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can you write a sainz sister who is also a retired driver born around 1988 and she is lewis’s ex and they breakup due to his commitment phobia and later on she got married to someone else and then divorced and years later, she and lewis give a second chance to their love. write angst.

thank you and hope you are doing well. even though have never meet you but can feel that you are a very kind and sweet person. lots of love to you ❤️

reconnected — lh44

smau + written blurbs

lewis hamilton x !ex reader

you hadn’t stepped foot in a formula 1 paddock in nearly a decade.

not since you hung up your helmet. not since you walked away from the only world that had ever felt like home—and from the man you once believed you’d spend forever with. but when carlos called and all but demanded you show up to the spanish grand prix, just to make sure you weren’t crumbling post-divorce, how could you possibly say no?

you didn’t expect the cameras to swarm. you didn’t expect the sudden flood of old memories, or how the air would still smell like tire smoke and adrenaline and heartbreak. and you definitely didn’t expect to lock eyes with lewis hamilton across the garage, as if no time had passed at all.

you’ve both changed—older, wiser, a little more careful. but the tightness in your chest gives you away. some love stories don’t stay buried forever. and maybe… just maybe… yours is ready for a second chance.

fc : jessica alba, nicole and various pinterest ladies

(a/n) : hi love!! this idea was sooooo good, i got started on it as soon as i saw it. im doing pretty well and i hope you are too!!! your words are so very kind and i am sending you all of the love in the world:))))

—

flashback (2015)

ynsainz

liked by lewishamilton, carlossainz55, danielricciardo and 1,450,000 others.

ynsainz : 🏁🖤

tagged : lewishamilton and carlossainz55

—

view 125,000 other comments.

recent comments

username00 : lando. why are you back lurking???? you were a CHILD

↳ lando : I shipped them so hard and I miss them. HUSH. WHY ARE YOU LURKING????

↳ username00 : im a fangirl, ITS MY JOB.

↳ lando : well i am a YN STAN so its my job too.

↳ username00 : have you talked to her since the divorce??? how is she??

↳ lando : have i talked to her??? im codependent on both sainz siblings. i talk to her everyday girl

liked by username00

username55 : who is back after the divorce????? MEEEEEE & Lando evidently.

username77 : this relationship raised a generation. i’m not joking.

older comments

danielricciardo : both of you. stop being so hot it’s rude

liked by ynsainz and lewishamilton

jensonbutton : legends only

liked by ynsainz and lewishamilton

carlossainz55 : delete my pic or im telling mamá

liked by ynsainz

↳ ynsainz : never little one

liked by carlossainz55

lewishamilton : My beautiful girl. Love you always❤️

liked by ynsainz

↳ ynsainz : you have my heart forever 🤍

liked by lewishamilton

↳ username00 : oh my heart hurts

nicorosberg : can you dump lewis so I can have a chance at a championship please?

—

flashback

monaco ; late 2014

The sunlight had just started to spill in through the floor-to-ceiling windows when you stirred, face buried in the pillow, a heavy arm lazily thrown across your waist.

You knew it was Lewis before you even opened your eyes. He always clung in his sleep, even when he’d pretend to be all cool and casual about it while awake. You’d learned early on that his love language was closeness—the kind he didn’t even have to speak. Just curled fingers in your shirt at night, his feet brushing against yours under the duvet, the slow and sleepy way he’d tug you back into him if you moved too far.

“Mm, baby,” he murmured, voice gravelly, still half-asleep. “Don’t get up yet.”

“I’m not,” you whispered, shifting to rest your head on his chest. “Not unless Roscoe starts whining.”

As if on cue, a soft snort came from the foot of the bed. You looked down to see Coco already sitting upright, ears perked, her wrinkled face staring at you expectantly while Roscoe snored peacefully beside her, unaware.

You laughed, quietly, and Lewis cracked one eye open.

“Your daughter’s got places to be.”

“She probably just wants to steal your breakfast again,” he said, smiling as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Eventually, you dragged yourselves out of bed and padded into the kitchen, barefoot and wrapped in oversized hoodies—his on you, yours on him. You made coffee while Lewis fried eggs, Roscoe snuffling around your feet and Coco waiting patiently by the fridge, knowing exactly where the treats were.

“She’s smarter than me,” Lewis muttered, glancing down at her. “You see that look? She’s got a plan.”

“She’s just ambitious. She gets it from her father.”

He turned toward you with that easy grin—the one that always made your chest feel warm, even years later. “So what do they get from you?”

You shrugged. “My patience. Obviously. And my good skin.”

You ended up having breakfast on the balcony, overlooking the quiet Monaco harbor. No press. No cameras. No noise.

Just the sound of seagulls, the smell of sea air, and the two of you wrapped in blankets, with sleepy dogs sprawled across your feet. Lewis leaned his head on your shoulder while you scrolled through the photos on your phone—snaps from races, blurry selfies, one of Roscoe in sunglasses.

He looked over and pointed at a photo of you in your race suit, grinning with your helmet in hand.

“I still think you’re the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Even cooler than Roscoe in sunglasses?”

“Barely,” he said, laughing. “But yeah. You are.”

Later, he made you both smoothies and put on a Marvin Gaye vinyl while you danced around the kitchen with Coco in your arms and Roscoe trying to climb your legs. He grabbed your hand at some point, pulled you in close, and swayed with you like there was nowhere else in the world to be.

And honestly?

There wasn’t.

Not that day.

—

01/07/2015

You’d told everyone you were going to keep it lowkey this year. No big party. No celebrity guest list. No wild night in the city.

He’d just turned thirty—an age that felt too surreal to him, too heavy in meaning—and you knew what he really needed was something slower. Quieter. Something that felt like home.

So you rented a secluded cabin in the Swiss Alps, just the two of you and the dogs, the kind of place where the snow muffled every sound and time felt like it paused. You flew in two days early to set everything up: his favorite wine already uncorked, candles in every room, a Polaroid camera on the table, and a string of printed photos from every year you’d been together, clipped up across the windows.

The night before his birthday, you made pasta in the tiny kitchen and danced to Sade in wool socks while Roscoe and Coco tried to chew your slippers. You lit a fire and curled up with him under a blanket, his head in your lap, your fingers lazily carding through his curls while he talked about the next season, about his goals, about how weird it felt to be thirty.

“Feels like I just blinked,” he said, voice low. “And now I’m… here.”

“Here’s pretty good,” you whispered.

When the clock struck midnight, you kissed his temple and whispered, “Happy birthday, baby.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked up at you, eyes a little glassy, and tugged you down for a kiss. It wasn’t rushed or heated—just soft and lingering, like he wanted to memorize it.

“Thank you for still being here,” he said against your lips.

You blinked. “Where else would I be?”

He sat up, held your face in his hands, and whispered, “You’ve been with me through every high and every low. Since before Roscoe. Since before Mercedes. When I was still figuring myself out, and I didn’t always get it right.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “And I’ll still be here, thirty years from now.”

The morning of his birthday, you woke up early and made pancakes—burned the first batch, naturally. He wandered into the kitchen in one of your hoodies, sleepy and smiling, hair a mess, Roscoe waddling behind him like a bodyguard.

There were presents, of course—vintage records, a framed photo of him and Roscoe from his first championship, and a leather-bound journal engraved with “write it all down—you’ll want to remember.” But the one that made him go quiet was the small box at the bottom of the stack.

Inside was a delicate silver chain with a tiny charm, decorated with your initials, you had custom made, nothing flashy, just something that sat close to the skin.

“I know you don’t wear much jewelry,” you said softly, “but I thought—maybe you could keep me close, even when we’re not in the same place.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just pulled you into his arms and held you so tightly it knocked the breath out of you.

“I’ve never loved anyone like this,” he said into your neck. “And I don’t think I ever will.”

You spent the rest of the day curled up in bed, watching the snow fall, Roscoe and Coco wedged between you. You barely touched your phones. You lit candles and played records and took blurry Polaroids of each other laughing and holding coffee mugs and slow dancing in the middle of the living room in your pajamas.

It was nothing extravagant.

But it was everything.

—

mid season 2015

It had been a quiet evening.

You were in Paris for a few days between races—both of you grateful for the rare pause in your schedules. Lewis had made dinner reservations, but you’d ended up skipping them, ordering room service instead. He wore sweats and no shirt, hair tied up, one leg lazily thrown over yours as the two of you shared a bowl of fruit in bed while an old movie played in the background.

It should’ve been perfect.

And in a way, it was. Until the moment you asked.

You weren’t trying to ruin anything. It wasn’t a test. You were just… wondering. Hoping.

“I was talking to a friend the other day,” you said softly, twirling a strawberry by its stem. “She and her fiancé are house hunting. In Spain.”

Lewis hummed in acknowledgment, eyes still on the screen.

“And it just made me think about… the future. Like—have you ever thought about marriage? Or kids?”

His body went still. Barely. But you noticed.

You didn’t look at him right away. You just kept picking at the fruit, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t suddenly in your throat.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I mean… I think about it sometimes. I guess. Not right now, though.”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t saying what you needed to hear.

He leaned back against the pillows, arm resting behind his head. “I just feel like there’s still so much I want to do. With racing. With life. I don’t know if I’d be good at all that domestic stuff. Settling down, being someone’s husband, dad…”

You laughed, but it came out thin. “You’re great with Roscoe.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, but Roscoe doesn’t need me to give up half my life.”

And there it was.

You let the silence hang for a moment too long.

“I’m not saying we need to figure it out tomorrow,” you said gently. “I just… sometimes I wonder what the point of all this is, if we’re not going anywhere.”

Lewis looked at you then. Really looked.

And he said, quietly, “Isn’t this enough? Right now?”

You wanted to say yes.

You really did.

But something inside you shifted in that moment. Something subtle but irreversible.

Because you suddenly realized that maybe what you wanted wasn’t right now. Maybe it was forever. A house, a wedding, a baby crawling between Roscoe and Coco on a lazy Sunday morning. A partner who wasn’t afraid to want the same.

And maybe… Lewis wasn’t that person. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, even though your chest ached.

You still loved him. You knew he loved you, too.

But love, as you were starting to understand, wasn’t always enough.

—

end of 2015

f1gossipgirls

2,700,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Sources close to the couple confirm that YN Sainz and Lewis Hamilton have officially split after five years together. The pair—who began dating in 2010—were known for keeping their relationship mostly private, but fans have followed their quiet love story for years. From paddock walks and matching bulldogs to late-night post-race snaps and birthday tributes, they were one of the most iconic duos the sport had seen in years. Rumors of tension began circulating over the summer, with fans noting fewer public appearances together and cryptic captions on YN’s posts. Reps for both parties declined to comment, but a close friend told us:

“They still have a lot of love for each other, but they’re in different places in life. It just wasn’t aligning anymore.”

YN has reportedly been spending time with family in Madrid, while Lewis is said to be focusing fully on the final stretch of the season. We’re sending nothing but love to both sides—we know the Roscoe x Coco joint custody situation will be the real heartbreak here. 🐾💔

—

user has limited comments on this post.

danielricciardo : love is dead ok

top liked comment

username00 : i’m gonna need a week off work to recover from this

username17 : well nico might have a chance now

username55 : roscoe and coco better be okay, someone check on them immediately

username8 : i feel like this is gonna hit carlos more than anyone else tbh 💀

username11 : the grid won’t ever have another couple like them. you just had to be there.

username18 : I KNEW when she archived their 2014 Valentine’s post

—

end of 2015

You knew before you said it. Before you even opened your mouth.

You knew by the way your chest ached every time you looked at him lately. You knew by the way his eyes never quite met yours when you brought up next year. You knew by the way you felt lonelier beside him than you did when he was away.

So when he came home late—sweat still clinging to his collar from training, Roscoe at his heels, smile soft and familiar—you almost didn’t say it. Almost folded. Almost kissed him like nothing was wrong.

But then he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressed a kiss to your cheek, and murmured, “You good, baby?”

And that’s what did it. That’s what shattered the dam.

You pulled away gently, hands resting on his chest.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Lewis blinked. “What?”

You stepped back, your breath catching. “Us.”

He stared at you, brows furrowed, like the words didn’t compute. Like you hadn’t already been drifting apart for months. Like he hadn’t dodged every conversation about the future with that careful, evasive smile.

You tried to explain, voice barely steady. “I’ve spent the last five years loving you with everything I had. I gave you my heart, my time, my patience. I showed up. Even when it was hard, even when I was exhausted. I showed up.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“And I kept waiting,” you continued, voice cracking. “Waiting for you to meet me halfway. To talk about a house. A future. Maybe kids. Hell, even just the next five years. But every time I asked, you pulled back.”

He ran a hand over his face, tension bleeding into his jaw. “It’s not that I don’t love you.”

“I know you love me,” you said. “That’s never been the problem.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and you saw it in his eyes: the panic, the guilt, the ache. He stepped toward you like he was going to say something, fix it somehow, but you shook your head.

“I can’t keep making myself smaller just to fit into the life you want. I’m tired of waiting for you to choose me in the way I need to be chosen.”

Silence fell between you. Roscoe whimpered softly from the corner, and Lewis crouched down to pet him—anything to avoid the finality settling in the air.

“I thought we had more time,” he finally said.

You swallowed hard. “We’ve had five years.”

His eyes filled, but he blinked it back. “What if I’m not ready now, but I will be? What if I just… need more time?”

You stepped forward, pressed your palm to his cheek.

“I believe you,” you whispered. “I really do. But I can’t build my life on maybe.”

Lewis closed his eyes, leaned into your hand like it was the last time he’d feel it.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.

“I know,” you said, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I don’t want to lose you either. But I want more. And I deserve someone who wants that with me.”

You kissed him once, gently, like a goodbye.

And then you turned, picked up your overnight bag—the one you’d packed quietly over the past few days—and walked toward the door.

You didn’t look back until your hand was on the handle.

He was still standing there, frozen in the middle of the living room, Roscoe sitting beside him like he knew something had shifted forever.

“I’ll always love you, Lewis,” you said softly. “But I have to start loving myself more.”

And with that, you left.

Not because you didn’t love him.

But because you did.

Too much to keep breaking your own heart waiting for him to be ready.

—

mid 2016

The podium ceremony is over. The champagne has dried, your fireproofs cling to your skin from the heat, and the Italian air smells like speed and summer and everything you used to love about this sport. You should be elated—another win, your third in a row, your sixth of the season. The championship fight is tighter than ever, and you’re right in it.

But you’re not smiling when you step into the back hallway of the paddock, only slowing when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“Still making it look easy,” Lewis says.

You turn.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his cap pulled low, still in his Mercedes race suit. He’s not smiling either. But there’s that glimmer in his eyes—you remember it well. The look he used to give you across hotel rooms and pit walls. The one that always said, you’re the only person I want to beat, and the only one I’d lose to gladly.

You give him a small, controlled smile. “Someone’s got to give the fans a show.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re giving ‘em more than that. You’re flying this year.”

You shrug, keeping your arms wrapped around yourself. “Trying.”

A pause. The kind that stretches just slightly too long. Neither of you moves.

Then, quieter: “Congratulations. Really. I mean that.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

It should be easy, polite, brief. A conversation like any other between two top drivers. But the silence after crackles with something left unsaid.

You glance at him again—his eyes are tired. He’s been fighting Nico tooth and nail all year. And you know him well enough to recognize that something’s weighing heavier than usual tonight. You wonder if it’s the race. Or if it’s seeing you lift another trophy without him beside you.

He shifts, straightening off the wall. “I, uh… saw your dad in the garage earlier.”

You nod again, softer this time. “He asks about you sometimes.”

Lewis smiles, almost sadly. “Tell him I say hi.”

“I will.”

Another pause. Another almost.

And then, like nothing’s wrong, like nothing’s ever changed, he nods once and turns to go.

“Hey, Lewis,” you call out.

He stops. Looks back.

You swallow. “You drove well today.”

A flicker of something—pain, maybe, or gratitude—passes over his face.

“You too,” he says.

And then he walks away.

You don’t move for a while.

The hallway feels quieter than it should.

—

end of 2016

f1gossipgirls

5,500,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : The champ. The legend. The heartbreak we’re all still not over. In a plot twist straight out of a Hollywood script, YN Sainz has officially retired from Formula 1 after clinching the 2016 World Drivers’ Championship—edging out Lewis Hamilton in a finale that felt more like poetry than sport. After years of rewriting the rules and becoming a motorsport icon in her own right, she walked away with a mic drop: “I have nothing left to prove. I did what I came here to do.”

Sources say Lewis was one of the first to congratulate her behind closed doors. No cameras. No press. Just history, heartbreak, and everything that could’ve been. One era ends. Another will never forget her.

—

end of 2016

The garage is still humming with celebration — engineers high-fiving, champagne sprayed across toolboxes, your team principal wiping tears behind sunglasses. You’re at the edge of it all, perched on the steps of your motorhome, hands clasped between your knees, still in your race suit but already half in another world.

You’ve said the words quietly to your team. No press release yet. No statement. Just a private truth shared in the back of the garage: This is it. I’m done. I’m going out on top.

It feels peaceful. It feels right.

And then you hear your name.

“YN.”

You look up.

Lewis stands a few feet away, still in his race suit, his gloves off, hair damp from the helmet. There’s sweat at his temple and something unreadable in his eyes. Everyone else is too caught up in the post-race madness to notice this moment. It’s like the paddock makes space for the two of you.

You nod slightly. “Lewis.”

He walks toward you. Slowly. Like he’s unsure what he’ll say until the words come out.

“I heard,” he says quietly.

You raise a brow. “That I won the championship?”

He smiles, but it’s hollow. “No. I mean—yes, that too. Congrats. You were incredible today. All year.”

You don’t reply, just study him. The way he looks like he’s holding something back. You already know what he’s going to say.

“You’re really retiring?”

You exhale softly. “Yeah.”

He looks away for a moment, jaw tight, then back at you. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug, keeping your voice even. “It wasn’t your news to carry.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters under his breath. “I was yours. Once.”

The words hang heavy in the air. They taste like the past. Like Monaco mornings and hotel beds and silent car rides when you both knew love wasn’t going to be enough.

“I left,” you say, not unkindly. “And I kept going. I had to.”

“I know.” He runs a hand over his face. “I just… I thought I had more time. To… I don’t know. Fix things.”

You give him a small smile. “We were never broken. We were just moving in different directions.”

He crouches slightly in front of you now, close enough that you can see the shimmer in his eyes.

“I loved you,” he says.

You don’t look away. “I know.”

A long pause.

“I still do.”

You feel your chest tighten. But you don’t let it show. Not now. Not today.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper. “And I’ll always want the best for you.”

Lewis nods, but he looks like a man who’s only just realized what he’s lost.

“You’ll be missed,” he says, standing again.

You rise to your feet, steady. “You’ll be okay.”

He hesitates. “Will you?”

You smile, and this time, it reaches your eyes. “I already am.”

Then you step past him, toward your team, your future, your peace.

And Lewis? He doesn’t stop you this time.

—

end of 2018

f1gossipgirls

4,500,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Former F1 World Champion and living legend YN Sainz tied the knot this weekend in a private but star-studded ceremony in the Spanish countryside after two years with billionaire investor Lorenzo Valdés.

In a full-circle moment that had everyone misty-eyed, she was walked down the aisle by both her father and Carlos Sainz Jr., who was seen wiping away tears (same, tbh). Guests included royalty, top athletes, Hollywood A-listers, and more than a few familiar faces from the paddock. Word is, no cameras were allowed inside the ceremony — but those who were there say she wore a custom Dior gown, Lorenzo cried the entire time, and the vows were “so intimate it felt like a dream.”

No sign of a certain seven-time World Champion 👀 but you know the timeline is about to explode anyway…Anyway. She’s a wife now. And still a legend.

—

december 29, 2018

The celebration is quiet now.

The music has faded to a low hum, guests are lingering with wine in hand, and Lorenzo is somewhere across the terrace, laughing with your brother. The night smells like jasmine and champagne and the warmth of old stone walls. Everything is perfect.

You step away for just a moment, standing beneath a hanging light in your gown, barefoot now, phone in hand.

One unread message.

Lewis.

Your chest tightens before your thumb even hovers over it. You already know it’s not meant to be replied to. He knows that, too.

You open it anyway.

I know today’s not about me. It never was. But I wanted to say congratulations. You look happy. You deserve that. Always have. I hope he knows what he has. Take care of your heart. It’s one of the best I’ve ever known.

You stare at the screen for a long time. The world softens around the edges.

You don’t cry. You don’t smile. You just… feel it. Quietly.

Then you lock the phone and slip it back into your clutch.

And when you turn to walk back to your new husband, your brother, your family—you carry Lewis’s words with you, like a small scar tucked beneath satin and lace. Still there. Still yours. But no longer open.

—

present day

f1gossipgirls

liked by lando and 5,200,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : Another love story ends… and not quietly. After nearly six years of marriage, YN Sainz-Valdés and investor mogul Lorenzo Valdés have officially filed for divorce — with court documents confirming the separation was finalized earlier this week in Monaco. Sources close to the former F1 champion say the split had been “brewing for a while,” but things exploded in recent months after whispers of Lorenzo’s alleged infidelity with a much younger tech entrepreneur started circling private circles in London and Madrid. Neither party has publicly commented, but fans noticed YN deleted all photos of Lorenzo from her profile, including their wedding anniversary post from last year. (And yes, the ring is very much gone.)

Carlos Sainz was reportedly a “constant support” during the breakdown of the marriage — spotted with her several times in recent weeks, including an emotional lunch in Madrid earlier this month. And while no one wants to say it out loud… people haven’t stopped wondering what a certain seven time world champion might be thinking right now.

—

user has limited comments on this post.

username000 : sources say lorenzo’s side piece tried to soft launch a week ago and got DRAGGED. deservessss

username55 : he went for someone younger even though his wife LITERALLY MOGS HIM AND IS A WORLD CHAMPION. hm

username00 : she is so stunning. why do men even exist?

username75 : divorced, rich, iconic, and still the only person who ever beat lewis in his prime. mother is mothering.

username17 : carlos has been REAL quiet on socials lately. he’s either plotting revenge or helping her move out.

username88 : we really watched the most powerful woman in motorsport waste six years on a glorified finance bro.

—

It’s late. Almost midnight. The Sainz family home in Madrid is quiet, except for the soft ticking of the old hallway clock and the occasional hum of a passing car outside the window. You’re curled up on the living room couch, still in jeans and a sweater you’ve barely taken off in three days. There’s an untouched glass of wine on the coffee table. Your phone is upside down. Notifications off. Headlines muted.

The divorce paperwork is in your bag. Finalized. Stamped. Done. You stare blankly at the TV, but it’s not on. It hasn’t been all evening. Carlos walks in slowly, drying his hair with a towel after his shower. He’s in sweatpants and an old Toro Rosso t-shirt — the one you bought him before his first season in F1. His expression softens when he sees you, still sitting exactly where he left you hours ago.

“Did you eat?” he asks gently.

You shake your head without looking at him.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the familiar clinking of plates and a microwave door opening. When he comes back, he’s holding a small plate of tortilla and grilled vegetables. He sets it down beside you and doesn’t say anything when you still don’t move.

Finally, you whisper, “I feel stupid.”

Carlos lowers himself to the floor, sitting at your feet. “You’re not.”

You scoff bitterly. “I stayed too long. Ignored every gut feeling. Let him make me feel like I was the problem. Even when the truth was staring me in the face.”

Carlos leans his head back against the couch, looking up at you. “You were in love. That doesn’t make you stupid. That makes you human.”

You finally look at him. Your eyes are tired. “He made me feel small, Carlitos.”

He flinches. You never call him that when you're sad. Only when something's broken.

“I know,” he says softly. “And I hate that. I hate that I didn’t see it sooner. That I didn’t protect you better.”

You reach down, brushing his hair back off his forehead — just like you used to do when he was a kid and had nightmares before karting races.

“You’re not supposed to protect me. I’m the big sister.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice is quiet now, heavy. “You were my hero growing up. Still are. And he—he doesn’t get to take any part of you with him.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. He stands up slowly and takes your hand.

“You’re coming with me to Barcelona,” he says firmly.

You blink. “Carlos—”

“No.” He squeezes your hand. “You need air. You need to be reminded who the hell you are. You haven’t been to a Grand Prix since… since you gave it all up for him.”

Your mouth opens, but he beats you to it.

“I already called the team. You’re coming with me. You’ll be in my garage, in your goddamn sunglasses being a badass and terrifying engineers. Just like old times.”

You laugh. It’s small. But it’s real.

“And if you cry,” he adds with a smile, “I’ll pretend it’s hay fever. Like always.”

You finally exhale, leaning your head on his shoulder. “What if people talk?”

“Let them,” he says. “Let them remember.”

He pauses. Then, quieter:

“Let him remember.”

You close your eyes. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe you might be okay.

—

f1gossipgirls

7,800,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : SHE. IS. BACK. 😭 Former World Champion and newly single certified legend YN Sainz made her first paddock appearance in years at today’s Spanish GP — and let’s just say… nobody was ready. Wearing custom Ferragamo, dark sunglasses, and that signature “don’t mess with me” walk, she strutted into the paddock like she hadn’t just lived through a very public, very messy divorce… and looked better than ever doing it. Word is she’s there supporting Carlos, but let’s be honest — she owned the paddock the second she stepped out of the car. Mechanics froze. Engineers stammered. Cameras sprinted. And we’re pretty sure three drivers walked into walls (one of them might’ve been Lando).

AND YES — Lewis saw her. And no, we’re not okay. Welcome back to the grid, Queen. We missed you more than you know.

—

The paddock hushes — just for a second. Just long enough to make it obvious. You step out of the black SUV in tailored, black Ferragamo trousers, a crisp black tank, oversized sunglasses, and the quiet confidence of someone who’s endured the fire and emerged with diamonds in her blood. Your hair is swept back, your lips painted soft rose, and your heels click like punctuation on concrete.

Carlos is already waiting by the entrance to the Williams hospitality, dressed in blue, arms crossed, sunglasses on. But the second he sees you, he grins — wide, proud, no nerves.

“You look like trouble,” he says, offering you his arm.

“Good,” you reply, sliding your hand through. “That’s exactly what I’m here to be.”

Across the paddock, heads are turning — media, mechanics, even a few drivers who were born after your first podium. You ignore the cameras. It’s easier now. You’re no longer here to prove anything. You’ve already done that. You’re just here to be seen. And boy, are you being seen.

“Is that—” “Holy shit, that’s her—” “She looks like she never left—”

And then— “OH NOPE. NOPE. I NEED A SECOND.”

Lando Norris appears from around a corner, sunglasses falling halfway down his nose, nearly knocking over a poor McLaren intern holding coffee.

Carlos mutters, “Here we go,” under his breath.

Lando stops in front of you, blinking. “I mean. Wow. Sorry. You just—you look like you're about to slap a man and walk away with his car keys and his soul.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Isn’t it?” he says, still staring. “I should go. I’m gonna go. Good to see you. Welcome back. I love you. Wait, what—”

Carlos grabs him by the shoulder and gently shoves him back toward the McLaren motorhome. “And that’s enough from you.”

You laugh — truly laugh — for the first time in weeks. Then, just as you and Carlos begin walking again, a familiar voice cuts through the hum.

“Well, well. Look who’s breaking the internet.”

You turn. Jenson Button stands near the Sky Sports setup, dressed in a pale blue linen shirt and sunglasses. Next to him, Nico Rosberg is shaking his head with a smile and raising a water bottle in mock salute.

“Thought the paddock felt colder without you,” Jenson says, walking over to hug you. “Nice of you to bring the sun back.”

“You lot just missed my dramatic exit,” you smirk, hugging him back.

“Missed?” Nico grins. “It was all they talked about on air for two weeks. Half the grid thought you’d come back in 2019 just to spite them.”

You laugh again, warmer this time. “Tempting.”

Carlos watches quietly, a hand resting gently on your back as you chat. He knows this is healing. The recognition. The warmth. The respect that’s still there — even after all this time, all the change, all the heartbreak. After a while, he leans down and whispers in your ear.

“You ready to keep walking?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And as you and Carlos move deeper into the paddock, the noise returns — the clatter of tyres, the clinking of tools, the hum of energy. But for a moment, the paddock had stopped for you. And in your silence, you’d reminded them why they ever cared in the first place.

—

The motorhome is quieter than expected. Press hours are over. Mechanics are back in the garage. Carlos is still in meetings. And for a moment, you’re alone in the hallway, walking slowly, trailing your fingers along the dark wood paneling of the familiar red-and-black walls. You’re about to turn the corner when a low voice stops you in your tracks.

“Wasn’t sure I’d see you here.”

You freeze. Then you turn. Lewis stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting — or maybe like he needed a second to build the courage. He’s in his race suit, half unzipped and tied around his waist, the black fireproofs tight against his chest and arms. The red of Ferrari suits him in a way that makes your throat tighten. It shouldn’t be surprising — but somehow, it is. He still carries that gravity. That calm. That heartbreak you remember too well.

“Did Carlos tell you?” you ask, your voice steady, guarded.

He shakes his head. “No. I saw you on the screens. Coming in with him this morning.”

You look down briefly, your fingers grazing your bracelet. “Right. Gossip girl Lando probably had a field day.”

Lewis smiles faintly. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. He watches you for a moment too long. Not as a fan would. Not even like a friend. But like someone remembering the exact curve of your face. Like someone who still dreams of you and wakes up alone.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks, voice lower now. Raw.

You meet his gaze. “I will be.”

He nods once. But he doesn’t move. You can see the hesitation in his posture, the way his hands flex slightly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he has the right anymore.

“You look—” he pauses, laughs quietly under his breath, “—like yourself again.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in two years.”

Another pause.

“Does it feel strange?” he asks. “Being back?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Yes. And no. It feels like I never left. But I’m not who I was when I walked away.”

He nods. “Neither am I.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him. For a second, it feels like you're back in those quiet hotel rooms in Monaco. Like the years didn’t happen. Like you hadn’t married someone else. Like he hadn’t let you go.

“I saw the news,” he says finally. “About the divorce.”

Of course he did.

You give him a tight smile. “Everyone did.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Truly.”

You nod. But you can feel the dam starting to crack, just beneath your skin.

“I thought I loved him,” you whisper. “I really did.”

Lewis doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t speak.

“I tried so hard to build a life outside of this. Outside of… you.” You shake your head. “And I thought I had it. The house, the marriage, the safe choice. I thought it was enough.”

His voice is barely audible when he speaks. “And was it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You look at him, really look at him — at the man you once built your future around in your head, the man who broke your heart out of fear, the man who still feels like unfinished business even after all this time.

“Why didn’t you ever call?” you ask. The question slips out before you can stop it.

Lewis blinks. “After the wedding?”

You nod.

He exhales slowly, something like shame brushing over his features. “Because I thought I had to let you go. I thought that’s what you needed.”

You feel the tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back. “I hated you for that.”

“I hated myself for it,” he says, without hesitation.

Silence falls between you. Not heavy. Not tense. Just… full. Then he steps forward. Not too close. But close enough that you can smell his cologne — soft, familiar, the same one he wore the last time you kissed him.

“Can I ask you something?” he says quietly.

You nod.

“Are you happy?”

You want to say yes. You want to say I’m getting there. But your voice breaks when you whisper, “I don’t know yet.”

Lewis looks at you like he wants to take every shard of your heartbreak and carry it himself.

Then he whispers, “Maybe you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

You inhale sharply. Your heart stutters. The words sit between you like an open door. And for the first time in years, you don’t feel afraid to walk through it.

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by lando, danielricciardo and 8,000,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : World Champion exes Lewis Hamilton and YN Sainz seen having a very private dinner in a tucked-away corner of a restaurant last night. No press. No entourage. Just two glasses of wine, one shared dessert, and the kind of eye contact you don’t have with just anyone. Are we screaming? Yes. Are we coping? Not at all.

—

user has limited comments on this post.

username000 : daniel wtf r u doing here?

↳ danielricciardo : lando tagged me and i got excited my bad

↳ username000 : lando again? really

↳ lando : I TOLD YOU ALL. I AM A FULL TIME YN STAN. I AM AN F1 DRIVER SECOND.

username00 : carlos when he sees this post: 🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏻‍♂️

username10 : let them have their second act. we’ve matured. we can handle it. (cue hysterical crying)

—

The restaurant is quiet. Not empty, but discreet — the kind of place where silence is respected, and no one dares to stare too long. The lighting is soft and golden, casting a low glow over the white tablecloth and untouched wine glasses.

You sit across from him, nerves disguised by steady hands and polite smiles. Lewis looks just the same — older, wiser, maybe a little more tired around the eyes — but still him. Still the man who knew your heartbeat by feel, not sound.

The waiter disappears after dropping the menus. Neither of you have opened them.

“I almost didn’t text you,” he says quietly.

You glance up, lifting a brow. “But you did.”

“I didn’t expect you to say yes.”

You let out a soft exhale, not quite a laugh. “I almost didn’t.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then your fingers trace the rim of your glass. “It’s been a long time.”

He nods. “Too long.”

You study him. He’s dressed down, no jewelry tonight, save for the silver cross he’s always worn. The one that used to tangle in your sheets. His eyes are gentle, but there’s something beneath them — that old ache neither of you ever dared name.

“When I saw you in Spain,” he says eventually. “You looked… strong.”

“I didn’t feel it,” you admit.

“I figured.” He hesitates. “You smiled for the cameras. But it wasn’t the one I know.”

You blink. Something in your chest stirs painfully. “You still know my smiles?”

“I never forgot them.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t. He lets the silence linger, as if he understands that there are things you both need to feel in the space between words.

“I meant what I said in that message,” he murmurs. “On your wedding day.”

“I know.” You swallow. “I read it a hundred times.”

“Did he treat you well?”

You’re quiet.

“That’s my answer,” Lewis says gently.

You meet his gaze then, really meet it — and it’s like 2015 again, like the finish line hasn’t been crossed, like the years haven’t passed and neither of you ever left that moment where love lived and time hadn’t touched it yet.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he says, voice low. “Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I told myself I had to.”

You shift, the emotion catching in your throat. “It was easier to pretend we were just drivers after that.”

“But we weren’t. We never were.”

You both fall quiet again. Then he reaches across the table, slow and careful, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed — and places his hand over yours. It’s warm. Familiar. Earth and gravity.

“Do you hate me?” he asks softly.

Your chest tightens. “No,” you whisper. “I loved you. That’s what hurt.”

His fingers tighten around yours just a little.

“I should’ve been braver,” he admits. “I should’ve given you the future you wanted.”

“You weren’t ready.”

“I still lost you.”

Your lips part, but there’s nothing to say that won’t split you wide open. So instead, you hold his hand tighter. The waiter eventually returns, and you both pretend to look at the menu. But no one brings up the elephant at the table: that even after all these years, with all the time and choices and people in between, you still fall into each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world. When dessert comes, it’s one plate. Shared. Of course it is.

—

The night air is warm, with just enough breeze to carry the salt from the water and the hum of distant engines echoing off the buildings. Monte Carlo at night always felt like a dream — one you never quite woke up from. The marina glitters like a spilled necklace below, yachts gently rocking, their reflections broken across the rippling black sea. You walk side by side, not touching, not quite. But close enough to feel him.

“It still looks the same,” you murmur.

“So do you,” Lewis replies, voice quiet. “You haven’t changed.”

You glance at him. “You have. In a good way.”

He smiles, hands in his pockets. “I’ve learned a lot. About life. About how not to lose the things that matter.”

You stop at the edge of the stone railing overlooking the harbor. The sea glows under the moonlight. Your arms fold loosely over the edge, chin tilted down. He stands beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. Neither of you pull away.

“I used to picture this,” you admit. “Us. Older. Still walking like this.”

Lewis tilts his head toward you. “Did you imagine we’d still be pretending not to want to hold hands?”

You let out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “No. I imagined I’d have married you, if I’m honest.”

He closes his eyes. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to go back.”

You turn to face him. “You don’t get to go back. But you’re here now.”

“I am.” He takes a breath. “And I’m not going anywhere this time. I mean that.”

You search his face — the tenderness in his expression, the vulnerability in his eyes. It's not the same boy you once loved. He’s a man now. A man who finally knows what he wants and isn’t afraid of it anymore. He hesitates, then gently reaches for your hand. This time, you let him take it. Fingers laced, palms pressed together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You walk in silence for a while, hand in hand, the sound of the sea cradling you both.

When you reach the far end of the harbor, near the private docks, Lewis stops. He looks at you under the lamplight — soft and golden against your skin.

“I don’t want to rush anything,” he says. “But I’d like to see you again. Outside the past. Outside the press. Just… you.”

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that too.”

And then he leans forward — not a kiss, not quite. His forehead gently touches yours, and it’s more intimate than anything else he could’ve done.

“Goodnight, love,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “Goodnight, Lewis.”

But neither of you let go just yet.

—

The marble floor beneath your heels feels cold, the sharp click of each step slicing through the stillness of the hotel lobby. The world outside has quieted to a whisper — distant waves, murmurs of laughter from late-night bars, the soft hum of city lights.

You push open the door to your suite, your breath catching slightly at the sudden warmth inside. The muted glow of the television flickers across the room, but it’s the presence of someone else that makes your heart skip — Carlos.

He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, eyes fixed on you, calm but searching. His arms are crossed loosely, a protective barrier and a promise all at once. His brow is knitted, but not in anger — more in worry. It’s the look of a brother who’s seen too much, felt too much, and wants to shoulder your pain if only he could.

“You’re late,” he says softly, voice low but steady. There’s no chastising there — just a quiet observation that holds a thousand questions.

You shrug off your coat slowly, the exhaustion of the evening weighing heavy in your limbs. “I lost track of time,” you say, voice brittle but honest.

He stands, moving closer but careful not to crowd you. His presence is grounding, like an anchor in the swirling sea of your emotions.

Carlos’s gaze never wavers. “I saw you,” he says simply, like a confession, like a reassurance.

Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard, the lump of words and feelings caught between your ribs.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues, stepping even closer now. His hand brushes yours lightly, a silent offering of comfort. “I’m not here to pry or judge. I just want you to know that I’m here. Always.”

A fragile tear slips down your cheek before you can catch it. You blink rapidly, desperate to hold yourself together, but the dam is breaking — the weight of the last two years, the divorce, the loneliness, the unexpected warmth of tonight — it all floods through you.

Carlos doesn’t speak. He just wraps you in a hug — slow, sure, and filled with the kind of strength only a brother can give. His arms hold you steady as if to say: You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.

You lean into him, finally allowing yourself to release the grief you’ve bottled up for so long. Your tears fall freely onto his shirt, and he murmurs softly, “It’s okay. Let it out.”

You breathe in the familiar scent of him — aftershave, worn leather, something comforting and home — and for the first time in ages, you feel a flicker of peace.

Pulling back just enough to look into his eyes, you whisper, “Thank you… for being here. For not giving up on me.”

He smiles gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Never. You’re stronger than you know, but even the strongest need someone to lean on.”

You rest your forehead against his for a heartbeat longer, feeling the solid, unspoken promise in that touch. And in that quiet room, surrounded by shadows and soft light, you let yourself believe that maybe — just maybe — the hardest chapters are finally behind you.

—

several month time skip...

The warm evening air drapes over the city like a soft blanket, the sky painted in hues of lavender and gold as the sun slips behind the horizon. The distant sounds of laughter and music drift up from the streets below, but here on the balcony, it’s just you and Lewis—quiet, tentative, like two old souls slowly finding their way back through the fog.

The fading light catches in your eyes, and you realize how much you’ve missed this—the stillness, the simple presence of someone who once knew you better than anyone else.

Lewis stands beside you, just close enough for comfort but careful not to crowd you. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his trousers, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. He’s been here a thousand times before, but tonight feels different. Fragile.

“I never thought we’d end up here again,” he says softly, voice almost untraceable.

You turn to look at him, searching his face—the lines around his eyes that weren’t there before, the way his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a confession. “Neither did I,” you admit. “After everything.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor for a heartbeat before meeting yours again. “I was scared. Back then. Not just of losing you, but of losing myself without you.”

Your chest tightens, the ache you thought was gone bubbling back up. “I tried to build a life without you. I really did. But every time I thought I was okay, I’d catch myself looking for you—in a crowd, in a whisper, in the silence.”

Lewis steps closer, a breath away, and you feel your heart stutter like it used to in those reckless, beautiful early days. “I thought I could move on too,” he confesses, voice breaking. “But loving you… it never went away. It just got buried under everything else.”

You swallow hard, the vulnerability in his words unlocking a part of you you’ve kept locked away for far too long. “I still love you,” you whisper. “Maybe I never stopped.”

His eyes widen, a mixture of relief and disbelief. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

For a moment, the world narrows until it’s just the two of you, suspended in this fragile space where old wounds ache but hope flickers.

“I’m scared,” you admit, voice trembling. “Scared of what comes next. Scared that this time, we might lose each other for good.”

Lewis reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that sends warmth flooding through you. “Then let’s promise something. No more pretending. No more running.”

You close your eyes against his touch, feeling the weight of years—the heartbreak, the distance, the silent goodbyes—melting away.

“Let’s try again,” he says quietly. “Not for the past. Not for what we lost. But for what we still have.”

You nod, tears spilling down your cheeks—not of sadness, but of relief and a fragile, blossoming hope. As the sun finally dips below the horizon, you lean into Lewis, letting the silence say everything you both have been too afraid to say aloud. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like home.

—

You almost forget what England smells like after the rain—green, earthy, familiar. The countryside rolls out in quiet hills around you, the trees just starting to bloom again, a subtle reminder that life always comes back.

Lewis pulls the car up the gravel drive, his hand reaching to rest gently over yours in your lap. You’ve been here before. So many times, it should feel routine. But this time is different. This time, you’re not just visiting the house—you’re returning to a life you once walked away from.

He glances at you with a soft smile. “You okay?”

You nod, a little breathless. “Yeah. Just… memories.”

The moment the engine cuts off, the silence of the countryside is replaced by a distant thump.

“Wait for it…” Lewis grins, eyes twinkling.

And then you hear it—paws on gravel. The door hasn’t even opened before Roscoe barrels out from around the house, older now, a little slower, with grey threading his fur, but his bark still full of joy.

“Roscoe!” you laugh, barely getting the door open before he’s in your lap, whining and tail wagging so hard it shakes his whole body. “Oh my god, you remember me!”

Lewis chuckles as he watches you sit back on your heels, hands buried in Roscoe’s soft fur. The dog nuzzles into you, letting out a long, contented sigh like he’s been waiting years for this.

“He’s missed you,” Lewis says quietly, a certain awe in his voice. “We both did.”

You look up at him, eyes shining. “It’s like no time passed.”

And then the front door swings open.

“Oh my god, is that our girl?!”

You look up and see Carmen, Lewis’ mum, standing in the doorway with a hand over her heart. Beside her, Anthony has the warmest, most knowing smile on his face.

The moment you step onto the front porch, Carmen pulls you into her arms like she never let go. “You’re home,” she murmurs, kissing your temple. “Finally.”

Anthony hugs you next, steady and comforting. “He’s better when you’re around,” he says quietly into your hair. “He always has been.”

Dinner is easy—filled with laughter and old stories and subtle glances between you and Lewis across the table. Roscoe’s asleep at your feet, his head resting on your slipper, and Carmen keeps refilling your wine glass like she’s afraid you’ll leave again.

Later, as the night quiets down and the fire crackles in the living room, Lewis rests a hand on your knee, brushing his thumb back and forth gently.

“You what we need,” he says, voice low, just for you. “You always have been.”

You lean your head on his shoulder, heart full, heavier and lighter all at once. Because this—this home, this dog, these people—they never stopped being yours. And for the first time in a very, very long time, you let yourself believe in staying.

—

You wake to the sound of rain tapping softly against the window, a grey English sky casting the bedroom in a silver sort of glow. The sheets are warm, the air smells faintly like linen and whatever detergent Carmen still insists on using. For a second, you forget where you are. Then you feel it — the weight of Roscoe curled against your legs, the steady rise and fall of Lewis’ chest under your cheek.

You blink slowly. He’s still asleep, arm slung around you loosely, mouth slightly parted, curls messy against the pillow. There’s something achingly peaceful about him like this. Like the years have melted away and you’re just two kids again, in love and unburdened by all the things that came after.

You don’t move, afraid to break the spell. But Lewis stirs anyway, murmuring something half-asleep before his hand finds yours beneath the blanket and squeezes.

“Morning,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Morning.” You smile into his skin. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Been awake,” he murmurs, shifting just enough to look at you. “Was hoping if I didn’t move, you’d stay like this a little longer.”

“I would’ve,” you whisper.

He leans in and presses the softest kiss to your forehead — not rushed, not desperate. Just a quiet promise. From the foot of the bed, Roscoe groans dramatically and rolls over, nose pressed into your ankle.

Lewis laughs. “He missed you even more than I did.”

You give him a look. “Impossible.”

It’s the first time you’ve joked like that — the first time something flirty slips out without being heavy, without being weighed down by what-ifs and old heartbreak. You both freeze for a moment, then relax. Because it’s okay. You’re here. Together.

Later, he pads barefoot into the kitchen in grey sweatpants and a hoodie, hair wild, dragging his fingers through it. You’re curled on the couch in one of his old Mercedes shirts, sipping the tea Carmen made before disappearing for a morning walk.

He hands you a mug of coffee, careful not to spill, and sits beside you, thigh pressed to yours, Roscoe jumping up and flopping across both your laps like a bridge between two hearts that never really stopped beating for each other.

Neither of you say it out loud. That this—coffee and rain and Roscoe—feels dangerously close to home. To love again. But maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to. Not yet. Not until you're ready. And in the quiet, wrapped in old love and new warmth, you think...You’re getting there.

—

You walk side by side, boots crunching against the damp trail, the rolling hills around you glowing golden in the soft afternoon light. The clouds have cleared just enough to let the sun through, casting everything in that perfect, fleeting kind of glow — like nature itself is holding its breath.

Roscoe trots ahead of you, occasionally looking back, as if to make sure you're still following. You and Lewis haven’t said much in the past few minutes. But the silence hasn’t felt empty — it’s been full. Full of all the things unsaid, all the memories stirred up by being back here, all the newness of whatever it is you’re growing into.

You stop near a wooden fence that overlooks a valley. The wind plays with your hair as you rest your arms on the rail, letting your eyes trace the curve of the earth. Lewis stands beside you, close enough to feel his presence.

“I used to come here when things got loud,” he says quietly, almost like a confession. “After we broke up... I think I came here every week. Just to breathe.”

You turn to look at him. His eyes are already on you.

“Did you ever hate me?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “For walking away?”

He shakes his head, slowly. “No. I hated myself for not being brave enough to give you what you deserved. I thought... if I let you go, you’d find someone who would.”

You exhale shakily. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

Lewis steps closer, his voice low and full of something raw. “I wanted you every single day. I just didn’t know how to hold on to you without destroying everything else.”

You meet his gaze, and it’s like time folds in on itself — you’re back in Monaco, back in a hotel room in Singapore, back in every moment where you almost said what you meant and chose silence instead.

“Things are different now,” you whisper.

“They are.” He pauses. “I’m different. And I think... maybe you are too.”

“I am,” you admit. “I’m tired of pretending I’m not still in love with you.”

The confession hangs in the air between you, trembling and terrifying and true. Lewis’ expression softens in a way you’ve only seen a few times in your life — it’s all hope and heartbreak and something like awe.

He steps even closer. “One more time.”

You laugh, a little tearfully. “I’m still in love with you.”

And then he kisses you. It’s not rushed. It’s not cautious. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally. The kind that burns slow and deep, like coming home to something you’ve dreamed of every night but never thought you’d feel again. His hands cradle your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheek, grounding you in the moment as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

When you finally pull away, your foreheads stay pressed together. You’re both breathless, your heart beating so loud you swear he can hear it.

Lewis smiles softly. “I love you too. I never stopped.”

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him and the wind and the countryside wrap around you. For the first time in years, your heart doesn’t ache. It blooms.

—

lewishamilton