good luck charm — lh44
smau + written blurbs
lewis hamilton x !max/charles childhood bff reader
you’ve spent your whole life surrounded by racing — max and charles being your childhood best friends, the brothers you never had, even if they still fight over who you love more. now at twenty-eight, you’ve built a name for yourself far away from the track, walking runways and gracing magazine covers as one of the world’s most sought-after supermodels. but the paddock has always been home, no matter how far you travel. then, at a party, you meet lewis hamilton. he’s kind, magnetic, and makes you laugh in a way that feels rare and easy. you feel it instantly, that spark everyone talks about — but he’s hesitant, cautious after so long on his own. that’s when the fun begins: your best friends, the entire grid, and especially those mischievous rookies take it upon themselves to play cupid. because for once, it’s not about lap times or championships — it’s about making sure you and lewis find your way to each other.
requested? yes!
original request here.
fc : cindy kimberly (a/n : this one is a long one, i apologize for the spacing towards the end!)
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yourusername
liked by alexandrasaintmleux, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc and 4,700,000 others.
yourusername : vegas babyyyyy🎰🍒❤️🔥
tagged : alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc and maxverstappen1
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view 252,000 other comments.
alexandrasaintmleux : my fave partner in crime 💋 love you forever
liked by yourusername and charles_leclerc
↳ yourusername : my angel 🌹♥️ you have my heart always
liked by alexandrasaintmleux
↳ username00 : alexandrayn is more iconic than lestappen i fear
↳ yourusername : duhhhh
↳ alexandrasaintmleux : agreed
↳ maxverstappen1 : rude but true
liked by alexandrasaintmleux and yourusername
maxverstappen1 : still upset you ended up in the ferrari garage this time but so happy you came. missed you, schat
liked by yourusername and charles_leclerc
↳ charles_leclerc : she was at red bull last time! it was only fair that she was with us this weekend.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ yourusername : sharing is caring boys
liked by maxverstappen1 and charles_leclerc
↳ maxverstappen1 : blah blah blah. i get you next race though.
liked by yourusername
↳ username7 : max and charles still fighting over yn like they did as kids is taking me out. I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR
↳ yourusername : they are just full size kids. they never actually grew up 🤨
liked by charles_leclerc and maxverstappen1
lilymhe : ugh i’m obsessed with YOUUUU 😻
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : my girl 🥰 I LOVE YOUUUU
liked by lilymhe
iamrebeccad : gorgeous as ever 😍
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : says youuuu💋
scuderiaferrari : we are so glad whiskers liked what we sent over! so happy to have you both 🐈❤️💛
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : mwah mwah (fix charles’ car or else)
liked by charles_leclerc
↳ yourusername : and lewis’
liked by lewishamilton
↳ scuderiaferrari : on it ! 🫡
lewishamilton : So thrilled to have finally met you, beautiful. Red has never looked so good ❤️
liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, kimi.antonelli and isackhadjar
↳ yourusername : so great to finally meet you!!! and i could argue that red looks just as good if not better on you;)
liked by lewishamilton and charles_leclerc
↳ maxverstappen1 : i give it two weeks before he’s in love
liked by charles_leclerc
↳ kimi.antonelli : bold of you to assume it would take that long
↳ olliebearman : we can speedrun it
↳ isackhadjar : the plan starts now
↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : do we tell them or..???
↳ charles_leclerc : do NOT tell. mouths sealed rookies.
↳ yourusername : plotting in my comment section.
username001 : lewis in love arc pls?????
bellahadid : so in love with you ⭐️
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : miss you so bad bells🤍
username05 : her friendship with max and charles will always be endgame for me. they always show up for her and she always shows up for them
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : my boys 💕🥲
liked by maxverstappen1 and charles_leclerc
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The moment your heels hit the marble floor of the Vegas airport, you already feel the energy — loud, glittering, chaotic in the way only this city can be. Cameras flash as you step outside, but you’re used to it by now. Oversized sunglasses, a fur lined jacket draped perfectly over your shoulders, and a sleek black carry on — you look every bit the supermodel the world knows. But right now, you’re not a model. You’re just the girl who’s about to surprise her two best friends in the world — Charles and Max.
You’ve been planning this for weeks. Charles thinks you’re still in Milan, busy with a shoot. Max thinks you’re flying to Tokyo next. Neither of them has any idea that you’re here, in Vegas, the weekend before the race — their race. You’re tired from the flight, but the second you step into the hotel lobby where most of the drivers are staying, the adrenaline kicks in.
You text Charles first.
“Where are you?”
It takes him five minutes to reply.
“At the track. Why?”
You grin, slipping your sunglasses higher up your nose.
“No reason.”
You leave your things with the hotel staff who kindly take them up to your room and you start exploring the city. You find the paddock before either of them can suspect a thing. The crew looks stunned as you walk in, the desert sun hitting your hair just right. Max is standing with Laurent and Yuki, laughing about something when he hears his name being shouted from across the garage.
“Max Emilian!”
He turns — and freezes. For a split second, his expression is pure disbelief. Then his mouth breaks into the widest grin you’ve seen all year.
“No way!” he says, his accent thick with laughter as he rushes toward you. “You said you were in Japan!”
You open your arms, laughing as he lifts you off the ground and spins you around. “Surprise!”
Charles appears seconds later, expression caught between confusion and joy. “What are you doing here?!” he exclaims in his soft, accented voice, hugging you tightly once Max sets you down.
“I missed you idiots,” you tease. “And I thought… why not Vegas?”
“Vegas,” Max repeats, still grinning. “You are going to regret saying that.”
By the time the day winds down, you’re lounging in their suite, catching up on everything you’ve missed. Charles insists on showing you the deck of cards someone made with his face on them, and Max won’t stop laughing about it. It feels good — grounding — being with them again. You’ve all known each other since childhood, long before the fame, the money, the pressure.
When evening hits, Charles glances at his phone and then back at you. “There’s a party tonight. You should come with us.”
Max nods. “Even I’m going. Everyone will be there. You’ll love it.”
You grin. “Fine. But only because I have the perfect outfit.”
Hours later, the hotel suite smells like perfume and hairspray. Your red dress hugs your frame perfectly, your lipstick a matching shade that could kill a man on sight. Charles whistles dramatically when you step out, and Max groans.
“You’re going to make everyone forget how to speak,” Max mutters.
“That’s the goal,” you reply, grabbing your clutch.
The party is chaos — champagne glasses clinking, music pulsing, every corner filled with familiar faces. You’ve been to countless events, but there’s something electric in the air tonight. Maybe it’s the city. Maybe it’s the people. Or maybe it’s him.
Lewis Hamilton.
You don’t even notice him at first — not until you feel eyes on you. When you turn, he’s standing by the bar, in an all black Dior suit, expression soft but curious. He’s been in the sport forever, someone you’ve admired from afar but never properly met. Until now.
Charles notices the way your gaze lingers and smirks. “Oh, no,” he says under his breath. “I see that look.”
“Don’t,” you warn playfully, but Max is already grinning.
“Go on then,” he says, nudging you forward. “Say hi.”
You roll your eyes but make your way to the bar anyway. Lewis watches you approach, a small, knowing smile on his lips.
“YN LN,” he says before you can introduce yourself. “Stunning as ever.”
You laugh softly, a blush appearing on your face. “That’s one way to describe me.”
He offers his hand, and when your fingers touch, it’s like the world shrinks for a moment — the noise fading into the background. His voice is smooth, his gaze steady, and conversation flows as if you’ve known each other for years. You talk about travel, music, fashion, racing — everything and nothing all at once.
Hours pass without either of you noticing. You find yourselves tucked into a quiet corner of the balcony, the neon lights of the Vegas strip reflecting in his eyes. He’s kind, charming, and impossibly grounded — a contrast to the chaos surrounding you.
When he laughs, it’s soft, genuine. When he looks at you, it feels like he sees you.
“This is dangerous,” you tease lightly.
He raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I just met you and I’m already blushing and fumbling over my words.”
He smiles, tilting his glass toward yours. “Then I guess I’m doing something right.”
You clink glasses, the sound sharp against the night air. Inside, you can see Max and Charles watching through the window — Max smirking like a proud brother, Charles pretending to scold him for staring.
And somewhere across the room, four rookies — Kimi, Ollie, Isack, and Gabriel — are definitely plotting something. Whispering to each other, glancing your way, their expressions suspiciously smug.
But you don’t notice. You can’t notice anything but him. Because right now, it’s just you and Lewis under the Vegas sky — two souls who weren’t supposed to meet but did. And maybe, just maybe, this is where everything changes.
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The morning light in Vegas is soft but unforgiving — the kind that makes everything look a little too bright, a little too real after a night that felt like a dream. You’re sitting in the hotel restaurant, oversized sunglasses on, nursing a coffee that’s stronger than any reasonable human should drink, when Charles drops into the chair across from you with his signature smirk.
“So,” he begins, dragging the word out, “how was your night?”
You don’t even look up. “Fine.”
Max, sitting beside him, snorts into his orange juice. “Fine?” he repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. “That’s all you have to say after spending half the night on the balcony with Lewis Hamilton?”
You lower your sunglasses just enough to glare at him. “You two are quite literally insane.”
Charles grins, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “We’re just asking! You disappeared for hours, and when you finally came back inside, Lewis looked like a man who had just seen heaven.”
You nearly choke on your coffee. “Charles!”
He laughs, proud of himself. “I’m just saying what everyone was thinking.”
Max leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “He was smiling, you know. Lewis is kind but he doesn’t smile like that for just anyone.”
You groan, setting your mug down. “Can we not turn this into a press conference?”
“Oh, we already did,” Charles teases. “Alexandra’s been taking notes for the post race gossip debrief.”
As if on cue, Alexandra appears, sliding into the seat next to Charles, wearing an all red outfit that could easily rival yours from last night. She kisses Charles’ cheek and gives you a knowing grin.
“So,” she says sweetly, “when are we inviting Lewis to dinner?”
You throw a napkin at her. “Not you too!”
But she just laughs, looping her arm through Charles’. “You looked happy, chérie. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile like that.”
You soften a little at that. Because she’s right. It had felt different. Lewis wasn’t just charming — he was warm, kind, patient in a way that made you feel seen. You’d spent hours just talking, the two of you tucked away from the chaos of the party, laughing until you forgot where you were.
And the way he looked at you — like he wasn’t seeing the supermodel, the friend of his teammate, but you.
You shake your head quickly, trying to hide the tiny smile creeping onto your lips. “We just talked.”
Charles gasps dramatically. “Just talked?! I didn’t realize that’s what the kids are calling flirting these days.”
Max groans, slumping in his chair. “I can’t do this. I’m losing brain cells.”
“Good,” you shoot back. “Then we should stop because you didn’t have many to start with.”
That earns a round of laughter, and for a moment, it feels like you’re all kids again — teasing, bickering, loud in that familiar way only best friends can be.
Eventually, Charles glances at the time and stands. “Alright, we should get going. I need to be in the garage before briefing.”
You nod, finishing the last of your coffee. “Mind if I tag along? I believe I am due in the Ferrari garage this time.”
Charles’ face lights up. “Of course! Come with us.”
The Ferrari garage is a burst of red and noise when you arrive — the hum of engines, the chatter of engineers, the smell of oil and heat. You walk beside Charles and Alexandra, waving at familiar faces as you go. It’s always felt like home here, even after all the years away.
And then you see him.
Lewis is standing near the pit wall, suit half zipped, hair tied back, deep in conversation with one of the engineers. He looks up when he hears Charles’ voice — and the moment his eyes find yours, his whole expression softens.
“Morning,” he says, that low, velvet smooth tone doing unspeakable things to your heart.
You smile, stepping closer. “Morning, Lewis.”
Charles claps a hand on Lewis’ shoulder. “You two remember each other from last night?”
Lewis laughs, looking at him. “Hard to forget.” His gaze flicks back to you, and there’s something playful there now — something that makes your chest feel too small.
“Big day?” you ask, motioning to the garage.
He nods. “Always. But Vegas has its own… energy.”
You grin. “That’s one way to put it.”
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You staying for the race?”
“Of course,” you reply. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Charles groans dramatically behind you. “Oh great. Now he has extra motivation.”
Lewis just smiles, unbothered. “Guess I’ll have to put on a good show then.”
The teasing fades into background noise as the two of you keep talking — small things, little jokes, the kind of easy banter that comes naturally when something clicks. You can feel Alexandra’s grin burning into your back as she watches from behind Charles, and even he looks amused, pretending not to notice how you and his teammate are smiling at each other like teenagers.
When the engineers start ushering the drivers into their meeting, Lewis glances down at you one last time.
“Wish me luck?” he asks softly.
You bite back a smile, stepping closer. “Good luck, Lewis,” you murmur. “Not that you’ll need it.”
His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a grin. “I’ll take all the luck I can get — especially if it’s from you.”
Charles groans again, covering his ears. “Okay, that’s enough romance for the morning.”
You laugh, waving Lewis off as he walks with his engineers, and he gives you one last look before he is out of sight — a silent promise in his eyes, something you can’t quite name yet.
Max appears beside you, holding a Red Bull and wearing that signature mischievous smirk.
“So,” he says, voice raised over the sound, “are we planning the wedding now or later?”
You elbow him in the side, grinning despite yourself. “Shut up, Max.”
He chuckles, glancing toward Lewis’s car. “He’s already looking at you like you’re his lucky charm.”
And as the lights begin to glow on the starting grid, you can’t help but think — maybe you are.
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441633 podium incoming! (feeding my own agenda yet again) (i’m so selfish ik)
The roar of the engines still echoes through the desert as the checkered flag waves — a blur of two red cars and a navy one go streaking across the finish line. The crowd explodes, the commentators nearly shouting over one another, and you’re on your feet before you even realize it.
“LEWIS HAMILTON WINS THE LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX!”
Your heart leaps into your throat. It’s instinctive — a rush of pride, joy, disbelief all at once. You turn to Charles’s side of the garage, where Alexandra is clapping wildly, her face split into a wide smile. Charles finishes second, Max right behind him, the two of them crossing the line barely a second apart.
You can already imagine how chaotic the cooldown room is going to be.
When the cars roll into parc fermé, the air is thick with heat and celebration. Charles climbs out first, pulling off his helmet and shouting something in French you can’t quite hear. Max follows, grinning ear to ear despite finishing third.
And then they both spot you.
Before you can even brace yourself, Charles comes sprinting toward the barrier, still in his racing suit, sweat slicked and breathless but glowing. “You saw that?!” he yells, voice cracking with adrenaline.
You laugh, leaning forward as he reaches you. “You were incredible!”
He grins like a little kid. “I tried to win for you, but apparently Lewis had other plans!”
Right on cue, Max jogs over, hair sticking up from his helmet, smirking. “Yeah, your boyfriend was too fast today.”
“He’s not—” you start, but Max is already laughing, grabbing Charles and pulling him into a sweaty hug. The two of them look like they’ve forgotten their rivalry for once — united in victory, in sheer joy.
It’s only then that you notice Lewis standing a few feet away, still in his helmet, watching the three of you. There’s something soft in the way he looks at the scene — almost fond. He removes his helmet slowly, tucking it under his arm, and for a second, you just… look at each other.
You step forward through the crowd, heart pounding. The noise fades again, just like it did the night you met.
“You did it,” you say, your voice barely audible over the chaos. “You actually did it…with that car.”
Lewis smiles, small but genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Guess you really are my lucky charm.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m taking full credit, obviously.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” he teases. His hand brushes yours — just lightly, enough to send sparks up your arm. “I appreciate you being here and so supportive.”
You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
For a heartbeat, the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you — the sound of champagne bottles popping somewhere behind you, the flash of cameras, Charles and Max wrestling playfully nearby. Then someone from the FIA calls Lewis’s name, telling him to head to the podium, and he gives you one last grin before turning away.
“Don’t go too far,” he says over his shoulder.
“I won’t,” you promise.
The podium ceremony feels like a blur of gold and red and flashing lights. You and Alexandra stand just behind the barriers, the perfect mix of proud and emotional, surrounded by team members and mechanics still buzzing from the race.
Charles looks down at you mid celebration, points dramatically with a grin, and mouths something ridiculous. You roll your eyes but blow him a kiss anyway.
Max, true to form, sprays Charles directly in the face with champagne, then gets payback seconds later. Alexandra is giggling beside you, recording it all for Instagram stories.
But Lewis — he doesn’t look anywhere else.
When his name is announced and the British anthem plays, he lifts his trophy high, a smile breaking over his face like sunlight. And when the cameras zoom in, he looks down from the top step and finds you instantly.
Your breath catches. He grins, eyes soft, and then — in front of the world, the crowd, and your very smug best friends — he winks.
Alexandra gasps beside you. “Oh my God. He winked.”
You can’t help but laugh, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Stop, you’re making it a thing!”
“It is a thing!” she says, bouncing on her heels. “He just won a race and his first thought was to find you.”
You glance back up at him, unable to stop smiling. Lewis is still looking down, champagne dripping from him, his grin as boyish as it is charming. You lift your hand in a small wave, and he nods once — a silent, wordless acknowledgment.
Around you, everyone is cheering, celebrating, the energy electric. But for that fleeting moment, it feels like the noise fades again — just you, and him, and the shared understanding that something is beginning.
Later, as the confetti falls and Max shoves Charles playfully, you hear your phone buzz with a message notification. You glance down to see a text from an unsaved number.
“Told you you’re my lucky charm. Dinner tonight?”
You bite your lip, grinning as you save the number — Lewis Hamilton.
“Only if you let me pick the restaurant.”
“It’s a deal, love.”
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That evening, Vegas looks softer than it did the night before — the strip glowing gold instead of neon, the heat of the day giving way to a warm, velvet kind of night. You take your time getting ready, not because you’re trying to impress anyone (or at least that’s what you tell yourself), but because something about this feels different.
It’s not a red carpet look — not the kind of glamour that gets your name trending. It’s simple: a black silk dress that falls just right, minimal jewelry, a little mascara, and a spritz of your favorite perfume. The kind of effortless that’s actually very intentional.
You check your phone once more.
“Outside when you’re ready.”
He’s punctual — naturally he is. He is an absolute gentleman. You slip on your heels, grab your clutch, and take one last glance in the mirror before heading down.
When you step out of the hotel, Lewis is waiting by a sleek, vintage car — silver paint gleaming under the streetlights. He looks incredible, in a dark suit with the top buttons undone, something casual but still commanding. He smiles when he sees you, that easy, genuine grin that had first pulled you in.
“Wow,” he says quietly, as he opens the car door for you. “You look incredible.”
You laugh, sliding into the seat. “Flattery already? We haven’t even made it to dinner yet.”
He grins as he rounds the car and gets in beside you. “Can’t help it. You took my breath away.”
Your heart skips a beat, but you play it off with a teasing smile. “You’re not too bad yourself, champion.”
The restaurant is tucked away, it’s quiet and overlooking the city. No paparazzi, no chaos, just the hum of soft jazz and the glow of lanterns strung above polished tables. It feels far removed from the world you both know — the noise of engines, flashing cameras, constant movement. Here, it’s just… calm.
“I didn’t want anything loud,” Lewis admits as the waiter pours your wine. “After weekends like this, I need peace.”
You nod, glancing around the warm-lit terrace. “I get that. You’ve earned it.”
He tilts his head slightly. “And you? Don’t you ever want a break? Your life’s not exactly quiet.”
You smile at that. “Sometimes. But I love it, you know? The travel, the shoots, the people. It’s… chaotic, but it’s mine.”
He hums thoughtfully. “It’s rare to hear someone say that without sounding tired.”
“I used to be,” you admit, swirling your wine. “Before I learned to slow down. To actually enjoy it.” You pause, glancing up at him. “I think you’re learning that too.”
He chuckles softly, eyes warm. “Maybe I am.”
The food arrives — delicate, simple, perfect. Conversation flows easily, laughter bubbling between sips of wine. He asks you about modeling, about your childhood with Max and Charles, and you tease him about the fact that both of your best friends have spent years both looking up to him and trying to beat him.
“You realize they are kind of insane, right?” you joke.
He grins. “Oh, I’m well aware. Don’t worry — I can handle them.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Even together?”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “Alright, maybe that’s pushing it.”
The night stretches on, slow and soft. It feels like the world has shrunk to just this small little corner of the restaurant, your laughter echoing between the city lights. For the first time in a long time, neither of you are performing. It’s just real.
And somewhere across town… chaos is brewing.
Meanwhile, in another restaurant down the strip, Charles and Max are sitting side by side in a booth, wearing big hats that scream Vegas and do nothing to disguise them. Alexandra sits across from them, trying not to laugh as they both hunch over their phones like secret agents.
“Are you seriously tracking her location right now?” Alexandra asks, sipping her drink.
“Yes,” Charles says immediately, eyes glued to the screen. “She said she was having dinner with Lewis. I need to make sure she is okay.”
Max nods in agreement. “This is called being a good friend, Alexandra.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s called being psychotic.”
Charles zooms in on the map. “Okay, they’re still at the restaurant. It’s a nice place. Very romantic.”
“Good choice,” Max says, impressed. “I’ll give him that.”
They both peer over the top of their sunglasses at the terrace in the distance — visible from their vantage point through a pair of binoculars they stole from someone on the Ferrari team.
Charles frowns. “Wait. He’s making her laugh.”
Alexandra groans. “Yes, because that’s what happens on dates.”
Max squints. “They look close.”
Charles lowers his phone dramatically. “Too close.”
“Stop it,” Alexandra hisses, fighting a smile. “She’s fine.”
“She’s our little angel,” Max insists. “We have to protect her.”
“From Lewis Hamilton?” she deadpans.
“Yes!” they both say at once.
Alexandra flicks Charles lightly. “You two are unbelievable.”
But she still leans in when Charles quietly says, “Okay, but look—he’s smiling again.”
They all go quiet for a second.
“Do we intervene?” Max asks, only half-joking.
“Absolutely not,” Alexandra says, firmly. “You will not ruin this. They’re clearly happy.”
Charles crosses his arms. “If he hurts her—”
“He won’t,” she cuts in. “Now stop stalking them and eat your food.”
Back on the rooftop, you’re oblivious to all of it — to the fact that your two childhood best friends are currently spying like overprotective brothers from three blocks away. You’re too busy listening to Lewis tell a story about his first year in F1, giggling a little too hard.
As the plates are cleared, the conversation softens again. The air between you feels charged but easy — the kind of warmth that doesn’t need words.
Lewis leans back, watching you quietly. “You know,” he says after a moment, “it’s been a long time since I’ve had a night like this.”
You tilt your head. “Like what?”
“Simple,” he says. “No noise. No expectations. Just… authentic.”
Something in your chest tightens. “I get that,” you whisper. “It feels rare.”
He smiles, eyes tracing your face. “Maybe we shouldn’t let it be.”
Before you can reply, your phone buzzes. You glance down — and freeze.
‘Find My Friends: 2 Active Trackers — Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc.’
Your jaw drops.
Lewis notices immediately. “Everything alright?”
You blink, slowly, then burst out laughing. “You have got to be kidding me.”
He looks amused. “What?”
You hand him your phone, and he laughs when he sees the map — two little dots not far away. “They didn’t…”
“Oh, they did.” You cover your face, groaning. “They’re tracking me.”
He grins, leaning closer. “That’s adorable.”
“That’s infuriating!” you correct. “They’re probably watching right now!”
He chuckles, eyes glinting. “Well then…” He leans in just a little closer — not enough to cause a scandal, but enough to make your breath hitch. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”
You laugh, swatting at his arm, cheeks burning. “You’re impossible.”
He grins, holding your gaze. “And you love it.”
Down the street, in their booth, Charles suddenly groans. “Oh no. He’s leaning in!”
Max sighs, tossing his napkin onto the table. “She’s gone. She’s in love.”
Alexandra laughs so hard she nearly cries. “Good. Maybe now you two can finally relax.”
Charles sighs dramatically. “Never.”
Back on the rooftop, you’re smiling again — that same smile that had caught Lewis’s attention the very first night. The city stretches out around you, alive and glittering, but all you can see is him. And as the night deepens, you realize maybe this isn’t just another Vegas moment. Maybe, just maybe, it’s the start of something you had been waiting a very long time for.
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The morning sun spills through the glass dome of the Bellagio, warm and golden against the marble floors. You’re dressed down for once — loose white shirt tucked into wide-legged linen pants, oversized sunglasses perched in your hair, the kind of anonymity you’ve learned to master when you need a quiet hour. The casino is quieter than usual for Vegas standards; it’s late morning, and the partygoers are still asleep. The faint hum of slot machines fills the air, the rhythmic clinking of coins and the shuffle of cards almost soothing.
You’re not gambling — just wandering, taking in the ridiculous extravagance of it all. The chandeliers glimmer like constellations. Everything smells faintly of expensive perfume and coffee. It’s peaceful in a strange, overstimulating way.
Until you hear the distinct sound of whispering and badly concealed giggling behind you.
You turn around and find four suspiciously tall, out-of-place young men in matching smug grins.
“Oh no,” you say instantly, sighing. “What are you doing here?”
Ollie Bearman looks like a kid who just got caught sneaking into a rated-R movie. “We could ask you the same thing,” he shoots back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“Kimi,” you turn to Antonelli, “you’re eighteen. You’re not even old enough to be in here.”
“I’m nineteen,” he corrects, a little too proudly.
“Barely,” you mutter.
Isack Hadjar crosses his arms, trying to look intimidating and failing spectacularly. “We’re not here for gambling,” he assures you. “We’re here for you.”
You blink. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
Gabriel grins. “Don’t worry. It’s not an ambush.”
“Feels like one,” you mutter under your breath, but the way they’re all watching you with wide-eyed curiosity makes you laugh. “Okay, what’s this about? Shouldn’t you be at the track? Or doing rookie things? Like… sim work or getting lectured by your team principals?”
Kimi shakes his head seriously. “We’re on a mission.”
“Oh god.”
“Operation Love Lockdown,” Ollie says dramatically, snapping his fingers.
Isack groans. “We said we weren’t calling it that!”
“Well, I like it,” Gabriel says.
You raise an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “Operation what?”
They glance at each other, then back at you, clearly having some sort of silent group debate. Finally, Ollie sighs and takes the lead.
“Okay,” he says, “we’re just going to be honest. We think you and Lewis are cute.”
You blink once. “Excuse me?”
Kimi nods solemnly, like this is some sort of top secret meeting. “It’s true. We saw the way he looked at you. And how he smiled after the podium. He never smiles like that.”
Isack leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “He’s completely gone. Like—head over heels already.”
You let out a soft laugh, folding your arms. “You boys have been talking to Charles and Max, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” Gabriel says with a shrug. “But that’s beside the point.”
“The point,” Kimi says, as if he’s the group spokesperson, “is that you should know Lewis hasn’t… been with anyone in a long time.”
Your teasing expression softens a little. “What do you mean?”
Ollie rocks on his heels, suddenly less smug. “He’s been alone for years, really. Doesn’t let people in. Doesn’t date, doesn’t flirt — he just… works. Races. Helps everyone else, but never himself.”
Isack nods. “He’s the kind of guy who’s been through too much to risk his heart again, y’know?”
Gabriel crosses his arms, a bit protective now. “So if you’re gonna be around him… just don’t mess with him, okay?”
You look at them — these four kids, all pretending to be older, all fiercely loyal to someone they clearly admire — and you can’t help but smile. “You guys are very sweet,” you say softly. “But I’m not here to hurt him.”
Ollie narrows his eyes. “Promise?”
You hold up a hand, palm raised. “Promise.”
Kimi looks satisfied, nodding once. “Good. Because he’s like, the grid…dad…no that’s Max. Anyways, If you break his heart, the entire grid will revolt.”
“Noted,” you say, laughing. “Now tell me — did you all sneak in here just to interrogate me?”
“Yes,” Isack says flatly.
“No,” Gabriel says at the same time.
“Yes,” Kimi adds again.
You roll your eyes. “You’re all going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Ollie grins. “Also, you do like him, don’t you?”
Your stomach flips. You start to reply, but your phone buzzes — a text from Charles: Breakfast at the Café? Lewis might join.
You glance up and catch all four of them grinning knowingly.
You sigh, half amused, half flustered. “You’re all unbelievable.”
Kimi smirks. “We just call it like we see it.”
You shake your head, walking toward the exit with their laughter trailing behind you.
And even though you won’t admit it aloud, the warmth in your chest lingers long after you’ve left the casino — the quiet realization that maybe, just maybe, they’re right.
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The Bellagio Café was busier than you expected for a late breakfast — the low murmur of conversation mixed with the sound of plates clinking and coffee being poured. You slip off your sunglasses, scanning the room for that familiar mop of brown hair or one of Alexandra’s signature silk scarves.
You were running a few minutes late, distracted by your encounter with the rookies — four miniature agents of chaos in designer sneakers who had made it their life’s mission to discuss your love life before noon. You still can’t decide if you’re more amused or mortified.
You glance down at your phone again.
We’re at the back, near the windows!
Actually — change of plans. I’ll be a few mins late. Don’t go anywhere.
You frown, glancing around the café. “Don’t go anywhere”? Typical Charles. Always cryptic when he’s plotting something.
A waiter approaches, smiling. “Table for Leclerc?”
You nod. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Right this way, miss.”
He leads you past the crowded tables, all the way to the corner booth overlooking the fountains — and that’s when you realize Charles is not, in fact, here.
Lewis is.
He looks up from his coffee, and the world seems to pause for half a heartbeat. The sunlight streaming through the glass hits just right, catching on his jewelry and reflecting in his dark eyes. He’s dressed casually — a white tee, layered chains, and a soft gray jacket that somehow still looks runway-level elegant on him.
He stands when he sees you, a gentle smile curving his lips. “YN.”
You blink, surprise flickering into a quiet laugh. “Lewis.”
“You’re… not Charles.”
He chuckles softly, motioning to the seat across from him. “No, I’m not. But apparently, I’m your breakfast date now.”
You slide into the booth, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through your cheeks. “Did he set this up?”
“I think so,” he says, amusement dancing in his eyes. “He texted me ten minutes ago saying you were waiting and not to ‘mess it up.’”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Oh my god. I knew he was up to something. I was just with the rookies — I should’ve realized they were part of the conspiracy too.”
Lewis laughs, low and genuine. “I had a feeling the entire grid might be working together on… something.”
“Something called Operation Love Lockdown, apparently,” you say, rolling your eyes.
He nearly chokes on his coffee, grinning. “That’s a terrible name.”
“I told them that! They’re relentless.”
For a moment, the conversation slips into easy laughter — the kind that feels like you’ve known each other longer than a handful of days. You tell him about your morning, about the rookies sneaking into casinos and interrogating you like a panel of overprotective brothers. He listens intently, eyes soft and warm, occasionally interjecting with a quiet “no way” or “they really said that?”
And when you pause to sip your coffee, Lewis leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “You know,” he says, voice gentler now, “they’re not wrong.”
Your brow lifts. “About what?”
He smiles faintly. “That I don’t… really let people in anymore. It’s true. I think I got so used to protecting my space, my peace, that I stopped realizing how lonely it got.”
You look at him — really look — and there’s something vulnerable in his expression, something so achingly honest it makes your chest tighten. “Then I’m glad Charles set us up,” you say softly.
His lips curve upward again, this time slower, more deliberate. “Yeah. Me too.”
There’s a beat of quiet between you — not awkward, just charged. Outside, the fountains begin to dance, water glittering in the sunlight.
Your phone buzzes again.
Charles 🏎️: You there yet? How’s Lewis?
Max 🦁: Tell him not to screw it up.
Alexandra 💋: We’re watching from the café next door btw, don’t panic ❤️
You look up sharply, scanning the crowd outside until you spot them — Max’s unmistakable Red Bull gear, Charles’ sunglasses, Alexandra pretending to read a menu and failing miserably.
You laugh, shaking your head. “They’re literally spying on us right now.”
Lewis follows your gaze and bursts out laughing. “Of course they are.”
You hold up your phone, snapping a quick photo of him mid-laugh. “For evidence,” you say. “When I inevitably strangle them later.”
He grins. “You look beautiful when you’re plotting revenge, you know that?”
Your heart stutters. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“Maybe,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, “but it’s true.”
And just like that — between stolen glances, shared laughter, and meddling friends watching from afar — breakfast turns into something softer, something slower.
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several weeks later…
yourusername
liked by lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 5,600,000 others.
yourusername :back to your regularly scheduled programming 🐆🎱
—
user has limited the amount of comments on this post.
charles_leclerc : i have a few questions
↳ maxverstappen1 : me too (stop ignoring my texts.)
↳ olliebearman : if i could be in paris spying right now i would
↳ kimi.antonelli : who says we can’t be?
↳ yourusername : me, i did.
alexandrasaintmleux : so gorg my girl! (just blocked charles and max from taking the jet to paris)
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : i owe you my everything.
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Paris has always felt a little like magic — golden light on old stone, the smell of rain on cobblestones, cameras flashing in a symphony outside the Grand Palais. You’ve done fashion week a dozen times before, but this time feels different. Maybe it’s the Dior gown — ethereal, sculpted, and made for movement — or maybe it’s because you know someone is sitting in the audience who doesn’t usually come to fashion shows. When your stylist whispered it backstage, you almost didn’t believe her. Lewis Hamilton is here.
You tried not to think about it while walking the runway — chin high, expression poised, every movement precise. But when you reach the end of the catwalk, your eyes catch on him immediately, tucked into the front row, wearing a tailored suit and dark sunglasses that do nothing to hide his smile. It’s small, but it’s there — proud, warm, maybe even a little awed. You don’t let yourself react. Not yet.
After the final bow, after the applause and backstage chaos and congratulations from editors and designers, you finally step outside into the crisp evening air. Paris at night hums like a secret — laughter spilling from cafés, the Eiffel Tower flickering in the distance. And waiting near one of the side exits, away from the chaos, is Lewis.
He’s leaning against a black car, hands in his pockets, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. “You were incredible,” he says simply when you reach him.
You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “You came all the way to Paris just to tell me that?”
He shrugs, playfully. “What can I say? I like a good runway.”
You tilt your head, smiling. “You mean me on the runway.”
His grin widens. “Exactly.”
For a moment, neither of you speak. The city moves around you — photographers shouting somewhere down the street, flashes going off, people calling for cars — but somehow, it feels quiet between you. Familiar in that same effortless way it always does.
You finally break the silence. “You look good in Dior, by the way.”
He laughs, glancing down at his outfit. “You noticed?”
“Hard not to,” you tease, stepping back a little. “But I have an early call time tomorrow. Duty calls.”
He nods, still smiling. “Of course. Go be the superstar you are.”
You take a few steps toward your car, then glance back once more. He’s watching you — not in the hungry, performative way men sometimes do, but with quiet admiration. Like he’s memorizing you just as you are.
You wave, soft and small. “Goodnight, Lewis.”
“Goodnight, Doll.”
Back at your hotel, your heels are off, makeup half gone, and you’re scrolling through photos from the show when your phone starts blowing up.
First comes a call from Charles. Then from Max. Then both at once.
You sigh and accept the group call, already bracing yourself.
Charles doesn’t even say hello. “WHY IS LEWIS HAMILTON AT YOUR SHOW?”
Max adds, “AND WHY IS HE LOOKING AT YOU LIKE THAT IN EVERY PHOTO?”
You blink innocently. “Hi to you too.”
“YN,” Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “the internet thinks you two are dating again!”
“Again?” you repeat, laughing. “We were never dating in the first place!”
Max holds his phone up to the screen, showing a blurry paparazzi photo of you and Lewis standing outside after the show — you smiling, him laughing, his hand just barely on your arm. The lighting is soft, romantic, cinematic.
“Explain this,” Max demands dramatically.
You grin, reclining against the pillows. “I don’t need to. I look amazing.”
Charles glares. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“Maybe because there’s nothing to avoid,” you tease. “He came to the show, said hi, and that was it. End of story.”
Max narrows his eyes. “You’re giggling.”
You roll your eyes. “I am not giggling.”
“You are!” Charles insists, pointing. “That’s your I-like-someone-but-I’m-denying-it laugh!”
You snort, covering your face with a pillow. “You two are my worst nightmare!”
“Just admit you like him!” Max says, grinning.
“I like a lot of people,” you say airily. “Lewis just happens to be one of them.”
Charles groans. “That’s not reassuring.”
You laugh, waving goodbye as you hang up. “Go to sleep, you two. And stop stalking the paparazzi tags.”
“YN—!”
Click.
You toss your phone onto the nightstand and collapse back against the bed, still smiling to yourself. Because even though you’d never admit it to them… the truth is, when you think of Lewis in that Dior front row — his smile, his quiet pride — it’s kind of impossible not to giggle.
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next night!
It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes against the nightstand. You’re sitting cross-legged in your hotel room, still in the fluffy white robe from post-show glam removal, hair up, face mask on, half-watching a French rom-com with subtitles when the screen lights up:
Pack away the face mask, superstar. I’m sending a car in 15. Something simple and fun. Dress comfy.
You blink at the message, reread it twice, and then burst into a grin. Simple and fun. With Lewis Hamilton. The man who wears custom Dior to breakfast.
Define “simple.”
You’ll see. Just trust me.
Fifteen minutes later, a sleek black car pulls up in front of your hotel. You slip into a pair of loose jeans, a white crop top, and an oversized jacket, pulling your hair into a messy ponytail. When you step outside, the driver greets you with a polite nod and a soft, “Mr. Hamilton said to take you straight there, miss.”
The streets of Paris are quiet, moonlight glinting off the Seine. You try to guess — maybe a quiet café? A rooftop dinner? Some late-night museum access?
You definitely don’t expect to pull up to a bowling alley.
Every light inside is glowing, yet the parking lot is completely empty. As you step through the glass doors, you hear faint music — old R&B, smooth and playful — and see Lewis at the far end of the lane, sleeves rolled up, laughing as he badly throws a gutter ball.
He looks over when you arrive and beams. “You made it.”
You laugh, taking in the sight. “You rented out an entire bowling alley?”
He shrugs, walking toward you. “I said I wanted something simple. You said you preferred simple.”
You can’t help but grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he teases, “you’re smiling.”
He hands you a ball, blue and slightly too heavy, and points toward the lane. “Your turn, love. Let’s see if you can bowl as well as you walk a runway.”
You narrow your eyes playfully. “You’re going to regret that.”
The ball glides down the lane — a clean, steady roll — and you knock down eight pins. You turn back, smug. “Not bad for my first try.”
Lewis raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Okay, maybe I underestimated you.”
The next few rounds dissolve into laughter and mock-serious competition — him celebrating every spare like it’s a championship win, you teasing him mercilessly for missing pins. At one point, you both end up sitting cross-legged on the glossy floor, sharing fries from the tiny café counter while arguing about who technically won the last round.
He watches you mid-laugh, eyes soft in the neon glow. “You know,” he says quietly, “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun doing something so… normal.”
You tilt your head, smiling. “Normal is underrated.”
He nods, gaze lingering on you a little too long, his voice gentler now. “Not when you’re around.”
The room feels warmer somehow. You glance away, cheeks burning. “That’s cheating. You can’t flirt during competition.”
He grins, standing up and offering you a hand. “Then I’ll just have to win fair and square.”
You take his hand — firm, steady, electric — and rise to your feet. The music shifts to something slower, softer, echoing faintly through the empty lanes. You’re still holding on to each other when the next ball clatters into the pins, scattering them completely.
“Strike,” he murmurs, still looking at you.
You laugh under your breath. “Show-off.”
He bows dramatically. “Lucky charm.”
And for a few seconds, it’s just the two of you — no cameras, no noise, no pressure. Just you and Lewis, surrounded by the soft hum of the city outside and the glow of neon lights flickering over polished lanes.
Later, when he walks you back to the car, you’re both barefoot, shoes dangling from your hands, still teasing each other about the final score.
“Loser owes the winner coffee tomorrow morning,” he says as he opens your door.
You smile, slipping inside. “Guess I’ll see you at breakfast then, champion.”
He leans against the door for a heartbeat longer, that quiet, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
As the car pulls away, you can’t stop smiling — because somewhere between the laughter, the strikes, and the easy comfort of it all, something real has started to take shape. Something beautifully, unexpectedly simple.
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The sky is a pale blue, and the streets below your hotel window are already alive with motion: the smell of fresh croissants, the faint sound of bicycle bells, café chairs scraping against pavement. You’re halfway through tying your hair when your phone lights up with a new message.
I owe you breakfast, remember? ☕😉
You were serious about that?
Absolutely. I’m outside.
You blink. Outside?
You rush to the window — and there he is. Parked in front of your hotel in a sleek black Ferrari, hair tied back, sunglasses on, a takeaway cup already in hand. He looks up just as you spot him and waves, that signature grin breaking across his face.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re sliding into the passenger seat, still a little breathless from hurrying down the stairs. “You could’ve warned me,” you say, laughing as he hands you a coffee cup with your name written on it.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he teases, pulling away from the curb.
You sip your drink — it’s perfect, of course — and glance over at him. He’s driving like someone who actually enjoys the ride more than the destination, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly to the rhythm of the jazz coming through the speakers.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“Breakfast spot I found last year,” he says. “Tiny place by the river. You’ll love it.”
He’s right. You do. The café is tucked away along the Seine — just a few tables, soft music, the smell of butter and sugar wafting through the air. He insists on pulling out your chair (of course he does), and when you sit down, it’s almost ridiculous how easy it feels.
“So,” you say, breaking a croissant in half, “is this your victory lap from bowling last night?”
Lewis grins, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to see you again.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You’re smooth, Hamilton.”
“Occupational hazard,” he says with a laugh. “Years of interviews.”
The conversation flows like it always does — stories about your work, his training, little glimpses of childhood memories from Monaco and Stevenage. He tells you about the first time he drove through Paris, nervous and ecstatic all at once; you tell him about sneaking into fashion week afterparties at nineteen just to “see what all the noise was about.”
At some point, a couple walking their dog stops to greet Lewis — he smiles warmly, shakes their hands, asks about their day — and you watch him in silence, your heart doing that annoying fluttery thing again. He’s so grounded. So present.
When he sits back down, catching your gaze, he raises an eyebrow. “What?”
You shake your head, smiling softly. “Nothing. You’re just… really good with people.”
He shrugs, pretending to downplay it. “They’re good with me.” Then, after a pause: “You look happy.”
You laugh lightly. “That’s because you promised me breakfast and actually delivered.”
“I try to keep my promises.”
There’s that quiet tension again — not heavy, just electric — lingering in the air between sips of coffee and shared glances. The city moves around you, but it feels like the world’s narrowed down to this tiny café table, two cups, and a thousand things unsaid.
Eventually, your phone buzzes. A text from Charles.
Are you with Lewis again?? Max says he saw pictures.
You bite back a grin and type back:
Eating croissants. Mind your business.
Lewis catches the look on your face and chuckles. “Charles checking in?”
“Always,” you sigh, shaking your head. “He and Max are the worst detectives alive.”
He laughs, and something in that sound — that light, unguarded joy — makes you want to memorize it.
“Tell them,” he says with a playful glint in his eye, “that their favorite driver is winning again.”
You meet his gaze, smiling softly. “At bowling?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours. “At everything that matters.”
And just like that — in a quiet corner of Paris, with coffee cooling between you and laughter still lingering in the air — you realize you’re in trouble. The good kind. The kind that feels like falling, slow and certain, into something that just might be love.
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It’s been almost three weeks since Paris. Three weeks since morning coffee by the river, since Lewis’s easy laugh, since the way he’d said “I try to keep my promises” — and maybe it’s nothing, maybe he’s just busy, maybe the world doesn’t revolve around one breakfast, but the silence feels louder than it should.
You scroll through your phone for the hundredth time, thumb hovering over his name. It’s not like you haven’t texted — a casual message here, a funny meme there — but his replies have trickled down into short bursts. “Training’s been crazy.” “Back-to-back meetings.” “Let’s catch up soon.” You told yourself you understood. You still do. You’ve been around racing long enough to know how consuming it gets. Still, there’s this small, stupid ache sitting in your chest every time you open your messages and see that “seen” with no reply underneath.
You tell yourself you’re fine. You’re busy too. You’re fine. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth one night when your phone starts ringing on the counter. You spit out toothpaste and grab it — Charles.
You answer with a half-laugh. “It’s midnight, what do you want?”
“Why do you sound asleep already?” Charles demands, sounding way too awake for whatever timezone he’s in.
“Because it’s midnight, Charles,” you mumble.
In the background, you hear another voice — unmistakably Max. “Tell her she doesn’t have an excuse this time,” he says, tone mock-serious.
You frown, confused. “Excuse for what?”
“The next race,” Charles says simply. “You’re coming.”
You blink. “I— what? No, I can’t, I’ve got—”
“Nothing,” Max cuts in. “You’ve got nothing.”
You groan, flopping back onto your bed. “You two sound like my parents.”
“Good,” Charles says cheerfully. “Because we’re serious. You haven’t been to a race in like two months and everyone misses you. We miss you.”
“You just want me to bring presents again,” you tease.
“That too,” Max admits.
Their laughter fills the room, warm and familiar, and even though you roll your eyes, you can’t help smiling. They’re relentless, and you’ve never been good at saying no to either of them — especially when they tag-team you like this.
“Fine,” you sigh, sitting up. “Which one?”
“Abu Dhabi” Charles says immediately, and you can hear his grin. “You’ll come, right?”
You hesitate for just a second. You can already feel your heart skip, traitorous. You haven’t seen him since Paris. Haven’t heard his voice in weeks. The idea of bumping into him again — in the chaos of a race weekend — makes your stomach twist in equal parts excitement and dread. But Charles is waiting on the other end, and Max is chanting your name like an impatient child, and you’re smiling again before you even realize it.
“Alright,” you say softly. “I’ll come.”
Their twin cheers nearly deafen you.
“Pack red!” Charles yells.
“No. You’re with me this time.” Max adds.
“And no backing out,” Charles says firmly. “We’ll send you the pass tonight.”
When you finally hang up, the room feels too quiet again. You stare at your reflection in the dark window, toothbrush still in your hand, a stupid smile tugging at your lips. You tell yourself it’s for Charles and Max. For the atmosphere. For the racing. But somewhere deep down, you know exactly why your heart’s beating faster.
Lewis. Maybe this time, you’ll find out if Paris was just a beautiful moment — or the beginning of something you both were too scared to name.
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Abu Dhabi. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling of stepping off a plane into the thick, golden heat that smells faintly of salt and jet fuel. The city feels like it’s humming beneath your feet — the calm before chaos, the end-of-season electricity that always seems to linger in the air this time of year.
When you reach the hotel, you’re still half-dazed, sunglasses perched on your head and your phone buzzing with new messages. You nearly drop your keycard when you realize what suite Charles and Max have booked for you.
Booked, being the generous word — they’ve practically bullied their teams into reserving it for you. The entire place looks like something out of a movie. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the marina, where the track wraps like silver ribbon around the water. There’s a fruit basket on the counter with a note in Charles’s neat handwriting:
“Welcome home, trouble. – Cha and Maxie”
You laugh, shaking your head.
You’d barely unpacked half your suitcase when there’s a knock at your door — sharp, rapid, suspiciously familiar.
You glance at the clock. It’s barely 10 a.m.
“Who—?”
You open the door and freeze. Standing there, like they’ve planned a coordinated invasion, are four of the youngest, most chaotic people on the grid: Ollie Bearman, Kimi Antonelli, Isack Hadjar, and Gabriel Bortoleto. All in sunglasses. All grinning like they’ve just been caught doing something they definitely shouldn’t.
“Good morning, Miss Supermodel,” Ollie greets, voice dripping with fake politeness.
You blink. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all,” Isack says, leaning casually against the doorframe. “We’re here for our mission.”
“What mission?” you ask, suspicion rising.
“Charles said you might try to bail last minute, so we came to make sure you don’t.”
You stare at them, then laugh — loud and incredulous. “You broke into my morning for this?”
Ollie shrugs. “Charles told us to ‘escort her to the paddock.’ We took that seriously.”
Before you can protest, they’re already inside your suite, moving with the practiced confidence of people who have absolutely no business being here. Isack opens your closet, Gabriel finds your makeup bag, Kimi starts brewing coffee like it’s a pit stop, and Ollie’s sprawled across your couch like he owns the place.
You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “I could have gotten ready by myself, you know.”
Gabriel shakes his head. “No, no, no. We were told this is important.”
Kimi adds, almost too sincerely, “Lewis is going to be there.”
You freeze.
The room goes quiet for a heartbeat, and all four of them exchange looks — the kind of looks that scream we know exactly what we’re doing.
“I—” you start, but Ollie interrupts.
“Charles told us everything,” he says cheerfully. “And by everything, I mean Max told us first, and then Charles confirmed it, and now we’re invested.”
You groan. “Oh my god.”
“Relax,” Isack says with a grin. “We’re rooting for you.”
They’re ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. But they mean well, and despite your half-hearted protests, it’s hard not to let them take over. Gabriel helps you pick an outfit (“Something elegant but not intimidating,” he says, as if this is a mission briefing), Isack plays music and critiques your accessories like a stylist, and Ollie insists on taking “pre-paddock selfies.”
By the time you’re dressed — soft linen trousers, a sleek top, oversized sunglasses, and the kind of effortless confidence that comes from pretending you don’t care — the rookies are buzzing with excitement.
“You look amazing,” Kimi says with quiet pride. “Lewis is going to faint.”
You laugh, swatting at his arm. “You’re all impossible.”
“We know,” Ollie says. “That’s why you love us.”
When you finally head out, they form a little entourage around you — like overexcited bodyguards, half-bickering, half-giggling as they escort you through the hotel lobby. People stare. Phones flash. You can feel the eyes, the whispers, but all you can do is laugh, caught up in their ridiculous energy.
Outside, the desert heat hits you again. The rookies pile into the car they’ve arranged (“We borrowed it,” Isack clarifies, which doesn’t reassure you in the slightest), and as you drive toward Yas Marina, you feel a familiar thrill in your chest — that mix of nerves and nostalgia. You’re back.
And somewhere out there, Lewis Hamilton is too.
You don’t know what you’ll say when you see him again, or how it’ll feel after weeks of silence. But the rookies’ laughter fills the car, sunlight flickers over the track in the distance, and for the first time in a while, you feel something like hope settling softly in your chest.
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The paddock is buzzing when you arrive — that golden, endless Abu Dhabi light bouncing off the hospitality buildings, team shirts fluttering, mechanics moving in precise rhythm. It’s the last race of the season, that rare mix of exhaustion and euphoria that everyone carries like perfume. You’re barely out of the car before Max and Charles appear, grinning like they’ve been waiting all morning.
“Finally!” Max exclaims, grabbing your hand dramatically. “You took your time, didn’t you?”
“I was ambushed by your rookies,” you shoot back, nodding toward the four shadows trailing behind you.
Charles glances over your shoulder, sees Ollie, Isack, Kimi, and Gabriel trying not to look suspicious — and immediately bursts into laughter. “Perfect. Everything’s going according to plan.”
You frown. “What plan?”
Max waves a hand, looking far too casual. “No plan. Totally spontaneous day. No reason to be suspicious.”
Which, of course, makes you instantly suspicious.
You narrow your eyes. “Max.”
He grins, all dimples. “You’ll see.”
Before you can demand answers, Charles loops an arm around your shoulders and steers you toward Ferrari hospitality. “Come on. We have a surprise for you.”
You expect maybe lunch, or a photo op, or some silly little pre-race event. What you don’t expect is this:
A boardroom transformed into a dinner scene straight out of a movie.
White tablecloth. Candles flickering softly against the glass windows overlooking the circuit. Two perfectly set places — silverware aligned, wine glasses gleaming, a tiny vase with a single white rose in the middle.
It’s… absurdly romantic.
You blink, taking it all in. “What—?”
Before you can finish, Max is already shoving you gently forward. “Ta-da!”
You turn around just in time to see Charles smirking. “You’ve been busy,” he says, nodding toward someone behind you.
You follow his gaze — and there he is. Lewis.
Standing in the doorway, suit slightly undone at the collar, a look of pure confusion and something softer in his eyes when they land on you.
For a second, neither of you moves. Then, at the exact same time, you both turn toward the boys — who are all grinning like devils caught red-handed.
“No,” you say. “Yes,” Max says immediately. “Absolutely not,” Lewis adds. “Absolutely yes,” Charles counters.
Ollie gives you both a thumbs-up from the back. “You can thank us later!”
You glare at them, but it’s already too late — the door shuts, and you hear the click of the lock.
“Kimi, do not lock that—!” you start, but they’re gone.
There’s silence for a moment. Just you, Lewis, and the faint hum of air conditioning.
You sigh, pressing your palms to your face. “They’re insufferable.”
Lewis laughs quietly, that deep, soft kind of laugh that always makes your chest ache. “They mean well.”
You glance up, meeting his eyes. “Do they? Or are they just annoying?”
He grins, stepping closer. “Maybe both.”
There’s a small table between you — but it feels like it’s holding the weight of every word you haven’t said yet. You take a seat, partly to calm your nerves. Lewis hesitates, then sits across from you, the sunlight from the window brushing over his face.
For a minute, you just look at each other — the kind of silence that says I missed you without needing to spell it out.
Finally, he exhales. “I owe you an apology.”
You blink. “For what?”
“For disappearing,” he says softly. “For not calling. For… making you wonder.”
You open your mouth, but he beats you to it — his voice quiet but certain.
“I didn’t mean to pull away,” he admits, hands clasped together on the table. “It’s just— it’s been a long time since I let anyone close. And when I did, it didn’t end well. I thought… maybe if I stayed distant, I wouldn’t ruin something before it started.”
Your chest tightens.
He looks at you then — really looks — and his voice drops lower. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. The way you laughed that night in Vegas. The way you looked at me in Paris. Even now, I walk into a room, and somehow, you’re still the first thing that comes to mind.”
The words hit like sunlight through water — bright, disorienting, beautiful.
“Lewis…” you start, but your throat catches halfway. You reach across the table before you even think, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t pull away.
“I get it,” you say quietly. “You’ve been alone a long time. You had your walls for a reason. But I’m not here to rush you, or change you, or make you something you’re not.”
His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, slow and warm. “What are you here for, then?”
You smile, small but certain. “To see what happens if you stop running.”
For a second, neither of you speaks — just the sound of your breaths, the quiet hum of the paddock outside, the candle flickering between you. Then Lewis stands, walks around the table, and stops beside you.
When he cups your cheek, it’s gentle. Careful. Like he’s asking permission with his touch.
You nod once — and he leans in.
The kiss is soft. Familiar. The kind that feels like a beginning, even after all the waiting.
When you pull back, both of you are smiling — a little breathless, a little stunned.
“Guess the boys were right,” you whisper.
Lewis chuckles, forehead still resting against yours. “Remind me to thank them later.”
From somewhere outside the door, there’s muffled cheering — Max’s unmistakable yell, followed by Charles’s laugh and Ollie’s “WE KNEW IT!”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “They were listening?”
Lewis grins. “Apparently so.”
But when he reaches for your hand again, fingers lacing with yours, the rest of the world fades out — the laughter, the noise, the chaos. It’s just the two of you in a sunlit room overlooking the track, finally catching up to something that was always meant to find you.
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The race feels like a dream. You watch from the Ferrari hospitality balcony, the noise of the engines vibrating in your chest, the smell of burnt rubber and adrenaline hanging in the desert air. The sky burns gold and pink as the sun dips behind the grandstands — the kind of light that makes everything shimmer, like the universe itself has pressed pause.
Charles is fighting hard. Max too. But Lewis… Lewis is in a league of his own today. There’s a calm precision to him, a quiet confidence that you can feel even from up here. You know the way he moves, the way his focus sharpens, the way he drives like he’s dancing with the car — and for some reason, you can’t take your eyes off him. When the final lap flag waves, you already know. Lewis crosses the line first.
Ferrari and Red Bull flags wave beside you, but your eyes find the silver car slowing to a stop, the fireworks bursting overhead, and all you can feel is your heart swelling.
Max finishes P2. Charles takes P3. The podium feels almost poetic — all three of them, your boys, together again.
But when Lewis climbs out of the car, face glowing beneath the helmet, and looks up toward the balcony — when his gaze finds you — everything else blurs.
He smiles. That real, quiet, rare smile that you’ve learned means something. And before you can think, you’re smiling back, warmth flooding your chest.
The chaos of the podium blurs past — champagne, confetti, laughter echoing through the paddock. Then you see him.
Lewis is standing by the exit gates, fresh out of media, the chaos slowly melting away around him. When his eyes catch yours, it’s like the world narrows again — that same stillness you felt in the boardroom earlier.
You walk toward him, weaving through team personnel and camera flashes, until you’re right in front of him. Neither of you speaks for a second. Then, Lewis’s hand finds yours — steady, sure, and a little hesitant, like he’s still getting used to the idea that he’s allowed to have this.
You glance up at him, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips. “Congratulations, champ.”
He squeezes your hand gently. “Couldn’t have done it without my lucky charm.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “You were incredible out there.”
“So were you,” he says softly. “Just… being here.”
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling, “but I’m also the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”
He lifts your intertwined hands and presses a small kiss to your knuckles. The gesture is simple, tender — and yet somehow it feels like the world shifts a little beneath your feet.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low, “let’s get out of here before the chaos finds us.”
You turn — and, of course, the chaos finds you anyway.
Ollie, Isack, Gabriel, and Kimi are waiting a few steps away, trying (and failing) to look inconspicuous. All four are in team polos and sunglasses, despite the fact that it’s nightfall.
You raise an eyebrow. “You four really couldn’t let us have a moment?”
Ollie shrugs, grinning. “We’re just making sure the mission is complete.”
“Mission accomplished,” Lewis says dryly, still holding your hand.
Isack claps once. “Then our job here is done.”
“Wrong,” Gabriel says, pretending to check a clipboard. “Phase Two: protect the couple from paparazzi.”
Kimi simply nods, deadpan. “We’re very serious about this.”
You and Lewis exchange a look — equal parts amused and exasperated — before bursting into laughter.
So you let them follow.
Out through the paddock, into the soft glow of the marina lights, fireworks still sparking faintly in the distance. Lewis’s fingers remain laced with yours, the warmth of his hand grounding you as you walk side by side — the four rookies trailing behind like proud, meddling little brothers who’ve just saved the world.
And maybe they have, in their own way.
Because for the first time in a long time, Lewis isn’t walking alone. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not wondering what if.
You’re just here. With him. Hand in hand, under the glittering Abu Dhabi sky — hearts steady, smiles soft, the whole grid’s laughter echoing somewhere behind you.
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lewishamilton
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