist between you.
"Three minutes too many," Lewis replied, catching your hand and pulling you down beside him with surprising strength. The robe fell open with the movement, revealing skin that his hands immediately sought to explore.
"Lewis," you said, the protest dying on your lips as his mouth found the curve of your neck. "We should... the doctor said..."
"The doctor said limited exertion," Lewis murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "I'll be very careful. Promise."
His hands slid beneath the silk, pushing the robe off your shoulders with practiced ease. You shivered as fabric whispered against skin, as his palms traced the curve of your waist, as his lips mapped a burning path from your neck to your shoulder.
"You're supposed to be healing," you tried again, though your body was already responding to his touch, arching into his hands, tilting your head to give him better access.
"I am healing," Lewis replied, his hand cupping your breast with reverent possession. "This is therapeutic. Good for my recovery."
"That's not what therapeutic means," you managed, the words emerging breathless as his thumb brushed across your nipple.
"Sure it is," Lewis insisted, his mouth replacing his hand, tongue tracing patterns that made coherent thought increasingly difficult. "Physical therapy. Very important."
Your laugh turned into a gasp as his free hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "Lewis..."
"Tell me you don't want this," he challenged, his dark eyes meeting yours with intensity that stole your breath. "Tell me to stop and I will. But we both know you want this as much as I do."
He was right, damn him. Despite your soreness, despite your concerns about his healing, despite everything logical and reasonable, you wanted him with an intensity that bordered on desperate. Two weeks of worry and fear and desperate uncertainty had left you craving exactly this—the solid warmth of him, the proof that he was alive and healing and capable of making your knees weak with just a few well-placed touches.
"Just... be careful," you finally conceded, your hands sliding up his chest to cup his face. "I don't want you hurting yourself because you're too stubborn to acknowledge your limitations."
"I'll be careful," Lewis promised, his smile carrying equal parts affection and heat. "Trust me, baby. I know what I'm doing."
He proved the truth of that statement over the next hour, his hands and mouth mapping every inch of your body with thorough attention that left you gasping his name and clutching at sheets twisted beyond recognition. He was careful of his wound, letting you do most of the work even as his hands guided your movements, his voice low and rough with encouragement that made heat pool.
You grit your teeth as you slowly roll your hips against him. Lewis let out a grunt, his hands tightening around your waist briefly before coming up to palm your breasts, squeezing them in tandem with the pull from your thrusts and the way your pussy gripped him like a vice.
The pace itself was languid, your back moving with snakelike fluidity due to the soreness of your thighs and hips from the previous rounds. But as always, the pace definitely set the tone for both of you. The sounds of your skin hitting against his pelvis were sickening, reverberating across the room. You glanced down to lock eyes with your husband, watching intently as his face contorted in various expressions to display his pleasure.
From his pursed lips and furrowed brows, you could tell that he was close, but Lewis always wanted to ensure that you got your orgasm first. You were far from quiet, making it quite known to whoever was closeby what the two of you were doing in this very room with loud grunts, groans, and moans that soon dissolved into high-pitched screams.
"You like that shit, baby girl?" He asked from beneath you, canting the angle of his hips, stirring up your pussy like it was cake batter. All you could do was nod numbly as your head fell back, riding out the intensity of Lewis's counter thrusts. "Answer me," he demanded with a firm slap to your ass, causing you to yelp and your eyes widen in surprise.
"Lewis....you know how good it feels," you moaned, biting your lower lip as your orgasm slowly approached.
"Tell. Me. Anyway." With each pronounced word, his thrusts got deeper, harder, and you knew that you were a goner.
"Fuckkkkkkkk....." Your pussy spasmed, creaming his dick as the climax came over you in droves. Lewis's strokes increased in motion, his hips driving in you over and over again until you finally felt his dick twitch and were greeted with the warm sensation of his own orgasm spurting deep inside you. "Oooh, baby...mmmhmmm...."
When you finally collapsed on his chest, thoroughly spent and trembling with aftershocks, Lewis pulled you close with satisfied possessiveness. "See?" he murmured against your hair. "Perfectly within medical guidelines."
"You're impossible," you replied, though the words lacked any real criticism.
"You love me anyway," Lewis said with certainty.
"Unfortunately," you agreed, pressing a kiss to his chest just above the compass tattoo. "Someone has to."
"Lucky me," Lewis echoed your earlier words, his arms tightening around you.
You lay like that for several minutes, wrapped in each other and the comfortable silence of shared satisfaction. Eventually, reality began to intrude—the awareness of sunlight streaming through windows, the distant sound of voices from elsewhere in the safe house, the responsibilities waiting beyond this temporary sanctuary.
"I've been thinking about Naomi," you said eventually, your finger tracing idle patterns across Lewis's chest. "About what she must have known before Jensen killed her."
Lewis's hand stilled against your spine. "What do you mean?"
"She was investigating him for weeks," you continued, your voice thoughtful. "Building a case, documenting suspicious behavior. She knew something was wrong, but she didn't tell you directly. Why?"
"Probably because she didn't have proof yet," Lewis replied, though you could hear the uncertainty in his voice. "Naomi was thorough—she wouldn't have brought accusations without solid evidence."
"Or maybe she was protecting something," you suggested. "Or someone. What if there's more to this than just Jensen betraying us for Nico Rosberg?"
Lewis shifted to look at you properly. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that Petrov's timing is too convenient," you said, working through the theory forming in your mind. "He reaches out right after Suarez is dead, offers cooperation against Jensen, claims he wants a separate peace. But what if he knew about Jensen's betrayal before it happened?"
"You think Petrov was involved?" Lewis asked, his expression darkening.
"I think Petrov knew," you clarified. "Maybe not the details, maybe not the timeline, but he knew Jensen was compromised. And he used that information to position himself advantageously when everything fell apart."
Lewis was quiet for a moment, processing this theory. "That would explain why he disappeared so quickly when the compound assault started. He wasn't running from the violence—he was avoiding being caught in the fallout of Jensen's betrayal."
"Exactly," you agreed. "And now he's offering to help us hunt Jensen, probably so he can control what information we discover about his own involvement."
"Fuck," Lewis breathed. "If you're right, then working with Petrov is even more dangerous than we thought."
"But we still need him," you pointed out. "His intelligence networks are real, his connections genuine. We just need to be very careful about what we share and what we believe."
"We need leverage," Lewis decided. "Something we can use to ensure Petrov stays cooperative and doesn't try to manipulate the situation to his advantage."
"Naomi's notes," you said suddenly. "She documented everything about Jensen's betrayal. Maybe she documented connections to Petrov as well."
Lewis sat up with renewed energy, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wound. "Miles still has the envelope. We need to go through everything again, look for any mention of Petrov or connections we might have missed."
"After you rest," you said firmly, pushing him gently back against the pillows. "We can review the documents later today. Right now, you need to let your body heal."
"Always so practical," Lewis said, but settled back without further argument. "What would I do without you?"
"Make terrible decisions and probably die from stubbornness," you replied, settling back against his chest. "Fortunately, you have me to prevent both outcomes."
"Fortunately," Lewis agreed, his hand resuming its path along your spine.
Another comfortable silence settled between you, though this one carried the weight of new suspicions and strategic calculations. If Petrov had known about Jensen's betrayal and done nothing to warn them, that changed everything about how they needed to handle the Russian's offer of cooperation.
"There's something else I've been thinking about," you said after a while. "About what Suarez said before he died."
Lewis's hand stilled again. "What about it?"
"He kept saying I belonged with him, that you'd stolen what was rightfully his, that our marriage was artificial." You paused, choosing your words carefully. "What if he wasn't just delusional? What if someone convinced him that your interest in me was purely strategic, that I was being forced into the marriage against my will?"
"Someone like Petrov," Lewis concluded, his voice hardening.
"Someone who benefits from chaos," you agreed. "Suarez's obsession with me wasn't rational, but it was... focused. Like someone had been feeding him information designed to make him believe he could win me away from you."
"Manipulation," Lewis said with disgust. "Classic Petrov strategy—identify someone's weakness, exploit it, then position yourself to benefit from the resulting chaos."
"So we have two possibilities," you summarized. "Either Petrov knew about Jensen's betrayal and did nothing, or he actively manipulated Suarez's obsession to create the conditions for that betrayal to succeed. Either way, he's not the ally he's pretending to be."
"But we still need his resources," Lewis said with frustration.
"For now," you agreed. "But we also need to start building our own intelligence network in Eastern Europe. Something independent of Petrov that we can use when his usefulness expires."
Lewis looked at you with something like pride. "You're thinking long-term strategy. I like it."
"I learned from the best," you replied with a slight smile. "Besides, someone needs to think about these things while you're busy recovering and trying to seduce your wife at inappropriate times."
"It's never inappropriate to seduce my wife," Lewis argued. "That's literally in our marriage vows."
"No, it isn't," you said with a laugh.
"Should have been," Lewis insisted. "Major oversight on the ceremony planning."
You shook your head with affection, marveling at how easily he could shift from tactical discussions about dangerous allies to playful banter about nonexistent marriage vows. This was the Lewis Hamilton most people never saw—the man beneath the ruthless crime lord, capable of humor and vulnerability and genuine emotion when he felt safe enough to show it.
"I'm glad I married you," you said suddenly, the admission emerging with more emotion than you'd intended.
Lewis's expression softened. "Even though it was arranged by your father and started as pure strategy?"
"Especially because of that," you replied. "We didn't have the luxury of pretending or performing for each other. Everything that's developed between us has been real—built on honesty and partnership rather than romantic illusions."
"That's a very practical view of love," Lewis observed.
"We're practical people," you pointed out. "Doesn't make the love any less real."
"No," Lewis agreed, pulling you closer. "It doesn't."
The sound of footsteps in the hallway announced someone's approach before a sharp knock interrupted your moment. "Boss?" Miles's voice carried through the door. "Sorry to interrupt, but we've got a situation that needs attention."
Lewis sighed with resignation. "What kind of situation?"
"The kind that requires pants," Miles replied dryly. "I'll be in the office when you're ready."
You listened to his footsteps retreat down the hallway before looking at Lewis with raised eyebrows. "Situations that require pants are usually bad situations."
"Usually," Lewis agreed, already moving to get up despite his obvious reluctance to leave the comfort of bed. "Though with Miles, it could be anything from actual emergency to him being overly cautious about routine intelligence."
You both dressed quickly—Lewis in casual clothes that concealed his bandages, you in comfortable wear that was more appropriate for strategy sessions than morning-after languor. By the time you made it to the office, Miles had several documents spread across the desk and his expression carried the kind of serious concern that suggested this wasn't routine intelligence.
"Giovanni Castellano made contact," Miles said without preamble. "Apparently there's been some developments with Marco and Gabriella that require discussion."
"What kind of developments?" you asked, immediately concerned for your sister.
"The good kind, surprisingly," Miles assured you. "Marco proposed properly—not the hospital proposal, but a planned event with family present. Giovanni wants to discuss combining the engagement celebration with your birthday dinner, making it a joint family event."
Lewis raised an eyebrow. "He wants to combine my fortieth birthday with his son's engagement celebration?"
"Apparently yes," Miles confirmed. "Says it makes sense strategically—both families already planning to be in New York, security already coordinated, opportunity to make a public statement about the alliance between Riccis and Castellanos."
"Papa agreed to this?" you asked, trying to imagine your father sharing a celebration spotlight.
"Enthusiastically, according to Giovanni," Miles said. "Apparently Salvatore thinks the combined event sends a stronger message about family unity than separate celebrations would."
You exchanged a glance with Lewis, reading the calculation in his eyes. A joint celebration meant more people, more potential vulnerabilities, more opportunities for something to go wrong. But it also meant stronger visible alliance between three powerful families, which could have significant strategic advantages.
"What do you think?" Lewis asked, deferring to your judgment on family matters.
"I think Papa wouldn't agree unless he saw clear advantage," you replied thoughtfully. "And Giovanni approaching him directly rather than going through Marco and Gabriella suggests this is about more than just celebration logistics."
"They're planning something," Lewis concluded. "Using the celebration as cover for strategic discussions or alliance building."
"Probably," you agreed. "But that doesn't mean we can't use it to our advantage as well. A large gathering means opportunities to coordinate with multiple allies, gather intelligence, maybe even draw out threats who think we'll be distracted by festivities."
Miles nodded approvingly. "That's what I was thinking. We could turn this into an intelligence-gathering opportunity—invite key people from various organizations, see who shows up, who declines, who tries to use the event for their own purposes."
"Like Petrov," you said suddenly. "We could extend an invitation through back channels, see if he takes the bait. His response would tell us a lot about his actual intentions."
"Risky," Lewis observed. "Having him that close while we're surrounded by family."
"But informative," you countered. "And we'd have home-field advantage—your security plus Papa's people plus Giovanni's forces. If Petrov tries anything, he'd be walking into a fortress."
Lewis considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. "Alright. Tell Giovanni we agree to the combined celebration. But we coordinate security down to the last detail—no surprises, no unvetted guests, no opportunities for anyone to exploit the gathering."
"Already working on it," Miles confirmed. "Giovanni's security chief is former Italian intelligence—very thorough, very professional. He's suggested a joint planning session to coordinate protocols."
"Set it up," Lewis decided. "And Miles? Start building that independent intelligence network in Eastern Europe we discussed. Use whatever resources necessary, but make sure Petrov doesn't know about it."
Miles's expression showed surprise at the last instruction. "You think Petrov's playing us?"
"We think Petrov knew about Jensen's betrayal before it happened," you explained. "Maybe even encouraged it. We're going to keep working with him, but we need backup plans that don't depend on his cooperation."
"Understood," Miles said with grim satisfaction. "I'll start making contacts immediately."
After Miles departed to begin coordination efforts, you found yourself alone with Lewis again—though this time the mood was more tactical than romantic.
"This is getting complicated," you observed, moving to study the documents Miles had left behind.
"It was always complicated," Lewis replied, joining you at the desk. "We're just seeing more of the complexity now that we're looking for it."
"Do you think we can actually pull this off?" you asked, genuine uncertainty coloring the question. "Hunt Jensen, manage Petrov, coordinate with multiple families, all while maintaining the appearance of normalcy?"
"We don't have a choice," Lewis said simply. "These are the circumstances we're operating in. We adapt or we die."
"Very motivational," you said dryly.
"But honest," Lewis countered, his hand finding yours. "And we have advantages most people don't—genuine partnership, multiple family alliances, resources that span continents. If anyone can navigate this successfully, it's us."
"Together," you said, not a question but a statement.
"Together," Lewis confirmed, squeezing your hand. "Always."
You stood there for a moment, hands joined across documents detailing strategic plans and potential threats, and felt the weight of everything you'd taken on settle more firmly on your shoulders. But you also felt the strength of partnership, the certainty that whatever came next, you'd face it side by side.
"Alright," you said finally, straightening with renewed determination. "Let's start planning. We've got a celebration to organize, a traitor to hunt, and a Russian to outmaneuver. Just another week in the Hamilton household."
"Just another week," Lewis agreed with a slight smile. "Though I'm starting to miss the days when our biggest concern was convincing your father I was worthy of marrying you."
"Those were simpler times," you acknowledged. "Before kidnapping and stabbings and elaborate revenge plots."
"Simpler," Lewis said. "But not necessarily better."
You looked at him questioningly.
"Back then, I didn't know what I was missing," Lewis explained. "Didn't understand what genuine partnership could feel like, what loving someone completely meant for how I approached every decision. Now I know. And despite the complexity, despite the danger, I wouldn't trade this for anything."
The confession made your chest tight with emotion. "Me neither," you said softly. "Even with everything we've been through, I wouldn't change how we got here."
"Good," Lewis said, pulling you close for a kiss that tasted of promises and determination. "Because we're just getting started, babygirl. Everything up until now has been prologue. The real story begins now."
As you lost yourself in his kiss, surrounded by documents detailing the dangerous games you'd chosen to play, you found yourself believing him. Whatever came next—Jensen, Petrov, the combined celebration, the building of new alliances and the destruction of old enemies—you'd face it together.
And that made all the difference.
Later that afternoon, Lewis found himself back in the office, reviewing Naomi's notes with the kind of meticulous attention they deserved. Miles had retrieved the envelope from secure storage, and now its contents were spread across the desk in careful organization—documents sorted by date, observations categorized by subject, connections mapped with the precision that had made Naomi such an effective intelligence officer.
Your theory about Petrov's involvement gnawed at him. If the Russian had known about Jensen's compromised position and done nothing—or worse, actively encouraged the betrayal—then they were dealing with a threat more sophisticated than he'd initially calculated.
"Here," you said suddenly, pointing to a notation in the margin of one document. "Naomi wrote 'AP connection?' next to a record of Jensen accessing files about Eastern European operations."
"AP," Lewis mused. "Aleksei Petrov."
"She knew," you said with certainty. "Or at least suspected. But she didn't have enough evidence to make it official yet."
Lewis continued studying the notes, finding additional marginal comments that supported your theory. References to "secondary mole," questions about information sharing, observations about coordinated timing that seemed too convenient to be coincidental.
"She was building a case not just against Jensen, but against a larger conspiracy," Lewis concluded. "One that implicated Petrov in the betrayal."
"And she died before she could complete it," you said quietly.
The weight of that realization settled over them both. Naomi hadn't just been protecting you from Jensen—she'd been trying to expose a conspiracy that extended beyond one traitor. And she'd died for that effort, murdered before she could reveal the full scope of the threat they faced.
"We finish what she started," Lewis decided, his voice carrying cold finality. "We expose everything—Jensen's betrayal, Petrov's involvement, whatever larger game they were playing. And then we make sure everyone involved pays the full price."
"Starting with Jensen and Nico Rosberg," you said with matching steel.
"Starting with them," Lewis agreed. "But not ending there. Petrov thinks he can manipulate this situation to his advantage. We're going to show him exactly how wrong he is."
You nodded, your expression carrying the same dangerous determination he felt building in his own chest. This was who you'd become through everything you'd survived—not just his wife, but his true partner in every sense. Someone capable of matching his ruthlessness, his strategic thinking, his willingness to do whatever necessary to protect what was theirs.
"I love you," Lewis said, the words emerging with more emotion than usual.
"I love you too," you replied, understanding the weight behind the admission. "Now let's get to work. We've got a conspiracy to unravel and enemies to destroy."
The afternoon bled into evening as they worked through documentation with methodical thoroughness. Lewis found himself impressed all over again by Naomi's capabilities—she'd tracked Jensen's movements with precision, documented anomalies that most would have dismissed as coincidence, and built a circumstantial case that would have been damning if she'd lived long enough to complete it.
"She noted every time Jensen's intelligence requests coincided with Petrov's known operations," you observed, highlighting another connection. "Look—here, when Petrov was establishing new routes through Prague, Jensen accessed our Czech network files. And here, when Petrov was negotiating with Serbian suppliers, Jensen pulled up our Balkan contacts."
"Pattern recognition," Lewis said with grim appreciation. "Jensen was feeding Petrov information about our European operations to help him expand his own network."
"Which means Petrov's been undermining you for months," you concluded. "Long before Suarez's compound, long before my kidnapping. This has been a sustained campaign to weaken your organization while strengthening his own position."
Lewis felt cold fury building in his chest—not the hot rage that led to mistakes, but the calculated anger that made him most dangerous. "And he thinks offering to help hunt Jensen will buy him goodwill and trust. That we're too damaged by recent events to see the larger pattern."
"He's underestimating us," you said with satisfaction. "Probably thinks we're too emotional about Naomi's death and your injuries to think strategically."
"His mistake," Lewis replied, already planning how to exploit that underestimation. "We let him believe we're buying his cooperation while we build our own intelligence network and gather evidence of his involvement. Then, when we've extracted everything useful from the alliance, we cut him off and make him pay for his role in all of this."
"I like when you get ruthless," you said with a slight smile. "It's very attractive."
Despite the gravity of their discussion, Lewis found himself returning the smile. "You bring it out in me. Something about having a partner who understands necessary violence makes it easier to embrace."
"We're a good team," you agreed, leaning against him companionably. "Terrifying, probably sociopathic by normal standards, but effective."
"The most effective," Lewis corrected, his arm coming around your shoulders. "And we're just getting started."
The next few days passed in a blur of preparation and planning. The doctor cleared Lewis for travel with extensive restrictions that he immediately began strategizing how to circumvent. Your father called daily with updates about the combined celebration, each conversation revealing more layers of coordination between the Ricci and Castellano families that went far beyond simple party planning.
"Salvatore changed his mind about having Petrov at the celebration," Miles reported during one of their strategy sessions. "Says he doesn't trust the Russian's motives enough to invite him into his home, even with heavy security present."
Lewis nodded approvingly. Your father's instincts were sound—Petrov in a controlled environment might reveal useful information, but Petrov in Salvatore's home represented too many variables and potential vulnerabilities.
"But he suggested a meeting on neutral ground instead," Miles continued. "A restaurant in Jersey that the Riccis have used for sensitive negotiations before. Owner's been on Salvatore's payroll for two decades, space can be secured, location doesn't belong to any particular family."
"Acceptable," Lewis decided. "Set it up for after my birthday—let Petrov think we're distracted by family celebrations, make him more comfortable and potentially careless."
"Will do," Miles confirmed. "Speaking of your birthday, your wife has been coordinating with her sisters. Fair warning—I've been told there will be cake and singing and possibly embarrassing party decorations."
Lewis groaned. "I'm turning forty, not four. Do we really need the full celebration treatment?"
"According to Sophia—and I'm quoting directly here—'Lewis Hamilton deserves to be celebrated for surviving another year despite everyone trying to kill him, and if he complains about birthday hats, I'll tell everyone about the time he got scared by that raccoon in the garden,'" Miles delivered this with a completely straight face.
"That raccoon was the size of a small dog," Lewis protested. "And I wasn't scared, I was startled. There's a difference."
"I'm sure Sophia will make that distinction clear when she tells the story at your party," Miles replied dryly.
Lewis shook his head with resignation. He'd survived knife wounds, shootouts, and elaborate assassination attempts. He could survive one birthday party with his wife's enthusiastic younger sister.
Probably.
The flight to New York was scheduled for January fourth—early enough to settle in and coordinate security before the actual celebration on the seventh, late enough that Lewis had maximized his recovery time in Nassau. As the date approached, Lewis found himself experiencing an unfamiliar emotion that took him several days to identify as anticipation.
Not for the birthday celebration itself—that remained something to be endured rather than enjoyed. But for returning to New York with you, for seeing you reunited with your family after everything you'd been through, for publicly demonstrating to everyone in your world that you'd survived and emerged stronger.
New Year's Eve had been spent exactly as he preferred—balls deep in his wife in their Nassau safe house bedroom, bringing in the new year with her gasps and moans rather than champagne and fireworks. Not a bad way to celebrate, though he had to admit he'd been looking forward to proper accommodations rather than safe house utility. Still, Nassau had been good to them—time to heal, to reconnect, to plan their next moves without immediate threat breathing down their necks.
"What are you thinking about?" you asked, catching him with that slight smile that meant you already knew.
"New Year's," Lewis admitted. "And how I'm going to miss the privacy of the safe house once we're back in New York with your family constantly around."
"We'll have plenty of privacy," you assured him. "Papa's putting us back in the guest house on the estate—separate building, separate entrance, theoretically soundproof."
"Theoretically," Lewis repeated with amusement.
"I make no promises about my volume control," you replied primly. "That's a you problem for being so good at what you do."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should," you said, moving to settle in his lap despite the cramped airplane seating. "Because it absolutely is."
Lewis kissed you thoroughly, appreciating the fact that the private jet meant no one to observe or judge their public displays of affection. These moments of casual intimacy had become precious—reminders that beneath the violence and strategy, they were also just two people who'd found unexpected love in unlikely circumstances.
When the plane finally touched down at Teterboro, Lewis felt tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying finally ease. New York meant resources, backup, the extensive network that Salvatore had spent decades building. It meant safety in numbers and the home-field advantage that came from operating in familiar territory.
The drive to the Ricci estate felt simultaneously too long and too short. Lewis watched you practically vibrating with anticipation as familiar landmarks appeared, your hand tight in his as Antonio navigated through security checkpoints with practiced ease.
"They're all waiting," you said, spotting the figures gathered on the front steps. "Oh god, Mama's going to cry."
"Probably," Lewis agreed, squeezing your hand. "But happy tears. The best kind."
The car had barely stopped before you were out, rushing toward your mother with the kind of unguarded emotion Lewis rarely saw from you. Francesca Ricci met you halfway, pulling you into an embrace that spoke to weeks of worry and fear finally released.
"My baby," she kept saying, her voice thick with tears. "My baby girl, you're home."
Lewis hung back, giving you and your family space for reunion while he observed with satisfaction. This—your safety, your return to family, your obvious joy at being home—this was why he'd nearly died in Suarez's compound. This moment made every risk, every injury, every moment of uncertainty worth it.
Your sisters descended next—Maria with poorly concealed relief despite her usual stoic demeanor, Sophia with her characteristic enthusiasm, and Gabriella with tears streaming down her face. They clustered around you like a protective formation, all talking at once, all touching you as if to confirm you were really there and really whole.
Salvatore stood on the steps with your uncle Paolo, his expression carrying the kind of emotion he rarely allowed others to see. When Lewis caught his eye, the older man gave a small nod of acknowledgment and respect—recognition of what Lewis had done to bring his daughter home safely.
Eventually, your mother pulled away from the group embrace and turned to Lewis with tears still streaming down her face. Before he could offer a polite greeting, she'd closed the distance and wrapped him in a hug that carried surprising strength.
"Thank you," she whispered fiercely against his shoulder. "Thank you for bringing my baby home. Thank you for protecting her, for finding her, for being what she needed."
Lewis returned the embrace carefully, aware of eyes watching but more concerned with the genuine gratitude in her voice. "She's my wife," he said simply. "There was never any question of not coming for her."
Francesca pulled back to look at him directly, her hands framing his face with maternal tenderness. "You're a good man, Lewis Hamilton. Better than any of us had a right to expect when Salvatore first proposed this marriage."
"I got lucky," Lewis replied honestly. "Your daughter is extraordinary. I'm just fortunate she decided to keep me around."
This earned a watery laugh from Francesca and a warm smile from you where you stood surrounded by your sisters. The moment was broken by Sophia's characteristic exuberance as she launched herself at Lewis with enough force to make his healing wound twinge.
"Lewis! You're alive! That's so great because I already bought you a birthday present and it would've been really awkward to return it if you'd died!" Sophia's logic was characteristically unique.
"I'll try to avoid dying before the party," Lewis promised dryly, returning her hug with careful restraint.
"Good! Because I also got you a birthday hat and you have to wear it or I'll tell everyone embarrassing stories about you!"
Lewis looked to you for help, but you just shrugged with a grin that suggested you were fully on board with your youngest sister's plans. "Fair warning," you said. "Sophia's been planning this birthday celebration for weeks. Resistance is futile."
"I hate all of you," Lewis announced without heat.
"No, you don't," Sophia replied with absolute certainty. "You love us because we're awesome and we make your life interesting."
"That's one word for it," Lewis muttered, but allowed himself to be pulled toward the house by the enthusiastic teenager.
The next few days passed in a whirlwind of family time and strategic planning. Lewis found himself integrated into the Ricci household in ways he hadn't experienced during his earlier visits—meals shared with the entire family, conversations that ranged from business strategy to ridiculous arguments about television shows, moments of casual domesticity that felt foreign but increasingly comfortable.
Your sisters had apparently decided Lewis was now fair game for their particular brand of sibling torture. Maria engaged him in intense debates about organizational structure and tactical planning that revealed her sharp strategic mind. Sophia dragged him into her various enthusiasms with the kind of relentless energy that was exhausting but oddly endearing. And Gabriella treated him like a confidant, asking advice about Marco and married life with the kind of trust that Lewis hadn't realized he'd earned.
"Your sisters are exhausting," Lewis told you after a particularly intense evening of family bonding.
"They like you," you replied, settling against him in the guest house bedroom. "Trust me, this is what affection looks like in the Ricci family. If they didn't like you, they'd be polite and distant."
"I'm not sure I prefer the affection," Lewis admitted. "Sophia has scheduled seventeen different activities for my birthday, most of which involve public embarrassment."
"She's eighteen," you reminded him with amusement. "Everything she does involves public embarrassment. You're just a convenient target."
"Lucky me," Lewis said, but found himself smiling despite the complaint.
The morning of January seventh dawned cold and clear—perfect weather for celebration according to your mother, who had been coordinating with the household staff for days. Lewis woke to you already awake beside him, watching him with soft affection.
"Happy birthday, old man," you said, pressing a kiss to his lips.
"I'm forty, not ancient," Lewis protested.
"Forty is pretty old," you teased. "I hear everything starts falling apart after forty. Knees go bad, back problems develop, probably some erectile dysfunction—"
Lewis cut off your litany by rolling you beneath him, careful of his still-healing wound but determined to prove exactly how functional everything was. "Want to test that theory?"
"Maybe later," you said breathlessly after a thorough kiss. "Right now, we're expected inside for birthday breakfast. Mama's making your favorite."
"How does your mother know my favorite breakfast?" Lewis asked with surprise.
"Because I told her, obviously," you replied as if this should have been obvious. "Did you think I wasn't paying attention to what you like?"
The casual revelation that you'd been noticing and cataloging his preferences made something warm bloom in Lewis's chest. "You're good to me," he said softly.
"I love you," you replied simply. "Of course I'm good to you. Now get dressed before Sophia comes to drag you there herself. She's been awake since five planning today's festivities."
Lewis groaned but complied, pulling on casual clothes that felt strange after weeks of being limited to athletic wear and medical-appropriate garments. The wound was healing well—still tender and requiring careful movement, but no longer the sharp, debilitating pain that had characterized the first week of recovery.
Inside the main house, the family had gathered in the informal dining room—a space that Lewis had learned was reserved for family-only meals rather than business entertaining. The table groaned under Francesca's cooking, including what was indeed Lewis's favorite breakfast despite his surprise that she knew how to make it.
"Forty years old!" Sophia announced as he entered. "That's like... so old. Did you know that forty years ago, there weren't even cell phones? Or the internet? How did you survive?"
"I'm forty, not eighty," Lewis protested. "Cell phones and the internet definitely existed by the time I really needed to use them."
"Barely though," Sophia countered with the confidence of someone who hadn't been alive for any of the transitions she was describing. "You're basically ancient."
"Leave Lewis alone," your mother chided gently. "Forty is a wonderful age—mature, established, distinguished."
"That's what I told him," you agreed, shooting Lewis a look that reminded him of your earlier conversation about middle age and erectile function.
The breakfast was warm and chaotic in the way of large family gatherings—multiple conversations happening simultaneously, food being passed with practiced coordination, easy laughter that spoke to genuine affection rather than performative family unity. Lewis found himself relaxing into it despite his usual preference for more controlled environments.
After breakfast came the moment Lewis had been dreading—the birthday celebration itself. Sophia had indeed procured a birthday hat, a ridiculous cone-shaped thing with "40" emblazoned in glittery numbers that she insisted he wear while the family sang to him.
"This is humiliating," Lewis informed you as Sophia secured the elastic band under his chin.
"This is family," you corrected, your eyes dancing with amusement. "Just wait until you see the cake."
The cake turned out to be an elaborate creation from some expensive bakery, decorated with unnecessary detail and featuring forty individual candles that Sophia insisted all be lit simultaneously.
"Make a wish!" she demanded as the family gathered around singing an enthusiastic if somewhat off-key version of "Happy Birthday."
Lewis looked at the faces surrounding him—your bright smile, your mother's warm affection, your sisters' genuine enthusiasm, even Salvatore's grudging approval. A year ago, he would have never imagined this scene: celebrated by a family that had initially seen him as a necessary evil at best, surrounded by people who'd come to accept and even care for him.
He blew out the candles to applause and cheering, making the only wish that mattered: that all these people stayed safe, that you remained by his side, and that the enemies circling in the shadows were eliminated before they could threaten what he'd found.
"What did you wish for?" Sophia asked eagerly.
"Can't tell," Lewis replied. "Otherwise it won't come true."
"That's superstition," Maria observed from across the table. "Statistically, the wish is going to come true or not regardless of whether you verbalize it."
"Let him have his superstition," you defended, cutting into the cake with practiced precision. "Everyone's allowed a little magical thinking on their birthday."
The rest of the day continued in similar fashion—casual family time interspersed with more formal moments as various business associates stopped by to pay respects. Lewis noted the careful choreography of it all: Salvatore managing who came when, ensuring certain people didn't overlap, orchestrating interactions with the skill of someone who'd spent decades building and maintaining his empire.
By evening, most of the casual visitors had departed, leaving only the core families for dinner—Riccis, Hamiltons' key personnel, and the Castellanos who'd arrived in the afternoon for the engagement portion of the celebration.
Marco Castellano carried himself with more confidence than during their first meeting, his hand possessively but respectfully resting on Gabriella's waist as they greeted everyone. Giovanni looked older but no less formidable, his shoulder apparently healed from the church attack though Lewis noted how carefully he moved.
"Hamilton," Giovanni greeted warmly, clasping Lewis's hand with firm pressure. "Congratulations on surviving another year. At our age, that's an accomplishment worth celebrating."
"You're only fifteen years older than me," Lewis pointed out.
"Yes, but those are fifteen important years," Giovanni replied with a grin. "Fifteen more years of wisdom, experience, and knowing not to get stabbed by Cuban madmen."
"That was one time," Lewis said dryly.
"Once is enough," Giovanni laughed, clapping him on the shoulder—the good one, thankfully. "Come, let's join Salvatore. I believe there's whiskey and cigars waiting for us."
The engagement celebration that followed was touching in its simplicity—Marco formally asking Salvatore for Gabriella's hand despite the engagement already being announced, presenting her with a ring that was tasteful rather than ostentatious, speaking about his intentions with the kind of earnest sincerity that was hard not to respect.
"I know our families have had complicated history," Marco said, addressing both Salvatore and Lewis. "But I love Gabriella, and I promise to spend my life proving I'm worthy of that love and the trust you're placing in me."
"See that you do," Salvatore replied gruffly, though his expression carried more warmth than threat. "My daughters deserve men who will protect them, honor them, build lives with them. Don't make me regret this alliance."
"I won't, sir," Marco promised with absolute certainty.
Lewis found himself watching you during the exchange, noting the soft expression as you observed your sister's happiness. This was what you'd deserved from the beginning—choice, romance, the opportunity to fall in love naturally rather than through strategic arrangement. But somehow, you'd found love anyway, built partnership from necessity, transformed obligation into devotion.
He was the luckiest bastard alive.
After the formal engagement recognition came the part Lewis had been anticipating with mixed feelings—the traditional separation of men for cigars and whiskey while the women gathered elsewhere. Lewis suspected this was when real business would be discussed, when the pleasant family celebration would give way to strategic planning and alliance coordination.
He wasn't wrong.
Salvatore's private study was rich with the scent of aged leather and expensive tobacco, the kind of space that had witnessed decades of important decisions and dangerous negotiations. Giovanni and Uncle Paolo had already settled into comfortable chairs, whiskey poured and cigars selected by the time Lewis and Salvatore joined them.
"To new alliances," Giovanni toasted, raising his glass. "And to surviving the violence that creates them."
They drank in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that existed between men who'd seen enough of the world's darkness to appreciate moments of peace.
"Your wife did well," Giovanni said eventually, addressing Lewis directly. "Surviving Suarez, killing him and his woman both, managing to keep her composure through everything. That's not common, especially for someone so young."
"She's stronger than most people realize," Lewis replied, pride evident in his voice. "Stronger than I initially gave her credit for, honestly."
"The Ricci women are like that," Salvatore said with paternal satisfaction. "Look soft and delicate on the outside, but underneath? Steel and fire. My wife, my daughters—all of them capable of violence when circumstances demand it."
"It's the Jamaican blood," Giovanni suggested with a smile. "Italians talk big, but the Caribbean families? They don't hesitate when action is required."
"Hey, careful," Uncle Paolo protested good-naturedly. "Some of us are pure Italian and perfectly capable of violence."
"You married a woman from Argentina," Giovanni pointed out. "I'm sensing a pattern among Ricci men and their preference for women with fire in their blood."
The conversation continued in this vein for a while—casual banter that disguised the careful observation and assessment happening beneath the surface. Lewis was being evaluated, he knew, not just as Salvatore's son-in-law but as a potential long-term ally to both families. His handling of Suarez's kidnapping, his organizational capabilities, his obvious devotion to you—all of it was being weighed and measured.
Finally, Salvatore leaned forward with the kind of deliberate movement that signaled a shift from casual to serious discussion. "Hamilton, I need a favor from you."
Lewis had been expecting this—Salvatore Ricci didn't offer alliance and celebration without expecting something in return. "What kind of favor?"
"Soon as you kill that sonofabitch Jensen," Salvatore said without preamble, "I need something else from you."
Lewis waited, knowing better than to commit before understanding the full request.
Salvatore's expression was completely serious as he continued: "A grandchild. Ideally a boy, but I'll take whatever God sees fit to bless us with."
The request caught Lewis completely off guard. He'd expected tactical favors, business considerations, perhaps coordination on some operation. Not... this.
Giovanni burst out laughing, the sound rich with genuine amusement. "Salvatore! Piccolo just came home after being kidnapped by a deranged man and you're already demanding grandchildren?"
"She's been home for weeks," Salvatore replied defensively. "And she's married. Married people have children—that's how family works."
"You can't just demand that Lewis impregnate your daughter on a timeline," Giovanni protested, still laughing. "That's not how any of this works."
"Why not?" Salvatore countered. "They're young, healthy, clearly very fond of each other based on the noise coming from the guest house—"
"Sal," Lewis said firmly.
"I'm just saying!" Salvatore said back. "Soundproofing isn't perfect!"
Lewis felt heat rising in his face despite his usual composure. With the amount of sex they'd been having—particularly in the days immediately following his medical clearance—he genuinely wouldn't be surprised if you were already pregnant or would be soon. But was he going to share that information with your father?
Hell fucking no.
"I'll... take your request under advisement," Lewis said diplomatically, earning another round of laughter from Giovanni.
"Under advisement," Salvatore repeated with obvious dissatisfaction. "That's British for 'maybe,' isn't it?"
"It's British for 'I'm not having this conversation with my father-in-law while you smoke cigars and make demands about my sex life,'" Lewis corrected.
"Fair enough," Uncle Paolo interjected, clearly enjoying Lewis's discomfort. "Though Sal has a point—you two would make beautiful babies. Good genetics on both sides."
"Can we please return to discussing literally anything else?" Lewis requested. "Business strategies, territorial disputes, plans for hunting Jensen—I'll take any topic over the current one."
"Fine, fine," Salvatore conceded with obvious reluctance. "But I'm just saying—I'm not getting any younger, and I'd like to meet my grandchildren while I can still terrorize them appropriately."
"Noted," Lewis said firmly. "Now, about the meeting with Petrov..."
The conversation shifted mercifully to business matters, though Lewis caught knowing looks from both Giovanni and Uncle Paolo that suggested this topic wasn't closed, merely postponed.
The meeting with Petrov was scheduled for two days after Lewis's birthday, at a Jamaican restaurant in Jersey City that Salvatore had been using for sensitive negotiations for years. The owner, a formidable woman named Claudette who'd emigrated from Kingston three decades ago, ran the establishment with the kind of efficient discretion that made it perfect for their purposes.
"The back room is yours for as long as you need," Claudette assured Salvatore when they arrived for the meeting. "I've already sent the regular staff home for the evening. Only people here are mine, and they know better than to see or hear anything they shouldn't."
"Thank you, Claudette," Salvatore replied warmly. "Your jerk chicken better be as good as always, or I'm finding a new location for these meetings."
"When has my cooking ever disappointed?" Claudette replied with mock offense. "You and your people eat, talk business, do whatever needs doing. Just try not to get blood on my nice tablecloths—they're expensive."
Lewis appreciated her matter-of-fact approach to their business. No judgment, no questions, just professional accommodation of their needs in exchange for generous compensation and Salvatore's protection.
The back room had been set up exactly as requested—large table with good sightlines to the entrance, positions arranged so that Lewis and Salvatore could sit with their backs to the wall, exits clearly marked and accessible. Miles and two of Salvatore's men were positioned outside, while you sat beside Lewis with your usual composed alertness.
"Nervous?" you asked quietly while they waited for Petrov to arrive.
"Cautious," Lewis corrected. "Everything we've learned suggests Petrov knew about Jensen's betrayal. This meeting is as much about confirming our suspicions as it is about coordinating strategy."
"He's going to lie," you predicted. "Smile and offer cooperation while maneuvering for advantage."
"Probably," Lewis agreed. "But we'll smile back and play along until we have everything we need to destroy him completely."
You squeezed his hand under the table. "I love when you get strategic and vindictive. It's very sexy."
"Later," Lewis promised. "After we've survived whatever game Petrov's about to play."
The Russian arrived precisely on time—a power move that suggested confidence rather than anxiety about the meeting. Aleksei Petrov moved with the kind of controlled grace that spoke to decades of surviving in a business where most people died young. His suit was expensive without being flashy, his demeanor friendly without seeming desperate.
"Hamilton," Petrov greeted, extending his hand. "I am pleased to see you recovering so well from your... difficulties."
Lewis accepted the handshake with measured politeness. "Thank you for making the trip. I understand you have information about Jensen's activities."
"Indeed," Petrov replied, his pale eyes moving to you with obvious assessment. "And Mrs. Hamilton. I hear you gave Suarez quite the surprise when you killed him. Very impressive, very strong woman."
The compliment felt barbed despite its pleasant delivery—something in Petrov's tone suggested mockery disguised as praise. You apparently sensed it too, because your smile was pure ice as you replied.
"Thank you. I found it surprisingly easy once I decided he needed to die."
Petrov's eyebrows rose slightly, as if he hadn't expected such direct acknowledgment. "Yes, well. Suarez was always... unstable. His obsession with you was very troubling to observe."
"You observed it frequently?" Lewis asked mildly, noting the way Petrov had phrased his comment.
"We were allies," Petrov replied smoothly, lighting a cigarette despite Claudette's probable preference for no smoking indoors. "I saw many things during our time working together. Some more concerning than others."
"Such as?" you prompted, your tone deceptively casual.
"Such as his complete disconnection from rational strategy," Petrov replied, exhaling smoke with practiced ease. "His plans became more about possessing you than about actual tactical advantage. Very dangerous when obsession replaces calculation."
"And yet you continued working with him," Lewis observed.
"Until it became clear he was liability rather than asset," Petrov agreed. "Which is why I withdrew from compound before your assault. Self-preservation, yes? No point in dying for another man's delusion."
The admission was carefully calculated—just enough truth to seem honest, but phrased to minimize Petrov's own culpability. Lewis noted how the Russian positioned himself as reasonable actor forced to work with unstable ally, rather than someone who'd potentially encouraged Suarez's obsession for his own purposes.
"Let's discuss Jensen," Salvatore interjected, his patience for diplomatic dancing clearly limited. "You said you have information about his location and activities."
"I do," Petrov confirmed, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another. "My sources in Prague have tracked him and his... companion... to several locations throughout Eastern Europe. Most recently, they were spotted in Budapest."
"Doing what?" Lewis asked.
"Meeting with old contacts, apparently," Petrov replied. "Trying to rebuild resources, establish new identity, find safe haven away from your reach. But here is interesting part—he is very sloppy. Making mistakes that someone of his experience should not make."
"Sloppy how?" you asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Using credit cards that can be traced, staying in hotels where cameras capture his face, meeting associates in public rather than secure locations," Petrov detailed. "Either he is very desperate, or he is very confident that you will not find him."
Lewis and you exchanged a glance, both thinking the same thing: Jensen wasn't sloppy. He was too well-trained, too experienced to make such basic operational mistakes. Which meant either he was truly desperate—possible but unlikely given the resources he'd accumulated through his betrayal—or this was deliberate.
"You think he's baiting us," Lewis concluded.
Petrov's smile was thin and cold. "I think Jensen knows you will come for him eventually. Question is whether he is preparing to run or preparing to fight."
"And your sources can track his movements?" Salvatore pressed.
"With reasonable accuracy," Petrov confirmed. "My networks in Eastern Europe are extensive. When Jensen moves, I know. When he contacts old associates, I hear about it. Information I am happy to share in exchange for... appropriate cooperation."
There it was—the explicit quid pro quo that had been implicit in every interaction with Petrov. Information in exchange for unspecified future cooperation that would undoubtedly benefit the Russian more than anyone else.
"What kind of cooperation?" Lewis asked directly.
"Nothing too demanding," Petrov assured him. "Simply recognition that we share mutual interests in certain territories, mutual understanding about operational boundaries, mutual commitment to not interfering in each other's business."
In other words, Petrov wanted Lewis to stay out of Eastern Europe while he consolidated power, using the hunt for Jensen as cover for establishing exclusive territory. The audacity of the proposal was almost impressive—help Petrov expand his empire while pretending it was cooperative partnership rather than strategic maneuvering.
"We'll consider it," Lewis replied noncommittally. "For now, we're focused on finding Jensen and making him pay for his betrayal."
"Of course, of course," Petrov agreed readily. "Personal matters must be addressed first. But perhaps, after Jensen is dead and Nico Rosberg with him, we can discuss more permanent arrangements?"
"Perhaps," Lewis said, keeping his tone neutral.
The rest of the meeting proceeded in similar fashion—Petrov offering intelligence that was useful but not quite specific enough to act on immediately, making suggestions about cooperation that were carefully phrased to sound reasonable while clearly advantaging his position, all while maintaining the friendly demeanor of concerned ally.
Lewis played along perfectly, accepting information with appropriate gratitude, agreeing to consider future cooperation without committing to anything specific, maintaining the appearance of a man too focused on immediate revenge to see the larger game being played.
When Petrov finally departed after two hours of carefully orchestrated discussion, Lewis waited until they were completely alone before turning to you and Salvatore.
"He's playing us," Lewis said flatly.
"Obviously," you agreed. "Question is how much of the intelligence is real versus misdirection."
"Some of it will be real," Salvatore observed. "Can't build trust if everything is lies. But the important details—the specific locations, the actual plans—those will be designed to benefit him however we respond."
"So we verify everything independently," Lewis decided. "Use his intelligence as a starting point, but don't rely on it exclusively."
"Good news to share," Miles said from his position by the door. "Initial contacts have been made, resources allocated. Within three more weeks, we should have independent verification capabilities."
"Good," Lewis said with satisfaction. "Let Petrov think we're buying his cooperation. Meanwhile, we gather evidence of his involvement in Jensen's betrayal and prepare to eliminate him once he's no longer useful."
"Ruthless," you observed with approval. "I like it."
"We finish what Naomi started," Lewis said firmly. "Everyone who played a role in her death pays the full price. Starting with Jensen and Nico, extending to Petrov and anyone else who thought they could manipulate this situation to their advantage."
"To Naomi," Salvatore said, raising his water glass in toast.
"To Naomi," they all echoed, the promise implicit in the words: justice would be done, debts would be paid, and no one involved in her death would survive to celebrate their perceived victory.
The game was far from over. But Lewis and his allies were done playing defense.
BESTIE BOO (lewis hamilton mini series) (part two) • iamquaintrelle
# summary: she's his jewelry stylist, best friend, mother to his godson, and he's hopelessly irrevocably in love with her.....but is she ever gonna figure it out?
# pairings: lewis hamilton x black female reader (nickname 'boo')
# warnings: cursing, drinking, adult themes - minors dni and if uncomfortable, do not read.
# tags: @lewismcqueen, @beauty-gurl, @issfaith, @palefacestudentlove, @kinggbl, @vintagesoul-01, @peyiswriting, @scorpiobleue, @purplelewlew, @rethasavedlives, @lovelymilaa, @butterpas2, @jessnotwiththemess, @muglermami, @pinkcatcus, @plan3tch1ld, @iamryanl, @weetjy, @camillak97, @snowseasonmademe, @differentmentalityduck, @itisiyourfemur, @determinednot2fall, @literallysza @totallynotluluu, @cannonindeez, @eriks-girl
# author's note: you guys this is short, okay? like 5 parts. all photo credits are from pinterest.
Y/N's POV
You woke up to absolute chaos.
Not gradually, not peacefully—just instant pandemonium. One second you were dead asleep in Lewis’s bed, wrapped in his expensive sheets and the lingering warmth of where he’d been before he got up, and the next second there were children screaming at a volume that should be illegal before 7 AM.
“SANTA CAME! SANTA CAME!”
That was Willow’s voice, high-pitched and excited enough to shatter glass.
“I TOLD YOU HE WAS STILL REAL!” Kaiden added, and you could hear the thunder of small feet running down the hallway.
You groaned, burying your face in Lewis’s pillow that smelled like his cologne and his fancy shampoo. Christmas morning. Right. You’d almost forgotten in your sleep-induced haze that today was the day.
“AUNTIE BOO! UNCLE LEW! WAKE UP!”
Your door—well, Lewis’s door—burst open, and suddenly there were children everywhere. Willow jumped on the bed with zero regard for your spine, Kaiden was pulling at the covers, and then LJ appeared, climbing up with his little arms outstretched.
“Mama! Mama, Santa came!”
You couldn’t even be mad. Not when your baby’s face was lit up like he’d just witnessed magic. You scooped him up, pulling him close, breathing in that sweet little-kid smell of him. “He did? Did he eat the cookies we left?”
“Yeah! And the milk’s all gone too!”
Lewis appeared in the doorway, already dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his braids fresh and neat, looking way too awake for this hour. He was grinning at the chaos, his phone already in his hand, recording.
“Alright, alright, everyone downstairs,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise with that natural authority he had. “Let’s see what Father Christmas brought.”
“Father Christmas sounds so British,” you muttered, climbing out of bed. You were wearing one of Lewis’s old t-shirts and sleep shorts, your bonnet slightly askew, definitely not presentable for company. “Give me five minutes to look human.”
“You look beautiful,” Lewis said it so casually, so easily, like it was just a fact.
“Liar. I look like I got hit by a truck.” But you were smiling, grabbing your robe from the chair. “Go. Keep the kids from destroying everything. I’ll be right down.”
By the time you made it downstairs—teeth brushed, face washed, edges smoothed, looking semi-human—the living room was controlled chaos. The massive tree Carmen had decorated was surrounded by presents, and the kids were vibrating with anticipation.
The entire Hamilton family was already there: Carmen looking radiant in her festive pajamas, Anthony and Linda together looking cozy and domestic, Samantha and Nicola with their partners, Nicolas looking half-asleep but happy.
“There she is,” Carmen called out, pulling you into a hug. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
“Merry Christmas, Mama C.” You hugged her back tight, then made the rounds—Anthony, Linda, the siblings, everyone getting love.
“Okay, youngest first,” Lewis announced, and Willow groaned dramatically.
“That’s so unfair! LJ’s gonna take forever!”
“Aye, be nice to your cousin,” Lewis warned, but he was smiling. “LJ, come here, little man.”
Your son ran over to Lewis, who lifted him up easily, settling him on his lap as they sat near the tree. Your phone was already out, camera ready, because you weren't missing a single moment of this.
LJ's first present was a large box wrapped in shiny red paper. His little fingers worked at it carefully—he was a careful kid, always had been—and when he finally got it open and saw the toy race car set inside, his entire face lit up.
"RACE CARS!" He looked at Lewis with wonder. "Like yours, Daddy Lew?"
"Just like mine," Lewis confirmed, and the pride in his voice made your chest tight.
You were taking pictures rapid-fire, capturing every expression, every moment. LJ's excitement as he opened each present—new clothes, books, action figures, art supplies. The way Lewis helped him with the tough wrapping paper, the way he explained what each toy did, the way he was so patient and present.
This was the stuff you'd save forever. The memories you'd show LJ when he was older and wanted to know what Christmas was like when he was four.
The whole family took turns opening presents, and you noticed some British traditions you'd learned over the years: the Christmas crackers that everyone pulled with loud pops, the paper crowns that everyone actually wore without complaint, the way Carmen served mince pies with breakfast even though they were kind of weird but you'd learned to love them.
"Alright, Boo," Lewis said after most of the presents were open. He reached behind the tree and pulled out a small box wrapped in elegant gold paper. "This one's for you."
Your stomach flipped. "Lew, I thought we said no expensive gifts this year."
"When have I ever listened to that?" He handed you the box, and everyone in the room seemed to quiet down, watching.
You knew it was jewelry before you even opened it—recognized the size and shape of the box. But when you lifted the lid and saw what was inside, your breath caught.
A Richard Mille watch. Rose gold and diamonds, the face a beautiful pale pink, delicate but substantial. A women's version of the one Lewis wore almost daily. It was stunning. Elegant.
"Lewis," you breathed, staring at it. "This is—I can't—"
"You can and you will," he said firmly, taking the box from you and carefully removing the watch. "We match now. Like we should."
He fastened it around your wrist, his fingers gentle and sure, and you felt tears prick your eyes. The weight of it felt significant—not just because of the cost, but because of what it meant. Matching watches. Like a pair. Like you belonged to each other.
"Thank you," you whispered, and before you could overthink it, you leaned forward and kissed his cheek, lingering maybe a moment too long. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
"Nah, but I try." He grinned, but there was something soft in his eyes, something vulnerable. "Merry Christmas, Boo."
"Merry Christmas, baby daddy."
Nicola caught your eye from across the room and mouthed, "Just kiss already," and you flipped her off discreetly, making her laugh into her coffee mug.
After breakfast—a full English breakfast that Carmen insisted on every Christmas, complete with beans and tomatoes and black pudding that you still couldn't quite handle—everyone bundled up to go outside. The snow had been falling steadily all morning, and the backyard looked like a winter wonderland.
"Snow people!" LJ announced, already waddling toward the door in his puffy coat.
"That's snowmen, baby," you corrected, zipping up your own coat.
"Or snow women," Samantha added. "Or snow non-binary folks. Snow people is actually more inclusive."
"I love that for us," you laughed, pulling on your gloves.
Outside, the cold hit you immediately, sharp and clean. The kids ran ahead, already packing snow with their small hands. Lewis appeared at your side, his hand finding yours naturally, like it always did.
"You good?" he asked, his breath fogging in the cold air.
"I'm great." You squeezed his hand, admired your new watch catching the winter light. "Best Christmas ever, honestly."
"Yeah?" He looked pleased with himself. "Good. That's what I was going for."
You spent the next hour building snow people—a whole family of them, actually. LJ insisted his had to be wearing a hat just like Daddy Lew's beanies, so Lewis sacrificed one of his, making your son giggle with delight. Willow made hers with stick arms positioned like she was dabbing, because she was ten and that was hilarious to her. Kaiden's was actually pretty artistic, carefully sculpted and proportioned.
You took so many pictures your fingers went numb. Lewis and LJ together, Lewis lifting him up to put the carrot nose on. The whole family gathered around their snow people. Carmen and Anthony looking stupidly in love even after all these years. Samantha and Nicola in a snowball fight with their partners.
This was family. This was home.
Even though technically, none of these people were related to you by blood. Even though you'd just been Lewis's friend who'd somehow become absorbed into their lives. They treated you like you'd always been there, like you always would be.
Dinner was a production. The whole family gathered around the massive dining table, Christmas dinner done up properly: roast turkey and ham, roasted potatoes and parsnips, Yorkshire puddings, Brussels sprouts with bacon, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, more food than could possibly be eaten.
Lewis had his own plate—vegan alternatives that his mum had made specially, always accommodating, always making sure he felt included even with his dietary choices.
"A toast," Anthony said, standing up with his wine glass raised. "To family. To the people we love. To another year of blessings."
"To family," everyone echoed, and you felt emotion clog your throat as you clinked glasses with Lewis.
LJ fell asleep before dessert, curled up in Lewis's lap, completely exhausted from the excitement of the day. You reached over and smoothed his hair back, your new watch catching the candlelight.
"We should probably get him to bed," you murmured.
"I got him." Lewis stood carefully, cradling your son against his chest. LJ didn't even stir, just snuggled into Lewis's shoulder with complete trust.
You followed them upstairs, watching as Lewis laid LJ down gently in his race car bed, removing his shoes, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He pressed a kiss to LJ's forehead, whispered, "Merry Christmas, little man," and your heart cracked wide open.
This man. This incredible, patient, loving man who wasn't obligated to care about your son but did anyway. Who showed up, who stayed, who loved without conditions.
"You're staring," Lewis said softly, catching you in the doorway.
"Can you blame me?" You stepped into the room, came to stand next to him, both of you looking down at your sleeping son. "He loves you so much, Lew. You know that, right?"
"I love him too." Lewis's voice was thick with emotion. "Love both of you. You're my family, Boo."
You leaned into him, let him wrap his arm around your shoulders, let yourself have this moment of peace and contentment.
Best Christmas ever.
Lewis’s POV
Lewis woke before dawn, his internal clock still set to race-day timing even in the off-season. Y/N was pressed against his side, her breathing deep and even, one hand curled against his chest.
He let himself have this moment—just watching her sleep, memorizing the peaceful expression on her face, the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks, the slight smile that played at her lips even in sleep.
He loved her. God, he loved her so much it physically ached.
The plan had been simple: take her to Aspen, find the right moment, tell her everything. But now, lying here with her in his arms, Lewis realized simple wasn’t enough.
Y/N deserved more than “I love you” whispered on a mountainside. She deserved grand gestures, the kind of moment she’d remember forever. She deserved to know that she wasn’t just someone he loved—she was the only person he could imagine spending the rest of his life with.
The realization hit him like a physical blow: he wanted to marry her.
Not someday. Not eventually. He wanted to marry her, wanted to make it official, wanted LJ to be his son in every way that mattered, wanted to build a life with them that was real and permanent and forever.
His hand moved to her hair, gently stroking, and she made a small sound of contentment in her sleep, burrowing closer.
The private jet cut through the sky somewhere over the Rockies, and Lewis couldn't stop watching Y/N.
She was curled up in one of the leather seats, her new Richard Mille catching the light every time she moved her hand, scrolling through her phone and going through the photos from Christmas. Every so often she'd smile at one, or laugh softly, or show him one that she particularly loved.
"Look at LJ's face in this one," she said, turning her phone toward him. It was the moment LJ had opened the race car set, his expression pure joy.
"That's going on the wall," Lewis decided. "Send that to me."
"Already did."
They'd left Denver early that morning—well, early for a post-Christmas flight—leaving LJ with his family who'd insisted they'd be fine, that Y/N deserved a vacation, that Lewis needed to relax. The goodbye had been harder than expected, with LJ clinging to Y/N's leg and crying that he didn't want Mama to go.
But they'd made it. And now they were almost to Aspen.
"You good?" Lewis asked as the pilot announced their descent. "Need anything?"
"I'm fine." But Y/N shifted uncomfortably, reached for her water bottle and chugged half of it in one go.
"Boo, slow down. You're gonna make yourself sick."
"I know, I know." She set the bottle down, wiping her mouth. "But the altitude in Aspen is no joke. I'm trying to hydrate ahead of time."
She didn't do well with altitude—never had. Last time they'd gone skiing, she'd gotten a headache that lasted two days until her body adjusted. Lewis had made sure to stock the villa with electrolyte drinks and had even consulted with Angela about the best way to help her acclimate.
"We'll take it easy tonight," he promised. "No partying. Just chill at the villa, let your body adjust."
"But Spinz—"
"Your health is more important than Spinz's party plans."
"I'll be fine, though. Trust me," Y/N smiled, reached over, and squeezed his hand. "You always take such good care of me."
"That's my job."
"It's not, though. That's the thing." Her expression turned serious. "You don't have to do all this, Lew. The watch, the trip, taking care of me, everything you do for LJ. You don't owe us anything."
Lewis's chest tightened. "I don't do it because I owe you. I do it because I want to. Because you both mean everything to me."
He meant it as a confession, but she took it as friendship, her smile soft and grateful but missing the depth of what he was trying to say.
"We're lucky to have you," she said simply, and Lewis swallowed down everything else he wanted to say.
Miles, Spinz, and Timmy were already at the villa when they arrived, the massive property Lewis had rented for the week looking like something out of a magazine—all glass and wood and modern luxury nestled in the mountains. Five bedrooms, each with an ensuite bathroom, a gourmet kitchen, a living area with a fireplace that could fit ten people, a hot tub on the deck overlooking the mountains, a game room with a pool table, and a full bar.
“Finally!” Spinz called out when they walked in, immediately pulling Y/N into a bear hug. “Thought you two got lost.”
“Please, we’re right on time,” Y/N laughed, hugging him back. “Where’s the food? I’m starving.”
“Kitchen, where else.”
They made their way to the kitchen where a spread was already laid out—everything from charcuterie to fresh fruit to vegan options for Lewis.
“So,” Y/N started, and Lewis knew that tone. She was about to interrogate someone. “The girls tonight. The ones meeting us at dinner and the club. What do they look like, Daniel?”
Spinz—whose real name was Daniel, though only his mother used it—looked offended. “Why are you calling me by my government name? And—”
“What the hoes looking like, Spinz?”
Lewis choked on his water, and Miles burst out laughing.
“Hoes? Give me a break, Boo. They’re not hoes.”
Y/N sucked her teeth. “They’re always boring though. Never want to talk to me, only interested in y’all, giggly and fake. That’s boring.”
“Maybe they’re intimidated by you,” Miles offered diplomatically.
“Why would they be intimidated?”
“Because you’re gorgeous, successful, smart, and clearly close with all of us? Some women don’t know how to handle that.”
Y/N seemed to consider this, then shrugged. “Whatever. They better be able to hold a conversation or I’m leaving early.”
Lewis caught Miles’s eye, and his friend raised an eyebrow knowingly. Yeah. Y/N was bothered by these women, even if she wouldn’t admit why.
*********************************************
Y/N excused herself to go FaceTime with LJ, disappearing into the bedroom she'd claimed. Lewis busied himself unpacking his own stuff, trying not to think about how she'd automatically taken the room next to his, how they'd probably end up in the same bed anyway like they always did.
"Mama!"
LJ's voice carried through the wall, high-pitched and excited, and Lewis smiled. He gave her a few minutes, then knocked softly on her door.
"Come in."
She was sitting on the bed, phone propped up on a pillow, and on the screen was LJ in Carmen's arms, his little face scrunched up like he was trying not to cry.
"Hey, little man," Lewis said, settling next to Y/N so he was in frame.
"Daddy Lew!" LJ's face brightened slightly, but then crumpled again. "I miss Mama. I want Mama."
"I know, baby." Y/N's voice was soft, aching. "But Mama will be back soon, okay? Just a few days. You're having fun with Grandma and Papa, right?"
"Yeah but..." LJ's bottom lip wobbled. "I miss you."
"I miss you too, baby. So much." Y/N's eyes were shiny with unshed tears. "But you're being such a big boy. I'm so proud of you."
"LJ," Lewis cut in, leaning closer to the camera. "You know what? I'm gonna bring you back some special treats from Aspen. Some really good sweets. Would you like that?"
LJ's tears stopped mid-stream, his eyes widening. "Sweets?"
"Yeah, mate. The good stuff. But only if you're good for Grandma and Papa. Deal?"
"Deal!" LJ was fully brightened now, bouncing in Carmen's arms. "Can I go play now?"
Carmen laughed, shaking her head at Lewis. "You spoil him, Lewis."
"That's what I'm here for." He grinned. "Love you, little man."
"Love you too, Daddy Lew! Bye, Mama!"
"Bye, baby—" But LJ was already scrambling down, running off camera toward his toys, completely recovered now that treats had been promised.
Carmen's face filled the screen, amused. "He'll be fine. Go have fun, you two. LJ is in good hands."
"I know, Mama C. Thank you so much for this." Y/N wiped at her eyes quickly.
"Anytime, sweetheart. Now go. Enjoy yourselves. Be young. Have fun." Carmen's eyes twinkled. "Maybe finally have that conversation you two need to have."
She hung up before either of them could respond.
Y/N set her phone down, laughing wetly. "Your mom is so nosy."
"She means well." Lewis bumped her shoulder with his. "You okay?"
"Yeah." She wiped her eyes again. "Just miss him already. I'm being ridiculous."
"You're not ridiculous. You're a good mom."
"And you," she turned to face him fully, "spoil him way too much."
Lewis shrugged meekly, not even sorry. "Can't help it. I love seeing him happy."
"You're gonna ruin him."
"Nah. We balance each other out. You're the discipline, I'm the fun."
"Great. So I'm the bad guy."
"Never." Lewis reached out, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You're the best thing that ever happened to him. To both of us."
Y/N's breath caught, and for a moment—just a moment—Lewis thought about saying it. Saying everything. But then she smiled and stood up, breaking the moment.
"Come on. We should get ready for dinner. Gotta see these hoes you boys picked out."
Lewis groaned, following her out of the room. This was going to be a long night.
The restaurant was one of those exclusive places where you needed a reservation weeks in advance, the kind of spot where celebrities went to see and be seen. Their group had a private section in the back—Lewis, Y/N, Miles, Spinz, Timmy, and the three women Spinz had invited.
The women were exactly what Y/N had predicted: gorgeous, polished, and boring as hell.
Lewis watched Y/N's face as she tried to make conversation with the woman sitting nearest to her—a tall blonde named Jessica who'd introduced herself as a model and then proceeded to talk only to Spinz.
"So, Jessica," Y/N tried again, "what kind of modeling do you do?"
"Oh, you know, editorial, commercial, whatever." Jessica barely glanced at her before turning back to Spinz. "So you really know Kendall Jenner?"
Strike one, Lewis thought, watching Y/N's expression close off.
The other two women—Tara and Madison—were equally uninterested in Y/N, more focused on their phones and whispering to each other while occasionally giggling at something Daniel or Miles said.
Lewis found the whole thing exhausting. He'd dealt with women like this before—women who saw him as a prize to be won, a photo opportunity, a story to tell their friends. Women who didn't care about getting to know him, just cared about being seen with him.
When one of them—Tara, he thought—shifted closer to him, her hand landing on his arm as she laughed at something he hadn't meant to be funny, Lewis caught Spinz's eye across the table and gave him a look that clearly said, What the hell, man?
Spinz just shrugged helplessly.
Y/N had gone quiet, picking at her food, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. Lewis was about to suggest they leave early when someone called out from across the restaurant.
"Y/N? Oh my god, Y/N!"
A woman approached their table—Black, beautiful, stylish as hell in a way that made the other women at the table look basic. Y/N's face lit up immediately.
"Naomi!" She jumped up, pulling the woman into a hug. "What are you doing in Aspen?"
"Same as you, girl. Holiday vacation. I'm here with some friends." Naomi gestured to a table nearby. "We should link up!"
"Actually," Y/N said, and Lewis could see the mischief in her eyes, "why don't you join us? We're about to head to a club after this."
"Really? You sure?"
"Absolutely." Y/N shot a pointed look at the boring women, then at Spinz. "The more the merrier, right?"
"Of course," Lewis said immediately, standing to shake Naomi's hand. "Any friend of Boo's is welcome."
"Boo?" Naomi grinned.
"That's his nickname for me," Y/N said, smiling at Lewis in a way that made his heart skip.
Naomi joined them, and immediately the energy at the table shifted. She was funny, engaging, asked people actual questions and listened to the answers. She and Y/N fell into easy conversation, and Lewis watched Y/N relax for the first time all evening.
The club was packed, the bass was so heavy you felt it in your chest, where the lighting was dim and intimate.
Their group had a VIP section, and the boring women immediately claimed spots on the couches, ordering bottle service and taking pictures for Instagram. Y/N stood at the railing, watching the crowd below with Naomi, the two of them laughing about something.
Lewis made his way over, handed Y/N a drink—vodka cranberry, her favorite.
"Thanks, baby daddy." She took a sip, swayed slightly to the music. "You know I'm gonna shake my ass if they play my song, right?"
Lewis laughed, warmth spreading through his chest. "I expect nothing less."
"Just warning you. It's gonna get real."
"I'm ready."
As if on cue, the DJ transitioned into a classic—"Back That Thang Up" by Juvenile—and Y/N's eyes went wide.
"NO WAY." She turned to Lewis, pointing at him accusingly. "You requested this, didn't you?"
Lewis grinned, couldn't help himself. "Maybe."
"I knew it!" But she was laughing, already moving toward the dance floor, pulling Naomi with her. "Come on!"
Lewis followed, because of course he did, because watching Y/N dance was one of his favorite things in the world. She wasn't shy about it, didn't care who was watching, just moved to the music with complete freedom and joy.
When she started actually backing it up, Lewis stepped in close, his hands finding her hips naturally, like they'd done this a thousand times before—which they kind of had, in kitchens and living rooms and random clubs over the years.
"You better keep up," she warned, looking back at him over her shoulder, that competitive spark in her eyes.
"Always do."
They danced through three songs, close enough that Lewis could smell her perfume, feel the heat of her body, watch the way she moved without inhibition. Other people tried to cut in—including Tara, who appeared out of nowhere looking annoyed—but Y/N just waved them off, stayed with Lewis, like there was no one else she'd rather dance with.
Like maybe she felt it too. This thing between them that was more than friendship, bigger than anything they'd acknowledged out loud.
By the time they got back to the villa, it was past 2 AM. Everyone was pleasantly tipsy, laughing and loud, reliving the best moments of the night. The boring women had left early, claiming they were tired, and no one had protested their departure.
Y/N changed into sleep clothes—one of Lewis's shirts again and sleep shorts—and knocked on his door softly.
"Come in, Boo."
She padded in, climbed into his bed like it was hers, settled under the covers with a contented sigh. Lewis was already in bed, scrolling through his phone, and he set it aside when she got comfortable.
"So," she started, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him. "Those girls."
"Here we go," Lewis groaned, but he was smiling.
"They were so boring, Lew. Like, painfully boring. I tried—I really tried—to have a conversation with them, but they were not interested."
"I noticed."
"And they were all over you and Miles and Timmy like—" She made an exaggerated gesture. "It was embarrassing, honestly."
"You jealous, Boo?"
"I'm not jealous," she said immediately, too quickly. "I just think they were stale. Spinz needs better hoes."
Lewis laughed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "Better hoes?"
"Yes! Like, if you're gonna bring women to a group hang, at least bring interesting ones. Bring women who can hold conversations, who aren't just interested in getting Instagram pictures."
"I'll tell Spinz about your recommendations."
"Please do. He needs the help." She flopped back onto her pillow, stared at the ceiling. "Why are you always around the boring ones anyway? You should be with exciting women. Interesting women. Women who challenge you and make you laugh and actually care about who you are, not just what you are."
Lewis's heart was pounding. "I'm not with all of that anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He chose his words carefully. "I'm not interested in random women at clubs. In boring conversations and meaningless connections. I'm too old for that shit."
Y/N turned her head to look at him, curious. "So what are you interested in?"
"Something real." He held her gaze, let himself be vulnerable for just a moment. "Someone real."
"Have you found her?" The question was soft, almost hesitant, and Lewis saw something flicker in her eyes. Hope? Fear? He couldn't tell.
Lewis just stared at her, taking in every detail of her face in the dim light from the bedside lamp. The curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the intelligence in her eyes. He let himself look at her lovingly, openly, the way he usually kept hidden.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, soft and lingering, his lips brushing against her skin.
"What was that for?" she whispered when he pulled back.
"Just because." His voice was rough with everything he wasn't saying.
Y/N's expression softened, and she smiled—that genuine, unguarded smile that she reserved for him. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek in return, her lips warm against his skin.
"Goodnight, Lew."
"Goodnight, Boo."
She settled into his side, her head on his chest, her arm across his waist. Lewis held her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing as she drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, Lewis and the guys were enjoying breakfast, yet as always, they could easily decipher that something was bothering him.
“Alright, spill,” Miles said, setting down his coffee. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Lewis took a deep breath. “I’m gonna go all in.”
“What do you mean, bro?” Miles leaned against the table, giving Lewis his full attention.
“I mean I’m not just gonna tell her I love her. I’m gonna—” He paused, the words feeling massive in his mouth. “She’s the only person I want to spend the rest of my life with. The only one. And I want her to know that. Want to show her.”
“Are you gonna—” Spinz started, his eyes going wide.
But before he could finish, Y/N walked in, looking adorable in Lewis’s hoodie and leggings.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling at all of them before making her way to the breakfast spread still laid out. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Nah, just talking about today’s plans,” Lewis said smoothly, his heart pounding. How much had she heard?
“Right. Skiing and snowboarding.” She made a face as she poured herself coffee. “I’m so nervous about that. What if I fall and break something? What if I can’t keep up with you guys? What if—”
“Boo,” Lewis cut her off gently, moving to her side. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll stay on the easy slopes. And if you want to stop, we stop. No pressure.”
“You say that now, but once you’re out there you’re gonna want to go fast and do tricks and—”
“Then I’ll do those things later. Right now, all that matters is making sure you’re comfortable and having fun.” He tucked a stray loc behind her ear. “That’s what this trip is about. You having fun. Relaxing. Enjoying yourself.”
Y/N’s expression softened, and she leaned into him slightly. “Fine, I'll have fun.”
“Thank you.” He held her gaze, willing her to understand what he couldn’t quite say yet, then reached up to kiss her cheek.
Behind them, Lewis heard Timmy mutter, “Just kiss already, damn,” and Spinz shushing him.
But Y/N didn’t hear it, already turning back to her breakfast, chatting about her fears for skiing, completely oblivious to the three men watching Lewis with expressions that ranged from sympathy to exasperation.
Miles caught his eye, mouthed, “Soon.”
Yeah. Soon.
But Lewis was starting to realize that soon might not be soon enough.
Y/N's POV
"I'm gonna die. I'm literally gonna die on this mountain."
"You're not gonna die." Lewis's voice was patient, amused, as he adjusted your ski boots for the third time. "These are bunny slopes, Boo. Literal children are doing this."
"Yeah, well, literal children don't have as far to fall." You looked down the gentle incline that seemed way steeper than it probably was, then back at Lewis. "Are you sure about this?"
"Positive." He stood, his own skis already on, looking annoyingly comfortable and natural. Of course he did. Lewis Hamilton was good at everything physical. "I'll be right next to you the whole time. If you feel like you're gonna fall, just—"
"Just what? Gracefully collapse? There's no graceful way to eat snow, Lew."
"Then we'll eat snow together." He held out his hands, his smile soft and encouraging. "Come on, wifey. Trust me."
You did trust him. That was never the question. You just didn't trust your own coordination.
But you took his hands anyway, let him guide you into position, listened as he explained—for the fourth time—how to control your speed, how to turn, how to stop.
"Okay," you said, taking a deep breath of the crisp mountain air. "Okay. I can do this."
"You absolutely can."
Your first attempt lasted approximately fifteen seconds before you lost your balance and went down hard, landing on your butt with enough force to knock the wind out of you.
"Shoot," you heard Lewis say, and then he was there, helping you up, checking you over. "You good?"
"My ass is not good. My dignity is not good. But I'm alive." You brushed snow off your pants, already feeling the bruise forming. "Let's try again."
And you did. Again and again and again.
By attempt number seven, you'd made it halfway down the bunny slope before falling. By attempt twelve, you'd made it three-quarters. And by attempt fifteen, you actually made it all the way down without falling, and Lewis was there at the bottom whooping and cheering like you'd just won the Olympics.
"YES! That's my girl!" He picked you up and spun you around, both of you laughing. "I knew you could do it!"
"I did it!" You were breathless, exhilarated, your face probably red from cold and effort but you didn't even care. "Holy shit, I actually did it!"
"Wanna go again?"
"Hell yeah."
You spent the next two hours on those bunny slopes, gradually getting more confident, falling less frequently. Lewis stayed with you the whole time, patient and encouraging, celebrating every small victory like it was a major accomplishment.
"You're really good at this teaching thing," you said during one of your breaks, both of you sitting on a bench sipping hot chocolate. "Very patient. Very supportive."
"Well, you're a good student. You don't give up."
"That's because you make it fun." You bumped his shoulder with yours. "Anyone else would've gotten bored and left me here."
"Never." He said it with such certainty, such finality, that you felt your heart skip. "I'd never leave you, Boo."
The moment felt heavy, significant, but before you could analyze it, Spinz appeared with Timmy and Miles in tow, all of them looking like professional skiers in their expensive gear.
"Y'all still on the baby slopes?" Spinz called out. "Come on, Boo! Let's hit the real mountains!"
"Absolutely not." You stood up, already feeling muscles you didn't know you had protesting. "I'm good right here in my safe little beginner area."
"We're gonna go do a few runs on the advanced slopes," Miles said to Lewis. "You coming?"
Lewis looked at you, then back at his friends. "Nah, I'm good here."
"Lew, go." You pushed at his shoulder. "Seriously. I know you're dying to go fast and show off. I'll be fine here."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Go have fun with the boys. I'll keep practicing."
He hesitated for another moment, then kissed your forehead—casual, natural, like he always did. "Text me if you need anything. I'll have my phone."
"I will. Now go before I change my mind and make you stay here watching me fall on my ass some more."
You watched them ski off toward the more challenging slopes, then turned back to your bunny hill with determination. You were gonna master this if it killed you.
***********************************************
Spoiler alert: it almost killed you.
By the time you met back up with the guys for lunch, you'd fallen approximately thirty more times, and your ass was so bruised you were pretty sure you'd have trouble sitting for a week.
"How'd it go?" Lewis asked as you limped into the ski lodge restaurant.
"Great. Amazing. I'm a natural." You lowered yourself gingerly into a chair and winced. "I definitely didn't bust my ass seventeen times in the last hour."
Timmy snorted into his beer. "Seventeen? That's generous."
"Shut up." But you were laughing, accepting the menu Lewis handed you. "What's good here?"
Lunch was perfect—warm soup and fresh bread and the kind of easy conversation that only came with people you were truly comfortable with. The guys told stories about their own skiing mishaps, made you laugh until your sides hurt, and Lewis kept his hand on your thigh under the table, his thumb tracing absent patterns that made you hyperaware of every point of contact.
"You good for the afternoon?" Lewis asked quietly while the others were debating what to do next. "We can head back to the villa if you're too sore."
"I'm fine. Sore, but fine." You squeezed his hand. "Let's do a few more runs. I'm not ready to give up yet."
Pride flashed across his face. "That's my Boo."
The afternoon was better than the morning. You fell less, felt more confident, even managed to do a few turns that felt almost graceful. By the time the sun started setting and the temperature dropped, you were exhausted but satisfied.
"I did it," you said to Lewis as you both took off your skis. "I actually learned to ski."
"You did. I'm proud of you." He helped you out of your boots, his hands gentle and sure. "How's the ass?"
"Destroyed. I'm gonna be bruised for days."
"I'll give you a massage later."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." His eyes held yours, warm and intent. "Let me take care of you, Boo."
And really, what were you supposed to say to that?
Lewis had made reservations at some intimate restaurant tucked away in downtown Aspen—the kind of place with soft lighting and candles on every table and a view of the snow-covered mountains through floor-to-ceiling windows.
"This is fancy," you said as the host led you to a private corner table. "What's the occasion?"
"Do I need an occasion to take you to dinner?" Lewis held out your chair, ever the gentleman.
"I guess not." You sat carefully, your bruised butt protesting. "But you're being extra tonight. Extra fancy, extra attentive. What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Nothing. Just want to spend time with you. Alone. No kids, no friends, no distractions." He reached across the table, took your hand. "Just us."
Your heart did that stupid flutter thing again. "Just us sounds nice."
Dinner was incredible—multiple courses of beautifully plated food, wine that probably cost more than your monthly rent, conversation that flowed easily from topic to topic. You talked about LJ, about your business, about Lewis's plans for next season. You laughed about your skiing disasters, made plans for what to do tomorrow, just enjoyed being in each other's presence without the usual chaos of life.
"Can I ask you something?" Lewis said over dessert.
"Always."
"Are you happy? Like, genuinely happy with your life?"
The question caught you off guard. "Yeah. I mean, I think so. Why?"
"Just wondering." He played with his fork, not meeting your eyes. "You work so hard, raise LJ basically alone, juggle a million things. I just want to make sure you're actually happy, not just... surviving."
"I'm happy." You squeezed his hand. "I have an amazing son, a business I love, the best friend anyone could ask for. What's not to be happy about?"
"And what about love? Romance? All that?"
"What about it?"
"Don't you want it? Want someone to share your life with?"
You took a sip of wine, considering. "Sometimes. But honestly? Dating is exhausting. Men either can't handle that I have a kid, or they're weird about how close you and I are, or they're just... not worth the effort." You shrugged. "I've got you and LJ. That's enough for now."
Something flickered across Lewis's face—too quick for you to read. "What if someone could handle all of that? What if someone already does?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Never mind." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You wanna get out of here? I got something else planned."
The "something else" turned out to be nighttime snowmobiling.
"Are you serious?" You stared at the sleek machines waiting for you outside the restaurant, your breath fogging in the cold air. "Lewis, I can barely ski. You want me to drive one of these?"
"You're not driving. You're riding with me." He gestured to the larger snowmobile. "You sit behind me, hold on, and enjoy the ride."
"Hold on to what exactly?"
"Me." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "You hold on to me."
And that's how you found yourself straddling a snowmobile behind Lewis, your arms wrapped around his waist, your cheek pressed against his back as he started the engine.
"Ready?" he called back over the noise.
"No! But let's do it anyway!"
The snowmobile took off, and you shrieked, your arms tightening around Lewis's waist. But after a few minutes, the fear gave way to exhilaration. The mountains were beautiful at night—snow glowing under the moonlight, stars so bright they looked fake, the only sound the engine and your laughter as Lewis took you on trails through the forest.
You felt his abs tighten under your hands when he steered, felt the warmth of his body even through all the layers of clothing, felt safe and thrilled all at once.
"You good back there?" he yelled.
"This is amazing!" you yelled back, and you felt more than heard his laugh.
He took you on trails for almost an hour, showing you frozen waterfalls and clearings where you could see the entire valley, teaching you to lean with him on turns. By the time you got back to the villa, you were frozen but grinning.
"That was incredible," you said as you both took off your gear. "Like, top ten life experiences incredible."
"Yeah?" Lewis looked pleased with himself. "Good. That was the goal."
"You're really going all out this trip. The watch, the fancy dinners, the snowmobiling. What's next, are you gonna buy me a mountain?"
"Don't tempt me." He was smiling, but something in his voice sounded serious.
Back at the villa, everyone else was in the game room, but Lewis led you to his bedroom instead.
"Sit," he instructed, pointing to the bed. "Let me grab some things."
"Lew, I'm fine—"
"Boo. Sit."
You sat, and he disappeared into the bathroom, returning with massage oil and a determined expression.
"Take off your pants and lie down on your stomach."
"This really isn't necessary—"
"You busted your ass all day learning to ski for me. The least I can do is make sure you're not in pain." He gestured to the bed. "Now lie down before I make you."
You did as told, getting comfortable on your stomach after taking off your pants. Lewis's hands were warm when they landed on your hamstrings, working the tight muscles with practiced ease.
"Oh my God," you groaned into the pillow. "Okay, this was necessary. This is amazing."
"Told you." His hands moved lower, working your calves, your ankles, then back up. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."
You did relax, your body melting into the mattress as Lewis's strong hands worked out every knot and sore spot. It felt intimate, caring, like more than just a friendly massage. His hands lingered on your skin, his touch gentle but firm, and you found yourself having thoughts you definitely shouldn't be having about your best friend.
"Lew?" you murmured after a while.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For today. For all of this. For always taking care of me."
His hands stilled for a moment, then continued their work. "You don't have to thank me for that. I'll always take care of you, Boo. Always."
"I know." Your eyes were getting heavy, exhaustion and the massage combining to make you drowsy. "You're the best thing in my life. You know that, right?"
"Boo—"
"No, I mean it. You and LJ. You're my family. My real family. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Lewis's hands stopped moving. There was a long moment of silence, and you were about to ask if something was wrong when you felt him lean down, felt his lips press against your shoulder blade through your shirt.
"Sleep, Boo," he whispered. "We'll talk in the morning."
But you were already drifting off, comfortable and safe and loved, completely unaware that Lewis was sitting next to you with his heart breaking, trying to figure out how to tell you that he wanted to be more than just your family.
BESTIE BOO (lewis hamilton mini series) (part one) • iamquaintrelle
# summary: she's his jewelry stylist, best friend, mother to his godson, and he's hopelessly irrevocably in love with her.....but is she ever gonna figure it out?
# pairings: lewis hamilton x black female reader (nickname 'boo')
# warnings: cursing, drinking, adult themes - minors dni and if uncomfortable, do not read.
# tags: @lewismcqueen, @beauty-gurl, @issfaith, @palefacestudentlove, @kinggbl, @vintagesoul-01, @peyiswriting, @scorpiobleue, @purplelewlew, @rethasavedlives, @lovelymilaa, @butterpas2, @jessnotwiththemess, @muglermami, @pinkcatcus, @plan3tch1ld, @iamryanl, @weetjy, @camillak97, @snowseasonmademe, @differentmentalityduck, @itisiyourfemur, @determinednot2fall, @literallysza, @totallynotluluu
# author's note: you guys this is short, okay? like 5 parts. all photo credits are from pinterest.
December 21st, 2025 - Denver, Colorado
Y/N's POV
"Auntie Boo, do you think the Broncos are gonna win today?"
You looked down at Willow, Lewis's ten-year-old niece, who was practically vibrating with excitement in her orange and blue Broncos beanie. Her brother Kaiden, twelve and trying hard to look too cool to care, was nevertheless keeping pace beside you as you all made your way through the crowded concourse of Empower Field at Mile High.
"I don't know, baby girl," you said, shifting LJ higher on your hip. Your four-year-old was getting heavy as hell—when did that happen?—but he'd taken one look at the crowd and climbed you like a tree, little arms locked around your neck in a death grip. "What do you think, Lewis?"
Lewis Hamilton—seven-time Formula 1 World Champion, part-owner of the Denver Broncos, fashion icon, and your best friend of five years—grinned at Willow with that megawatt smile that had graced a thousand magazine covers. "I think we've got a solid shot. Defense has been tight all season."
"Sir Uncle, you literally say that every time," Kaiden pointed out, his pre-teen skepticism showing through hard. "And we've lost like half our games."
"Aye, watch your mouth. We're ten and three, thank you very much. That's not half." Lewis reached out to ruffle his nephew's carefully styled hair, earning an annoyed grunt and a swat that missed by a mile. "Come on, our suite's this way."
You followed Lewis through the stadium, nodding at security guards who clearly recognized him, weaving through crowds of fans who did double-takes when they spotted the racing legend in their midst. A few people called out his name, phones already up and recording. Lewis threw up a peace sign, kept it moving. He was good at that—acknowledging people without stopping, keeping the energy friendly but maintaining momentum. You'd learned a lot from watching him navigate fame over the years.
Lewis was dressed down today, but still looked expensive as hell. Brown quarter-zip with matching tailored pants that fit him perfectly, wheat Timberlands that were somehow both casual and fly. And the jewelry—God, the jewelry. That was your department, and you'd styled him carefully this morning in his bathroom while he brushed his teeth, and you both argued about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Simple today, you'd decided. His signature diamond studs catching light every time he moved his head. A few rings—nothing too flashy, just enough. His Richard Mille watch and a gold Cuban link chain you'd sourced from a jeweler in Brooklyn, delicate enough to be understated but substantial enough to catch the eye.
You knew his style better than anyone. Hell, you'd helped create it.
"Daddy Lew, I'm hungry," LJ announced, patting Lewis's shoulder since you were walking close enough for him to reach. His little hand barely made contact, but Lewis noticed immediately.
"We'll get you some snacks when we get to the suite, little man," Lewis promised, and your son seemed satisfied with that answer, settling back against you with his thumb creeping toward his mouth.
You pulled it away gently. "No thumbs, baby. You're a big boy now."
"But I'm tired, Mama."
"I know, baby. Just a little longer."
Daddy Lew. That nickname still made you feel some type of way every time you heard it. It had started when LJ was barely talking, couldn't wrap his little mouth around "Uncle Lewis" and somehow landed on something that made every single person within earshot do a double-take the first time they heard it. You'd tried to correct it at first—"No, baby, that's Uncle Lewis"—but Lewis had just laughed, scooped LJ up, and said he didn't mind at all.
Now it was stuck. And honestly? You'd stopped trying to change it about two years ago. Especially since Lewis was more of a father to your son than his actual father had ever been.
But we're not thinking about that man today. Not today.
The suite was incredible—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the field, comfortable seating, a full spread of food and drinks already set up. Willow and Kaiden immediately ran to the windows to look down at the field where players were warming up.
"This is so cool!" Willow squealed.
You set LJ down and he immediately toddled over to join his honorary cousins, pressing his nose against the glass.
"You good?" Lewis asked, appearing at your side with a bottle of water for you and juice box for LJ.
"I'm perfect." You took the water gratefully. "Thanks for including us today. The kids are loving this."
"Of course. You're family." He said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, LJ's never been to a game. Gotta start his football education early."
You smiled, watching your son point excitedly at something on the field. "You're gonna turn him into a Broncos fan."
"That's the plan."
Throughout the game, you and Lewis traded commentary, explained plays to the kids, and shared nachos that were definitely not on either of your meal plans. LJ fell asleep in your lap during the third quarter, exhausted from all the excitement, and Lewis draped his jacket over him without you even asking.
"You're good at this," you murmured, adjusting LJ so he was more comfortable.
"At what?"
"The whole family thing. Uncle Lewis, Daddy Lew. You're a natural."
Something flickered across his face—too quick for you to read—before his expression settled back into that easy smile. "Well, I learned from the best. Your parenting game is top-tier, Boo."
Boo. The nickname had stuck from your first year of friendship, something about you being a "beautiful ghost" in how quietly you could move through a room. Now it was just what he called you, and hearing it in his accent still made you smile.
The Broncos won 27-24, and the kids were ecstatic. By the time you made it back to Lewis's place in Cherry Hills—a sprawling property that was somehow both luxurious and homey—everyone was tired but happy.
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yourinstagram: Gotta love those @/broncos! 🐎 🧡
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lewishamilton: 🥰
f1gossip: so you two are together?
kiahgarber is replying to f1gossip: I think they are 👀
juliabean is replying to f1gossip: they’re relationship is soo weird idc idc
f1wags: looking flawless as ever 👸🏽
scuderiaferrari: enjoy winter break 😊
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yourinstagram • posted on your story 4 hours ago
Lewis's family home in Denver was always warm and welcoming, but during the holidays it transformed into something magical. Carmen, Lewis's mom, had gone absolutely off with the decorations. A massive tree in the living room that had to be at least twelve feet tall, covered in ornaments that ranged from expensive blown glass to clearly homemade ones from when Lewis and his siblings were kids. Garland everywhere—on the staircase, around doorways, woven through the chandelier. The scent of cinnamon and pine and something baking filled the air, making your stomach growl despite the stadium food.
"Boo!" Samantha, Lewis's older sister, pulled you into a hug the moment you walked through the door, nearly knocking you off balance. She was wearing a cute holiday sweater and smelled like expensive perfume. "Look at you, gorgeous as always. And my nephew!" She scooped up LJ, who giggled.
"Hi, Sam." You hugged her back, genuinely happy to see her. Lewis's family had embraced you from the beginning, from that first time he'd brought you around and introduced you as his "best friend and jewelry stylist." They'd taken one look at how you two interacted and immediately pulled you into the fold. No questions, no judgment, just acceptance.
Nicola was next, then Nicolas, both of them wrapping you in hugs and asking about your business and complimenting your outfit. Then Carmen, who held you extra long and whispered in your ear, "You look tired, sweetheart. You taking care of yourself?"
"I'm good, Mama C. Just been busy with the holiday rush." You weren't lying—December was always crazy for your jewelry business. Everyone wanted custom pieces for Christmas, New Year's, and you'd been working damn near around the clock to keep up with orders.
"Mm-hmm." Carmen's look said she didn't quite believe you, but she let it go, pressing a kiss to your cheek before turning her attention to LJ. "And how's my grandson?"
You didn't correct her. Hadn't in years.
Anthony and Linda were in the kitchen, and you got hugs and kisses from them too. This was normal now—this belonging, this being part of the family. Sometimes you forgot that technically you were just Lewis's friend and employee. Just the woman who styled his jewelry and occasionally traveled with him for work. His family treated you like so much more than that.
Treated you like you were his.
Dinner was chaotic in the best way possible. The long dining table was packed—Lewis's parents, his siblings and their partners, Willow and Kaiden, you and LJ. Food everywhere, multiple conversations happening at once, laughter bouncing off the walls. This was what family was supposed to feel like, you thought. Loud and messy and full of love.
LJ sat in a booster seat between you and Lewis, and you noticed—not for the first time—how naturally Lewis helped him. Cutting up his chicken into tiny pieces without being asked. Wiping his face when he got mashed potatoes everywhere. Making sure he drank his water, not just his juice. Moving his plate closer when he was struggling to reach. Little things, automatic things, the kind of things a father would do.
The kind of things LJ's actual father had never done.
"So, Boo," Nicola said, leaning forward with that mischievous glint in her eye that meant trouble. She was Lewis's other older sister, gorgeous and funny and entirely too invested in your love life. "Any updates on the dating front? Because I'm married now, which means I'm boring as hell, and I need to live vicariously through someone."
You nearly choked on your wine—a really nice Cabernet that Anthony had opened. "Nico, you're not boring."
"Nico and I are both in long-term committed relationships. We need excitement. Give us something." Samantha joined in, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "That doctor you went out with last month—what happened with him? Dr. Mitchell, right?"
Oh hell.
"Yeah, Dr. Mitchell." You shrugged, very aware that Lewis had gone completely still beside you, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. "It didn't work out. He was nice enough, but..."
"But what?" Nicola pressed, leaning even closer.
"But he wasn't—" You stopped yourself, not sure how to explain it. How do you tell someone that the date was fine, the conversation was fine, everything was fine, but the whole time you were sitting across from this handsome, successful doctor, you kept thinking about how the two of you did not mesh? "I don't know. There wasn't a spark. And he got weird when I mentioned I had a son."
"His loss," Lewis muttered, his jaw tight, that muscle jumping in his cheek the way it did when he was pissed.
"Exactly!" Samantha agreed, nodding emphatically. "You're a package deal, Boo. If someone can't handle that, they don't deserve you or my nephew."
"Exactly," Nicola added. "You need someone who's gonna love LJ as much as they love you. Someone who's already in his life, who he already loves, who already acts like his father—"
"Nico," Lewis warned, his voice low.
"What? I'm just saying."
Carmen, who'd been quiet through this exchange, spoke up gently. "Speaking of LJ, sweetheart—did his father ever respond to your message? The one about his birthday party?"
The temperature at the table seemed to drop about twenty degrees.
You felt your stomach tighten, that familiar knot of anger and hurt and resignation. "No. Not yet. I mean, I only reached out last week, so..."
"It's been over a year since he's seen his own son," Carmen said, her voice carefully neutral but her disapproval crystal clear. "I don't understand how a man can just... walk away like that. How he can look at that beautiful baby and choose to—"
"Mum," Lewis cut in, his voice sharp in a way it rarely was with his mother. His hand had clenched around his fork so tight his knuckles were pale, and you could see that muscle in his jaw working overtime. "Can we not talk about this right now?"
You put your hand on Lewis's arm, feeling the tension there, the coiled anger. His skin was warm under your palm, his forearm flexing. "It's okay, Lew. Really. I'm used to it by now." You looked at Carmen, trying to keep your voice steady. "LJ's dad made his choice a long time ago. Before LJ was even born, honestly. And I'm okay with it. We're okay."
"And his choice was to be a coward," Lewis said flatly, still staring at his plate, his voice cold in a way that made you shiver. "A freaking coward who doesn't deserve either of you."
"Lewis—"
"I'm serious, Boo." He finally looked at you, and the anger in his eyes made your breath catch. Not anger at you—never at you. But anger on your behalf, protective and fierce and so intense it made your chest tight. "LJ's turning five in January. Five years old. And his dad can't even respond to a simple text about his birthday party? Can't be bothered to acknowledge his own son's existence? That's not a man. That's a—" He stopped himself, clearly trying to rein in whatever he really wanted to say.
The table had gone quiet. Even the kids had stopped chattering, sensing the shift in energy.
"That's why she has you," Nicola said softly, breaking the tension. Her voice was gentle, understanding. "LJ might not have his biological father around, but he's got Daddy Lew. And honestly? I think he's getting the way better deal."
"Definitely the better deal," Samantha agreed, reaching over to squeeze your hand. "You're more of a father to that boy than his actual dad ever was, Lewis. You know that, right?"
You felt your throat tighten with emotion, tears threatening. "Lewis is amazing with him. I don't know what we'd do without him. Seriously."
Lewis's hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin. When you looked at him, his expression had softened, though you could still see remnants of that protective anger simmering beneath the surface.
"You'd be fine," he said quietly, his eyes locked on yours. "You're the strongest person I know, Boo. The strongest woman I've ever met. But you don't have to do it alone. You've never had to do it alone."
"I know." You squeezed his hand back, holding on maybe a little too tight, a little too long. "I've got you, baby daddy."
"Always," he murmured, and something in the way he said it—something in his eyes, in the intensity of his gaze—made your heart skip a beat.
Nicolas cleared his throat loudly, breaking whatever moment you and Lewis were having. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. Y'all are basically married already. Just make it official so we can stop pretending."
"Nicolas!" you protested, but you were laughing now, the heavy moment broken, even as you felt heat creeping up your neck.
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking." He gestured around the table dramatically. "Right? Everyone agrees?"
There were nods and murmurs of agreement from everyone except you and Lewis. Even Anthony was nodding, trying to hide his smile behind his wine glass.
"We're friends," you insisted, though even to your own ears it sounded weak. "Best friends who co-parent sometimes and—"
"And share a bed," Nicola added helpfully.
"And call each other pet names," Samantha chimed in.
"Okay, you know what?" You picked up your napkin and threw it at her, laughing despite yourself. "Never mind. Y'all are doing too much."
Carmen smiled that knowing smile that mothers have, the one that says they see everything you're trying to hide. "Now, who wants dessert? I made your favorite, Boo—apple cake."
Lewis finally took pity on you then, steering the conversation toward the upcoming Aspen trip and giving you a chance to breathe, to collect yourself. But you caught him looking at you a few times throughout the rest of dinner, something intense and unreadable in his expression that made butterflies dance in your stomach.
After dinner, you helped clean up while the kids played in the living room. When LJ started rubbing his eyes, doing that thing where he got clingy and whiny, you knew it was time for bed. The kid was running on fumes.
"Come on, baby boy. Let's get you ready for sleep."
Lewis had a room set up for LJ in his house—had done it years ago without you even asking, without any discussion. Just came home one day to find a fully decorated room with a toddler bed, race car wallpaper, airplane mobiles, and all of LJ's favorite stuffed animals that Lewis had somehow acquired. The closet was stocked with clothes in multiple sizes, pajamas, pull-ups for nighttime, everything a kid could need.
It had made you cry the first time you saw it. Still made you feel emotional every time you walked in.
You went through the bedtime routine—pajamas with little cars on them, teeth brushing while LJ complained and wiggled, a story from the book Lewis had been reading to him about a lion who was scared of the dark. LJ was out before you finished the second page, his little mouth open slightly as he snored softly, one arm wrapped around his favorite stuffed elephant.
"Goodnight, my love," you whispered, kissing his forehead, smoothing his hair back. "Mama loves you so much. More than anything in this whole world."
You crept out of the room, closing the door quietly behind you, leaving it cracked just enough that you'd hear if he woke up scared or needing you.
Then, because it was routine, because it felt as natural as breathing, you made your way down the hall to Lewis's master suite.
You knocked softly, barely a tap of knuckles against expensive wood.
"Come in, Boo," his voice called out immediately, and you smiled. He always knew when it was you. Could probably sense you, the way the two of you were in tune with each other.
You pushed open the door and found Lewis in his massive bathroom—all marble and modern fixtures and a shower that could fit like six people. He was standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, his braids pulled back in a low ponytail, washing his face with a cleanser you'd helped him pick out.
"Hey," you said, leaning against the doorframe, watching him. "LJ went down like a light."
"Out like a light?" Lewis rinsed his face, patted it dry with a towel, then turned to look at you. "Must've been a long day for the little guy."
"Long day for all of us." You moved into the bathroom, opened the cabinet where you knew he kept his skincare products—and where he'd made space for yours, your stuff sitting right next to his like it belonged there. "Face mask night?"
"You read my mind." He reached into another cabinet and pulled out two LED face masks—the expensive kind that cost a ridiculous amount but actually worked, that you'd convinced him to buy after explaining the benefits of red light therapy.
You both moved through the routine easily, practiced. Cleanser, toner, serum—the whole nine. Lewis was meticulous about his skin, had been ever since you'd sat him down years ago and explained that sunscreen wasn't optional, especially with all the time he spent outdoors at races.
"Your skin is looking really good," you commented, smoothing serum onto his face with gentle fingers. He closed his eyes, let you work, trusting you completely. "That new vitamin C is doing its thing."
"All you, Boo. You keep me right."
"Damn straight I do."
You strapped on the face masks, the red light glowing against your skin, making you look like some kind of sci-fi characters. Lewis caught your eye in the mirror and you both burst out laughing at how ridiculous you looked.
"We're so fucking extra," you said, shaking your head.
"We're taking care of ourselves," he corrected, grinning. "There's a difference."
You moved into his bedroom, and you immediately flopped onto his massive bed with a contented sigh, starfishing across the expensive sheets. "Your bed is so much more comfortable than the guest room. Like, ridiculously more comfortable."
"That's because you're always in mine and you've molded it to your shape." He closed the door behind him—habit, privacy, even though it was just the two of you—and went to his nightstand drawer. His snack stash. He pulled out M&Ms and Nerds, your favorite candy, the one you were supposed to be cutting back on but never could.
"What are we watching?" you asked, already reaching for the Nerds, ripping the box open.
"I was thinking Coming to America?"
"Ooh, yes. Classic choice. I'm so in."
Lewis grabbed the remote and climbed into bed beside you, close enough that you could feel his body heat, smell his cologne and face wash. The movie started, and you found yourself doing what you always did—gravitating toward his warmth, your head eventually ending up on his shoulder, his arm coming around you.
This was your favorite part of visiting Denver. Not the fancy events or the incredible jewelry opportunities his connections provided. Not the games or the parties or the networking.
This. These quiet moments with your best friend, comfortable and easy and feeling more like home than anywhere else in your life. Your apartment in LA was nice, but it didn't feel like this. Nothing felt like this.
You were halfway through the movie, laughing at Eddie Murphy's antics, when Lewis's voice cut through, quiet and almost tentative.
"Boo?"
"Mm?" You tilted your head to look up at him, the face mask making it awkward, the red light glowing.
"You ever think about—" He paused, and you felt him take a breath, his chest rising and falling under your cheek. "Never mind."
"What?" You shifted, trying to see his face better. "You can tell me anything, Lew. You know that."
"I know." His hand squeezed your shoulder gently, his thumb rubbing that same circle he'd done at dinner. "Just... I'm glad you're here. That's all I was gonna say."
"Me too." You settled back against him, ignoring the little voice in your head that said there was more to it. "Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. With—" He stopped himself again, his jaw tensing. "You're right. Where else would you be?"
You let it go, too comfortable to push, too content to worry about whatever he'd almost said. The movie played on, and eventually your eyes got heavy, the combination of the long day, the wine at dinner, the food, and Lewis's warmth lulling you toward sleep.
"Should probably get back to the guest room," you mumbled, but you didn't move. Didn't make any effort to get up.
"Or you could just stay here." Lewis shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, pulling you closer. "You know you're gonna end up sneaking back in at like three AM anyway."
He wasn't wrong. You always did. Would wake up in the guest room, feel lonely, and pad down the hall to climb into his bed like a child seeking comfort.
"Fine. But I'm little spoon."
"You're always little spoon." There was affection in his voice, warmth, something that made your chest tight.
He turned off the TV and the face masks, and you both shifted down into sleeping position. You shed your cardigan, left in just your tank top and leggings. Lewis's arm came around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and you felt him press a kiss to your shoulder—something he always did, had done for years, completely platonic friend affection that you'd never questioned.
"Night, wifey," he murmured against your skin, and you felt the vibration of his voice through your whole body.
"Night, baby daddy."
You felt his quiet laugh against your back, felt the way his arm tightened around you just slightly. "We gotta stop calling each other that. People are getting confused."
"Let them be confused." You yawned, already halfway to sleep, warm and safe and loved. "We know what we are."
"Yeah," Lewis said softly, so softly you almost didn't hear it, so softly you might have imagined it. "We do."
You drifted off feeling safe and warm and loved, completely unaware that the man holding you was wide awake, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing, trying to figure out how to tell his best friend that he was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her.
Completely unaware that everything was about to change.
Lewis lay there long after Y/N's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body soft and warm against his, and tried not to think about how right this felt. How right it had always felt.
Five years. Five goddamn years of this friendship that was more than friendship but less than what he wanted. Five years of calling her wifey and pretending it was a joke, that it didn't mean everything. Five years of being Daddy Lew to her son and pretending that didn't make his heart ache with longing for it to be real, for the title to be legitimate.
Five years of being completely, devastatingly in love with his best friend and being too afraid to tell her.
It hadn't started this way. When he'd first met Y/N at a jewelry event in Monaco, he'd just thought she was beautiful and talented. She'd been working for a major jewelry house then, one of the few Black women in a very white, very exclusive industry, and they'd hit it off immediately. Easy conversation, shared sense of humor, that genuine connection that felt rare as hell in his world of fake smiles and ulterior motives.
They'd exchanged numbers. Started texting. She'd sent him memes at 3 AM and he'd sent them right back. She'd FaceTimed him from random places around the world, showing him jewelry pieces she was working on, asking his opinion. He'd called her when he needed someone to talk to after bad races, after breakups, after his mum's health scare.
They'd become friends. Real friends. The kind who actually listened, who actually cared, who showed up for each other.
Then she'd started styling his jewelry—officially, professionally. And they'd gotten even closer. She'd traveled with him sometimes, to events and races, making sure his look was perfect. She understood his aesthetic, pushed him to be bolder, helped him develop a style that was uniquely his.
Somewhere along the way, Lewis had fallen. Hard. Fast. Completely.
He wasn't sure exactly when it happened. Maybe it was the first time she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder during a flight and he'd realized how peaceful she looked, how much he wanted to protect that peace. Maybe it was when she'd told him she was pregnant—single, scared, but determined to do it alone because the guy had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her or the baby—and Lewis had immediately offered to help however she needed.
Maybe it was the first time he'd held baby LJ in the hospital, seen the way Y/N looked at her son with such fierce love, and realized he wanted to be part of that. Wanted to be more than Uncle Lewis or Daddy Lew. Wanted to be the one she came home to, the one who helped with midnight feedings and toddler tantrums and all the beautiful chaos of building a life together.
Or maybe he'd been falling all along and just finally admitted it to himself.
But she'd never given any indication she felt the same way. Sure, they were affectionate—but she was affectionate with everyone she loved. Sure, they shared a bed sometimes—but always for "cuddles," always platonic, never crossing that line. Sure, she called him baby daddy and let him parent LJ in ways that blurred every line imaginable—but it was all in good fun, all part of their weird dynamic that confused the hell out of everyone around them.
She dated other people. Went on dates with guys who didn't deserve her, who couldn't handle that she was a mother, who didn't see how incredible she was. And every time, Lewis smiled and asked how it went and died a little inside when she said it went well, and came back to life when she said it didn't work out.
He was pathetic. He knew he was pathetic.
But he couldn't stop.
Lewis's phone buzzed on the nightstand—a message from Miles.
Miles: Saw that you were at the game today with your "best friend" and LJ. When you gonna admit you're in love with her?
Lewis typed back one-handed, careful not to disturb Y/N.
Lewis: Not helping, bro.
Miles: Just saying. New Year's is in 10 days. Make it your resolution to finally tell her. What's the worst that could happen?
Lewis: She could say no. Could ruin our friendship. Could take LJ and disappear from my life.
Miles: Or she could say yes. Could feel the same way. Could give you the family you clearly already have but are too scared to claim.
Lewis stared at that message for a long time before responding.
Lewis: I'm telling her in Aspen. During our trip.
Miles: FINALLY. About damn time. Good luck, brother. You got this.
Lewis set his phone down and looked at the woman in his arms. Even in sleep, she was beautiful, peaceful in a way she rarely was when awake and managing her business and her son and her life.
Aspen. They were leaving in four days for their annual post-Christmas trip. Just the two of them, Miles, and some other friends, skiing and shopping and enjoying the mountain air. It had become tradition—one of many they'd built over the years.
This year, he'd tell her. Would finally find the courage to say what he'd been feeling for years. Would lay it all out and hope she felt even a fraction of what he did.
The thought terrified him.
But keeping it inside was slowly killing him. Every time she called him baby daddy as a joke, every time she kissed his cheek and treated it like nothing, every time she crawled into his bed for "platonic cuddles" while he lay there wanting so much more—it chipped away at him.
He couldn't do another year of this. Couldn't pretend anymore that being her best friend was enough when what he wanted was everything.
Outside, snow was starting to fall—big, fat flakes that caught the light from the exterior lamps. Denver in winter was beautiful, but Aspen would be even better. Maybe the change of scenery would give him courage. Maybe away from family and obligations and normal life, he'd find the right words.
Maybe she'd finally see him as more than her best friend.
Or maybe she'd break his heart and he'd have to figure out how to stay in her life while dying inside.
Y/N shifted in her sleep, pressing closer to him, her hand coming to rest over his heart. Lewis closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her hair—not a kiss, just... closeness. Affection. Love that he couldn't speak out loud yet.
"I love you," he whispered into the darkness, knowing she couldn't hear him, knowing it was safe to say it now. "I've loved you for so long, Boo. And I'm gonna tell you soon. I promise."
She didn't stir, didn't respond, just continued sleeping peacefully in his arms.
Lewis finally let himself drift off, his last thought before sleep claimed him being a prayer to whoever might be listening:
Please let her feel the same way. Please don't let me lose her.
Because losing Y/N wasn't an option. Even if she didn't love him back, even if he had to swallow his feelings and pretend for the rest of his life, he couldn't lose her.
She was his best friend. His wifey. The mother of the child he loved like his own. The woman who made everything better just by existing in his space.
She was everything.
And in ten days, in Aspen, surrounded by snow and mountains and the kind of beauty that made people brave, he was going to tell her so.
God help him.
*****************************************
Lewis woke up to the best kind of torture.
Y/N was practically on top of him—had migrated during the night from her position as little spoon to sprawled across his chest like he was her personal body pillow. One of her legs was thrown over his thighs, her arm across his torso, her face buried in the crook of his neck. Her natural hair was loose now, the bonnet she’d had on last night gone, creating a soft halo around her face. She smelled like her shea butter moisturizer and the faint remnants of her perfume, warm and feminine and so damn good it made his head spin.
And he was hard as hell.
Morning wood was normal. Waking up aroused was just biology. But this—this was different. This was because of her. Because of the weight of her body on his, the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest through the thin material of her tank top, the way her breath ghosted across his skin, the unconscious little sounds she made in her sleep.
Lewis closed his eyes and tried to think about literally anything else. Race statistics. His upcoming training schedule. The Broncos’ playoff chances. His investment portfolio. Anything to make his body calm the fuck down before she woke up and felt exactly how affected he was by her proximity.
He’d been in this situation before—more times than he could count over the past five years—but it never got easier. Never stopped feeling like exquisite torture, having her so close but not being able to have her the way he wanted. Not being able to roll her beneath him and kiss her awake, slide his hands under that tank top, make her gasp his name.
Christ. He was making it worse.
Y/N shifted slightly, her leg sliding higher up his thigh, and Lewis had to bite back a groan. He was going to hell. He was definitely going to hell for the thoughts running through his mind about his best friend while she slept innocently on top of him.
“Boo,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and frustration. “Boo, you gotta wake up.”
“Mm-mm.” She burrowed deeper into him, her hand fisting in his t-shirt. “Five more minutes.”
“You’re crushing me,” he lied, because she wasn’t, because he’d happily let her crush him for the rest of his life if it meant getting to hold her like this.
“You’re built like a brick house. I’m not crushing anything.” Her voice was sleep-rough, sexy as hell, and she still wasn’t moving.
Lewis took a deep breath, tried a different approach. “LJ’s gonna wake up soon. You know he always comes looking for you.”
That got her. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open—those beautiful brown eyes that saw right through everyone else but somehow never saw the way he looked at her. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
“Shit.” She pushed up slightly, propping herself on her elbows, and Lewis had to fight the urge to pull her back down. Her tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of smooth brown skin at her waist. “I need coffee before I can human.”
“There’s coffee downstairs. Mum always makes a pot early.”
“Your mom is a saint.” Y/N finally rolled off him, and Lewis could breathe again—could also adjust himself discreetly as she stretched, her tank top riding up further, her leggings sitting low on her hips.
He was staring. He needed to stop staring.
“I’m gonna go check on LJ, then shower,” she said, running her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it. “You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” The lie came easily after years of practice.
She padded out of his room, and Lewis let out a long breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. He needed to get his shit together. Needed to either tell her how he felt or figure out how to stop feeling it, because this middle ground was killing him.
By the time Lewis made it downstairs after his own shower—a cold one, because of course it was—the kitchen was already bustling. His mum was at the stove making breakfast, and Y/N was at the island with a cup of coffee, looking more awake and put-together in leggings and an oversized sweater that probably belonged to him. LJ was on the floor with his toys, making race car noises.
“Morning, baby,” Carmen said, pressing a kiss to Lewis’s cheek when he came over to steal a piece of fruit. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, Mum. You?”
“Fine, fine.” She gave him a look—that motherly look that said she knew exactly where he’d slept and who he’d slept next to. “Y/N was just telling me about the Aspen trip. Sounds like fun.”
“Should be,” Lewis said, grabbing his own cup of coffee and leaning against the counter near Y/N. Their shoulders brushed, and he felt that familiar spark, that constant awareness of her.
“So it’s you, me, Miles, Spinz, and who else?” Y/N asked, taking a sip of her coffee. She’d done her edges already, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun that showed off her face, and Lewis had to remind himself not to stare at the curve of her neck.
“Couple other people. Timothy might come through for a few days. Maybe Andrew.”
“Cool, cool.” Y/N nodded, but there was something in her expression, a tightness around her mouth. “And is Spinz gonna…”
“Gonna what?”
“You know.” She waved her hand vaguely. “Invite all his… friends.”
Lewis couldn’t help it—he grinned. “Friends?”
“Don’t play dumb, Lewis. You know exactly what I mean.” She cut her eyes at him. “Is he gonna bring a bunch of girls?”
“I mean, there’ll be women there, yeah. It’s a party trip, Boo. That’s kind of the point.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Right. Of course.”
Lewis watched her carefully, trying to read her expression. Was that—was she jealous? “Why? Is that a problem?”
“No.” She said it too quickly, took another sip of coffee. “It’s not a problem. I just—Spinz always gotta bring the hoes, you know?”
Lewis almost choked on his coffee, laughing. “They’re not hoes, Boo.”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes, using her fingers to make air quotes. “His ‘entertainment.’”
Lewis sucked his teeth, still grinning because she was cute when she was annoyed. “There’ll be other people at the parties too. It’s not just gonna be Spinz’s friends.”
“Mm-hmm.” Y/N shrugged, studied her coffee like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Just tell your friend to cool it on the hoes this year. That’s all I’m saying.”
She took a sip of her coffee, and Lewis watched her over the rim of his own mug, his mind working. She was bothered. Actually bothered by the idea of other women being there. That had to mean something, right?
“You jealous, Boo?”
Y/N’s head snapped up, and she flipped her hair over her shoulder—a tell, he’d learned over the years, that she was about to say something she didn’t entirely mean. “Never that.”
“It’s okay to be jealous.” He kept his tone light, teasing, even as his heart raced. “We’re best friends. You’re allowed to not want to share me.”
“We’re best friends,” she repeated, her voice sharp now, defensive. “Why would I be jealous ‘cause you wanna get your dick wet? Do you, boo. I don’t care.”
Lewis opened his mouth—had a retort ready, something about how maybe she should care, maybe they should talk about why it bothered her—when LJ came running over, his little face lit up.
“Daddy Lew! Daddy Lew!” He crashed into Lewis’s legs, wrapping his arms around them. “Play cars with me!”
Lewis’s heart melted like it always did when LJ called him that, when this little boy who wasn’t his but felt like his looked at him with such pure adoration. “Yeah, little man. Let me finish my coffee first, okay?”
“Okay!” LJ ran back to his toys, already making more race car noises.
The moment was broken. Y/N had turned away, was refilling her coffee, her shoulders tense. Lewis wanted to push, wanted to make her talk about what just happened, but he knew better. When Y/N put up walls, you had to wait for her to take them down herself.
“I’m gonna go see if Samantha and Nicola want to go shopping later,” Y/N said, still not looking at him. “Give you and LJ some guy time.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” She finally met his eyes, and her expression had smoothed out, was back to that friendly neutrality that killed him. “Besides, I need to pick up some stuff for the trip anyway.”
She walked past him, squeezed his arm briefly—a friendly gesture, meaningless—and headed upstairs.
Lewis stood there with his coffee, watching her go, trying not to feel like he’d just lost something he’d never actually had.
******************************************
“You’re in love with her.”
Lewis looked up from where he was building a race track with LJ on the living room floor. His mum stood in the doorway, arms crossed, that knowing look on her face.
“Mum—”
“Don’t ‘Mum’ me. I’ve known for years, Lewis.” Carmen came into the room, settled onto the couch. “The question is, when are you going to tell her?”
Lewis glanced at LJ, who was completely absorbed in lining up his toy cars, then back at his mother. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s only complicated because you’re making it complicated.” Carmen’s voice was gentle but firm. “That woman is in love with you too, baby. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
“She dates other people.”
“Because she thinks you only want to be friends. Because you haven’t given her any reason to think otherwise.”
Lewis sat back on his heels, ran a hand over his face. “How are you sure that she feels the same way? What if I lose her? Lose this?” He gestured to LJ.
Carmen was quiet for a moment, watching her grandbaby play. “Do you know why I’m so angry at LJ’s father?”
The subject change threw him. “Because he abandoned his son?”
“Yes. But also because of what he did to Y/N. That man made her believe she wasn’t worth staying for. Made her believe that being a mother made her less desirable, less worthy of love.” Carmen’s eyes were fierce now. “And you—you’ve spent five years showing her the opposite. Showing her that she’s worthy of devotion, of partnership, of a man who shows up. But you’re doing it under the guise of friendship, and that’s not fair to either of you.”
“Mum—”
“She needs to know, Lewis. She deserves to know that a good man loves her. That someone sees her—really sees her—and wants to build a life with her. Not just co-parent her son, not just be her best friend, but actually be with her.”
Lewis felt his throat tighten. “What if—”
“What if she says yes?” Carmen interrupted gently. “What if you tell her and she’s been waiting for you to say it? What if you could have everything you’ve ever wanted but you’re too scared to reach for it?”
“I’m telling her in Aspen,” Lewis said quietly, the words coming out before he could stop them. “That’s the plan. New Year’s resolution or whatever.”
Carmen smiled, that warm mother’s smile that made him feel like a kid again. “Good. That’s good, sweetheart.”
“I know, Mum.” Lewis looked at LJ, watched him crash two cars together with sound effects. “I know I have to tell her. I’m just—”
“Scared. I know. But you’ve faced down death at 200 miles per hour. You can tell a woman you love her.”
“That’s what Miles said.”
“Miles is a smart man.” Carmen stood, came over and pressed a kiss to the top of Lewis’s head. “For what it’s worth, I think she loves you too. I see the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching.”
Lewis wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to believe it so badly.
“Just don’t wait too long,” Carmen said softly. “Life’s too short, and love is too precious. You both deserve to be happy. And LJ deserves to have his Daddy Lew be his actual daddy.”
She left him with that, and Lewis sat there on the floor, building race tracks with a little boy who called him Daddy, trying to find the courage to claim the family that already felt like his.
“Daddy Lew?” LJ looked up at him with those big brown eyes that were so much like his mother’s. “You okay?”
“Yeah, little man.” Lewis pulled him into a hug, held him close. “I’m perfect. You wanna race?”
“Yeah!” LJ squirmed excitedly. “I’m gonna win!”
“We’ll see about that.”
They raced toy cars, and Lewis tried not to think about how much he wanted this to be his real life. Not just weekends and visits and borrowed time.
🦋🦋 welcome to my blog/library 🦋🦋
🌀ash - she/her - teamLH
🌀new acc for lh44 fic recs. im balls deep in them rn bc there are no races
🌀scroll through #ash's recs ₊˚⊹♡
CURRENTLY READING:
- fading lines, by @knowinglewis
- safe landing, by @purplesectorlew
- blood oath, by @iamquiantrelle
settings: oh nothing, just celebrating your husband’s birthday on your socials in your…..own special way.
warnings: none
saint’s team radio 🧸: just a superrrrrrr quick one before it hits midnight here 😭 happy birthday lewbear!!! part 2 coming later 🫶🏽
tags: @purplesectorlew @mauvecherie-writes @yeea-nah @lewismcqueen (i’ll add more in a secccc)
pls like, comment and reblog 🫶🏽
yourusername
liked by imaanhamman, mayajama and 963,737 others
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theestallion …did you jus quote me? happy birthday tho!
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saint’s notes: thank you guys for tuning in to a new tradition of mine on his birthday 🥹🩷 (i worked at the speed of light with three minutes to spare!!)
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