warning ‼️: angst, drunk driving, mentions of sex.
pairing: lewis hamilton x black female reader
summary: you pushed it too far after a whole day of fighting and now you’re not sure where things will go from here.
note: just a little something to get me back in the creative groove. i really love this song and thought it was a cool writing concept. and i love writing husband lewis in any way. as always, enjoy and tell me what you think!
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This wasn’t new.
The flirting, the games, the heat you and Lewis always brought to the clubs—it had become something of a ritual over the years. A rhythm the two of you knew how to ride like second nature. Married for years now, you’d carved out your own strange kind of intimacy inside those nights: you, wrapped in something short and black, eyes smoky, hips loose with liquor and music, dancing on your friends like they were stand-ins. Just for show. Just for him. You’d caress their arms and whisper in their ears while looking dead at Lewis from across the room, letting your fingers trail just a little too slow over skin that wasn’t his. He’d watch you with that look—possessive and amused, jaw tight but smiling, hands clenching the sides of his drink like he was waiting for the moment you’d come crawling back to him. And you always did. Always.
It was safe. A kind of dangerous that you both had agreed on. A performance with boundaries. Controlled chaos. You liked pushing him. He liked being pushed. It kept things alive.
But tonight?
Tonight wasn’t that.
Tonight, you left him at home.
You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t wait for him to ask where you were going. You didn’t want to speak, not after the kind of day the two of you had. Petty arguments. Small, stupid things that turned sharp and loud with no resolution in sight. He’d nitpicked your tone, you’d snapped back about something he said last week. The tension had thickened between you like fog in the house—dense and unspeakable. You weren’t trying to fuck it out tonight. You didn’t want to be pressed into the mattress with your face down and your wrists pinned, his breath hot at your neck as he let all that anger spill out through his hips.
No, not tonight.
Right now you didn’t want his hands.
You just wanted space.
Usually, you could take it. The roughness. The dragging of your body across the sheets like you were something he owned. You could take the red palms he left on your ass, the growled filth in your ear, the bruises that bloomed like roses across your thighs. You could take all of it—gladly, even—because that was how Lewis made things right. How he showed you what you meant to him when words ran out.
But you didn’t want to be claimed tonight.
You didn’t even want to be touched.
You just wanted to take the edge off.
So you got dressed in silence. Picked out the tightest thing you owned. Black, of course—because black made you feel powerful. Black made you feel untouchable. You beat your face like it was armor and sprayed perfume on the backs of your knees like it was war. You called your girls, slammed the door behind you, and left him in that quiet house.
And Lewis?
He could sit there in all that silence.
He could wait.
He sat there shocked. You didn’t cry like you usually did when the two of you were having a bad day. You didn’t fall apart in the middle of the hallway or try to fix it with too many “I’m sorry”s. You didn’t give him a second glance. And it made him think you didn’t care. But you did care. So much it made you sick. You wanted to make up. You wanted to touch him. But not now.
Not while the air was still thick with all the things you’d said in passing. Not while the heat in your chest was still bubbling like a pot left too long on the stove. You didn’t want to be scolded, nagged, or pitied. You wanted to breathe. To move. To drown yourself in noise and dim lights and sweat-slick skin that wasn’t his.
So you left.
When you walked out, the night felt like rebellion. Like being sixteen again, sneaking out past curfew just to feel something wild move in your chest. You were already breaking rules. Already buzzing with the thrill of being disobedient. You didn’t care what you were walking into—just that you were walking away.
And somewhere behind the slamming door, you could still feel him—hurt and waiting.
But tonight, you needed to be gone.
The club was hot and loud—just how you liked it.
The kind of loud that rewired your brain, where everything became vibration and rhythm and sweat. Where the arguments from earlier couldn’t reach you. The tension in Lewis’ voice, the roll of his eyes, the cold silences that started and restarted all day long—none of that existed here. Here, the only thing that mattered was the music and the way you moved in it. Like you were trying to dance your way out of your own skin.
And you looked good doing it.
A little too good.
You had on a dress that barely held onto your body, hands running up your thighs that didn’t belong to Lewis, and not a single drop of shame in sight. Every beat of the music sank into your bones and made your blood move faster, your grin wider. You were on autopilot now, running off adrenaline and tequila. Every time you let someone pull you closer, you felt a little more numb, a little more powerful.
Your homegirl’s arms looped around your waist as you bent over and twerked into her body like the beat demanded it. You were rolling your hips slow, eyes half-lidded, mouth open just enough to let your breath spill out. The whole thing was a performance—and you were good at it.
Phones were out.
Recording. Flashing.
You didn’t even flinch.
You knew Lewis was gonna see it.
And for once—you didn’t care.
You knew you were pushing it. That you were testing limits tonight. But something about the weight of your pride, the alcohol in your system, and the sting of all the shit he said earlier… it made you reckless. You weren’t just flirting tonight. You were acting out.
You straddled a woman you barely knew while she sat down, legs spread beneath you, body soft and warm as your fingers tangled in her hair. You pulled her head back with a slow drag and licked a line of tequila off the side of her neck, all teeth and tongue and bad decisions. You let your mouth roam—down her collarbone, over the dip of her chest, stopping just at the corner of her mouth.
But you didn’t kiss her.
You couldn’t.
Some line still had meaning—even now.
Eventually, the music got too dizzy and your feet too clumsy. You told your friends you were leaving, slipped out the back, stumbled into the street like a warning. Your heart still pounding like bass under your skin.
You should’ve called him. You knew that.
But you couldn’t stomach hearing his voice. Your pride wouldn't let you.
So you drove.
Drunk.
Swerving lane to lane. Streetlights tripling in your vision.
“Fuck,” you muttered, gripping the steering wheel like it might steady the world. “I can’t even see the road.”
You blinked hard, tried to focus. Tried to breathe. You weren’t crying, but your eyes burned like you wanted to. “I’mma feel so bad if I make it home,” you said to no one. And you meant it. If. If you made it home. With the way you were driving, you thought you'd end up in flames before you could pull into the driveway. But somehow you thought that fate might be better. Because making it home would mean facing it. Facing him. And whatever came next.
But somehow—somehow—you did.
You pulled up crooked. Forgot to even close the car door.
The air hit you sharp as a blade when you stepped out. You wobbled on your heels, nearly twisted your ankle on the sidewalk. The tequila was crawling out of your pores now, clinging to your skin like sweat. You reeked of it. A walking liquor store. Your perfume couldn’t even mask it.
You reached the door and wrapped your hand around the knob—expecting to fumble with keys, to maybe be locked out. To maybe sleep in the car and avoid whatever version of Lewis was waiting inside. With the way he was strict, you being locked out was a big possibility.
But the door turned.
Unlocked.
Your stomach dropped.
He was awake.
You stepped inside, and there he was.
Sitting on the stairs like he’d been waiting for hours. Elbows on his knees. Hands laced. Still in his sweats, hoodie pulled low over his brow. Just watching you.
Not angry. Not wild.
Just… silent.
Like disappointment had settled into his chest and made a home there.
Still, you smiled. That stupid, soft kind of smile you gave him when you wanted to pretend things weren’t broken.
“Hiiiii babyyyyy,” you slurred, voice syrupy and sweet, swaying in place.
He didn’t smile back.
“Y/N,” he said. Your name plain and heavy on his tongue.
You stepped forward, heels loud on the floor. Planted yourself between his knees, one hand on his shoulder for balance. You leaned in too close, the alcohol dripping off your words like sweat. “What?” you giggled, like he was being dramatic. “Why you looking at me like that?”
You sucked your teeth and rolled your eyes like a teenager. “Ughhh, here you go,” you muttered, dismissive. “I ain’t even kiss her on the mouth.” You hiccuped at the end, trying to make it sound small. Insignificant.
That’s when he stood up.
Slowly. Without a word.
Now he was above you—towering, quiet, too still.
The room shifted.
The air got thicker.
You blinked at him, tilted your head, reaching for his arms like you could grab him back to softness. “Baby,” you said, more serious now. “Lewis. You know I’m yours. Like, come on. We’re married. It’s not even that serious. I love you, okay?”
He said nothing.
Just looked at you like he couldn’t recognize you in this light.
You moved closer, climbed one step so you could reach him better. You swayed on your feet but steadied yourself by wrapping your arms around his neck. He didn’t push you off—his hands came up to your waist instinctively, steadying you so you didn’t fall backwards. Even now, he was still gentle.
“C’mon, babe,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Don’t do this. I don’t wanna fight anymore.”
You kissed his neck. Light. Feather-soft. Nibbled at the edge of his ear like you always did when you wanted him to melt. “You can do whatever you want to me,” you breathed. “Right now. I’m sorry.”
You pulled back, eyes glossy, a lazy, tipsy smile on your face.
Waiting for the fire. Waiting for the fight that always ended in forgiveness.
But it didn’t come.
His hand reached up, not rough, not harsh—just firm. And he gently moved your mouth away from his skin.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh. Just exhaled through his nose and let the silence do the talking.
Then he turned.
Took your hand.
And led you up the stairs.
As he led you up, hand in hand, you felt the chill of his wedding band press into your skin.
It was subtle, but it made your stomach turn.
That thin circle of metal—usually a comfort, a signal that you were tethered to something steady, something sacred—now felt like ice. Like a silent reminder of the line you’d crossed, of the vows you may have danced right over tonight with tequila on your breath and someone else’s hands on your hips.
You wanted to say something.
Anything.
But the words tangled in your throat.
Because now that you were in the quiet, now that the music wasn’t shielding you, you could feel the gravity of it all settle on your chest. Every footstep up the stairs sounded louder. Every second of silence between you felt like judgment. His grip wasn’t tight. Wasn’t angry. Just firm. Still guiding you. Still taking care of you. Still… there.
That hurt worse somehow.
When you reached the bedroom, he opened the door for you like a gentleman. Like a man who still remembered the rhythm of your everyday. And for a moment, hope stirred in your chest like static. Maybe this would go the way it always went. Maybe the silence was part of it. Maybe he was just building the tension so he could break you open with his hands like he always did when you fought.
You stood there swaying slightly as he turned on the soft yellow light in the corner. The room looked too clean, too still. Your perfume still lingered in the air from earlier, mingling now with the bite of alcohol and the dull ache blooming behind your eyes. You leaned back against the bedpost, breath shallow, waiting.
Finally, he stepped toward you.
His fingers came to the straps of your dress—slow, gentle, almost reverent. He pulled one down, then the other, letting the thin fabric slip from your shoulders. You shivered, and not from the cold. The tension was unbearable.
Finally, you thought.
He was going to touch you. Take you.
Reclaim you like he always did when you pushed too hard.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t slam you against the wall or pull your head back by your hair. He didn’t say filthy things in your ear or grip your hips so tight you’d bruise. He didn’t do any of the things you’d come to expect—the things that, on any other night, would’ve made you feel wanted, owned, forgiven.
Instead, he just kept moving slowly.
Dress down. Bra unhooked with expert hands. Panties slid down your thighs with a grace that felt almost… clinical. His hands never lingered. Never explored. He undressed you with disappointment that you had never seen before. It sent the coldest chill down your spine.
You stood there bare, blinking up at him with wide, confused eyes. You reached for him again—tried to press your body into his, hoping he’d change his mind. But he stepped back. Eyes soft. Distant.
Then, wordlessly, he walked to the dresser.
He pulled open your drawer, took out your favorite pajamas—those silky soft ones with the lace trim he always teased you about loving too much. The ones you only wore on lazy days when you both stayed in bed until noon.
He helped you into them.
Tugged the top gently over your arms.
Tied the drawstring on the shorts like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You didn’t stop him.
Couldn’t.
Your voice was caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. Your body was still humming from the liquor, but your mind was catching up. You were sobering up fast now. Sober enough to realize what this was.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at you once your pajamas were on. He just pulled the covers back, guided you under them like he was tucking in a child. His movements were steady. Kind, even. He fixed your pillow, smoothed your hair back, and then…
He turned around.
Walked to the door.
Flicked off the light.
And left.
Just like that.
The click of the door closing felt louder than anything that had come before.
You laid there frozen, limbs heavy, heart pounding in your ears. The room felt colder now. The space beside you on the bed gaped wide open, mocking you. You stared at the ceiling, the dim outlines of the furniture, the soft shadows dancing across the wall from the moonlight outside. Your throat tightened.
You waited for footsteps to come back.
They didn’t.
You knew exactly where he went—the guest room. The one you both only used when family came to stay. The one he never even opened otherwise. The one with the firm mattress and the untouched comforter and the throw pillows you still hadn’t cut the tags off of.
That’s where he was now.
Alone. In silence.
You pictured him lying there, one arm behind his head, eyes wide open. You wondered what he was thinking. Was he playing the night back in his mind, replaying every video he’d already seen? Was he thinking about the way your hands looked in someone else’s hair? The way you straddled a stranger like it was nothing? The way you looked like you loved being out of his reach?
You covered your face with your hands and exhaled into your palms.
A multiple times motorsport world champion, often regarded as the best in their category, suddenly changing teams they had won over and over with, in a huge upset, to join a red colored Italian manufacturer, in 2025, to become teammates with a European pretty boy who grew up dreaming of the said red team. Am I talking about Marc to Ducati alongside Pecco or Lewis to Ferrari alongside Charles.
Seeing those pics of Lewis under the red umbrella in Silverstone had me dreaming of a 2026 championship in red
Also I feel like I can’t stop thinking about the gorgeously written sense of inevitability in @forzafe44ari’s fic EHA which I think is my favourite fic portrayal of Lewis ever and also inspired this drawing you should go read if you haven’t already
the concept of a brocedes movie is daunting, its reasonable to ignore it until the production comes to fruition BUT a lewis hamilton biopic? its happening. definitely. and there are a lot of things lewis can do but to remove nico and his massive presence through his karting and f1 career or life is just impossible. and the fact that i have to sit down for that angst fest? yeah no lewis and nico gotta lock in and kiss and make up by the time it comes down to it
