#lh44 x reader

[moonlightproblems]

heyy! I absolutely love your stories ❤️ could you please do some more of reader parenting Kimi content? xxx

Kimi’s Safe Space

Lewis Hamilton x Wife!reader

Kimi Antonelli x Motherfigure!reader

Synopsis: When young Mercedes rookie Kimi Antonelli joins the team overwhelmed and unsure, Lewis Hamilton’s wife naturally becomes a comforting, maternal presence in his life—guiding him, grounding him, and slowly becoming the mother figure he didn’t know he needed.

Requested - I hope you like it!

Patreon - Exclusive Content

ʙᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪꜱ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ♡

The first time you met Kimi Antonelli, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming W14.

He stood awkwardly in the Mercedes motorhome, hands clasped behind his back, posture stiff with nerves. He was tall, but somehow still looked small — like he was trying to fold himself into the smallest version possible so he wouldn’t take up too much space.

Lewis nudged you gently. “Go easy on him,” he whispered with a smile. “He’s nervous.”

You raised a brow. “Of me?”

“Of everything,” Lewis murmured. “But mostly of wanting to impress.”

You stepped forward, offering Kimi a warm smile. “You must be Kimi. I’ve heard so much about you.”

His cheeks flushed. “All good things, I hope.”

“Only good things,” you said, and his shoulders relaxed just a little.

Lewis slung an arm around the young driver’s shoulders. “Kimi, this is my wife. She’s basically the team mum.”

You elbowed him lightly. “I am not.”

Lewis grinned. “You absolutely are.”

Kimi laughed — a small, shy sound — but it was the first time he’d smiled since he walked in.

And that was the beginning.

---

The First Week

Kimi was talented. Brilliant, even. Everyone knew it.

But he was also seventeen, new to the big leagues, and trying desperately not to drown in the pressure of replacing a legend.

You saw it in the way he hovered at the edge of conversations.

In the way he double‑checked everything he said.

In the way he apologised for things that weren’t his fault.

Lewis noticed too — of course he did — but he also knew that sometimes, the person a young driver needs isn’t another racer.

It’s someone who sees the human before the helmet.

So you took it upon yourself to make sure Kimi never felt alone.

You brought him breakfast on days he looked too nervous to eat.

You reminded him to drink water.

You asked about his family, his hobbies, his favourite music.

You learned how he liked his tea.

You made sure he had someone to sit with during long debriefs.

And slowly, he began to open up.

One afternoon, after a particularly rough practice session, you found him sitting alone on the steps behind the garage, helmet beside him, shoulders slumped.

You sat next to him without a word.

After a moment, he whispered, “I’m not sure I’m good enough.”

Your heart cracked.

“You are,” you said softly. “And even if you weren’t perfect today, that doesn’t mean you won’t be tomorrow.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“You won’t,” you said. “And even if you did, we’d still be here. Lewis. Toto. Me. You’re not alone in this.”

He blinked rapidly, eyes shining. “Thank you.”

You nudged his shoulder. “Anytime.”

---

Lewis Watches You With Him

Lewis adored you — that was no secret.

But watching you with Kimi?

That made him fall in love with you all over again.

He’d catch you adjusting Kimi’s race suit collar before a session.

Or handing him a protein bar because he’d forgotten to eat.

Or giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before he climbed into the car.

One day, Lewis wrapped his arms around you from behind as you both watched Kimi talk to his engineers.

“You’re good for him,” Lewis murmured into your hair.

You leaned back into him. “He’s just a kid trying his best.”

“He’s more than that,” Lewis said. “He’s family now.”

You smiled. “Our paddock son.”

Lewis chuckled. “Exactly.”

---

The First Race

Kimi’s first race weekend was a whirlwind.

The pressure.

The cameras.

The comparisons.

The weight of the Mercedes legacy.

You could see the nerves buzzing under his skin like electricity.

Just before he headed to the grid, he found you standing beside Lewis.

“Do you think I can do this?” he asked quietly.

Lewis clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You were born for this.”

Then Kimi looked at you — really looked — like your answer mattered just as much.

You stepped forward, smoothing a wrinkle in his fireproofs.

“Kimi,” you said gently, “you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you. And that’s more than enough.”

His eyes softened. “Thank you… for everything.”

You smiled. “Go show them who you are.”

He nodded, took a deep breath, and walked toward the grid with a steadier step.

Lewis slipped his hand into yours. “You’re magic, you know that?”

You squeezed his fingers. “He just needs someone in his corner.”

“You’re more than that,” Lewis said. “You’re his anchor.”

---

The Podium

It didn’t happen immediately.

But when it did — when Kimi finally stood on that podium for the first time — the entire Mercedes garage erupted.

Lewis hugged him first, proud and emotional.

But Kimi broke away from the crowd and came straight to you.

Before you could say anything, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight, grateful hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your shoulder. “I wouldn’t have made it here without you.”

You hugged him back just as tightly. “You did this, Kimi. You earned every second.”

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy.

Lewis watched the two of you with a soft smile, pride swelling in his chest.

Later, when the celebrations died down and the cameras were gone, Kimi found you again.

“I know I’m not your kid,” he said shyly, “but… you feel like a mum to me. In the best way.”

Your breath caught.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you said, pulling him into another hug. “You’re family. Always.”

---

Home

Months passed.

Kimi grew more confident.

More relaxed.

More himself.

He started dropping by your motorhome just to chat.

He’d ask for advice before big decisions.

He’d sit beside you during races when he wasn’t driving.

He’d call you when he felt overwhelmed.

And every time, Lewis would smile and say, “Our boy’s here.”

One evening, after a long race weekend, the three of you sat together in the quiet of the paddock.

Kimi leaned his head on your shoulder — something he’d started doing without thinking.

Lewis stretched his legs out, hands behind his head. “Look at us. A little Mercedes family.”

Kimi laughed softly. “The best one.”

You brushed a hand through his hair. “We’re proud of you, you know.”

He looked up at you, eyes warm. “I know. And that means everything.”

Lewis reached over, squeezing Kimi’s knee. “We’ve got you. Always.”

Kimi smiled — a real, bright, unguarded smile.

And in that moment, you realised something:

You hadn’t just become a mother figure to him.

You’d become home.

[hvnsinureyes]

DIAMONDS EMERALDS ARE A GIRL'S… ⟢ lewis hamilton .ᐟ

summary ౨ৎ long story short, lewis fucks you while you wear a 12 million dollar necklace around your neck.

content ⟢ smut smut smut— unprotected sex, creampie, marking, use of the name "daddy" (i hate it too but like...he is daddy tho), possessive!lewis lowkey, implied age gap, lewis is a spenderrr mkay

serenity says ໒꒱ i know what i said about f1, but i’ve been told lewis is an absolute angel, so my legs are spread for him and him only. my therapist says i need to stop caring sm abt what i post so #yolo

yes, lewis loves to spoil you.

from the very moment you met him, he made it clear that as a partner, he wanted to provide for you— not because he believed that you couldn’t do it yourself, but because he took a quiet pleasure in offering you security. the security of knowing that whatever you desired or needed, no matter the price, was all yours.

so, of course, during one of those "random" shopping sprees he decided to take you on because— in his words, "it’s been a long week." the both of you dealing with coworkers that couldn't prioritize being useful when you needed them to. it was decided a break would be had, before monday comes.

now, the only numbers he cares about are the ones on your receipt, not from telemetry data. even then, the bill barely bothers him. whatever the price is on the tag, he doesn’t tense at it. instead, he smiles, slow and sure to himself, glad you're enjoying yourself.

the first stop was miu miu, next is cartier— the security at the front opening the door to the boutique, where you’re immediately greeted with a polite attendant, eyes recognizing the two of you immediately. she ushers you and lewis to a private room, away from the main floor.

a flute of champagne rests between your fingers as your eyes drift over at the selection of fine jewelry in front of you— necklaces, bracelets, rings from cartier's different collections. you’re familiar with the love collection already, gifted by your one and only. you skip it, searching to find something else that catches your eye. lewis says nothing but watches you closely, waiting for a look of interest.

panthère de cartier, got that in your closet already. juste un clou? wrapped around your wrist as we speak. the sales associate, presents more pieces from other collections, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you watch. "y'like this?" lewis points to a ring, but you shake your head no. "i have that one already. you bought it."

lewis senses your reluctance as she talks about the details of a tennis bracelet, one he's sure you have already too, not wanting to disappoint the woman who’s currently dedicated to making your experience here the best. 

"i’m sorry—" he gives you a pointed look. you’ve discussed this before: no apologizing for being truthful. "but, i don’t think i’ll be buying anything today."

"that's quite alright," she says, nodding. she gestures to her assistant to put the cases back into the display. you and lewis rise from the plush couch, leaving the private room with polite goodbye's to the sales associate and to the security guard who holds the front door again.

"you sure you didn’t want anything at all?" he asks, reaching out for your hand. your fingers slide between his, fitting like it belongs together.

"now why would i buy the same thing twice?"

"i’m sure there was a necklace or two that you don’t have." lewis pauses his walk to hand you your glasses, now that the sun is out. "maybe, but either way, i wasn’t interested." adjusting your sunglasses, you go back to walking, wanting to explore the rest of the shops in the area, with lewis following along. "i know you get off to this—"

"hey! i do not." he defends himself. it's a lie, but you let it slide.

"but i don’t like spending your money for no reason." you’re not used to all the luxury like he is— swiping a card without any worries, being surrounded by sales associates whose job is to cater to your every want... while lewis, experienced in age, doesn't even blink at it. it never fails to surprise you how money really makes the world fall to your knees.

"nonsense. if you deem it worth buying, then that’s good enough reason." his eyes flicker to yours, soft and kind. "even if you don’t actually want it.”

"if im being honest, i was looking for a statement piece." it's a thought that slips out, naturally, because there's no need to hide it. you want to share everything with him. "i have enough dainty jewelry."

"yeah?" he perks up, his tone suddenly more interested in what you have to say.

"yeah. maybe with emeralds instead. i always buy jewelry with diamonds."

"hm." is all he says. a silence follows after his hum, except the chatter of other people around and the sound of your heels clicking against the pavement. you notice then, how lewis is deep in thought, brows furrowed as he thinks.

"…what?"

"nothing, nothing, just thinking." he waves it off, but you know better. lewis doesn't hide anything— unless it's a surprise.

"it’s never just thinking with you." lewis's need to please and wild imagination, mixed with an unlimited amount of money that helps him bring it to life, is a dangerous combination.

you glare at him, warning not to buy anything insanely expensive. he just shrugs, letting out that easy chuckle that makes it impossible to stay mad at him. you remember the last time this happened: you casually mentioned wanting a new car because your old one wasn’t fast enough. the same hum escaped him, the thought in his mind being "nothing".

the next morning, you woke up to a brand-new lamborghini parked in your driveway, lewis holding up the keys with a grin.

“lewis, i swear…”

“anyway, where to next, babe?” he deflects, as he pulls you to the nearest store he finds.

“you didn’t.”

“i did, sweetheart.” he grins brightly at you, dimples and all, absolutely loving the shocked look on your face. you're speechless, looking at the necklace like it couldn't possibly be real. but it is, sat beautifully inside the dark red box, with the gold cartier lettering printed on the inside.

it's the the cartier eternity necklace— a silver snake acts as the chain, coiling around the neck. its tail wraps around two massive emeralds, ones that lewis happily tells you they're 205 and 206 carats, respectively. the snake's body is littered with thousands of diamonds, them catching light and gleaming right into your eyes, with smaller emeralds and pearls decorating the sides of the snake's body.

it's the embodiment of the word extravagant, and you feel overwhelmed just from looking at it. overwhelmed from its pure elegance. "oh my— how much did this even cost?" you gasp, fingers reaching toward the green centerpiece. you don’t let it linger for long though, pulling back as if even the ghost of a touch might shatter it.

"does it matter?"

his answer, well, the lack of it, tells you everything you need to know. it was expensive, made-a-dent-in-his-wallet expensive. "i’m assuming that means millions of dollars." rolling his eyes, he picks up the diamond snake, it's wine red eyes staring back at you.

"c’mon, try it on."

"lewis—" you're ready to protest, but lewis's insistence is stronger than you, leaving no room for argument. “no. nope. none of that. it’s all yours, baby. you deserve it.”

he turns you gently, your back settling against his chest as he unclasps the necklace. you feel cold silver on your skin as he lowers it around your neck carefully. once the necklace clips together, he spins you around to face him, hands resting on your shoulders as he takes you in.

"you look... shit, i can't even find the words, baby." he beams with pride, staring right at you, rather than the literal 12 million dollar necklace you're wearing.

“you wanted a statement piece…and this, is certainly a statement.”

now, you face the mirror in the bedroom, unable to resist looking at yourself. you shift around, turning your shoulders like you're posing for a photo, diamonds dancing along your neck with every small move.

“look at how it shines…” you whisper.

“doesn’t shine brighter than you, though.”

you stare at him blankly through the mirror. “what? it’s true!”

despite the corny line— well, maybe because of it, you turn back around, unable to resist. you catch his lips in a kiss, grateful for everything. “thank you, babe,” you murmur. lewis kisses you back, lips moving against yours, hand coming up to your jaw. you pull back, “you didn’t have to do this,” you say, still breathless from the kiss.

“i wanted to." words soft, but powerful. "seeing you happy… seeing you smile, after this shit week, means the world to me.” he leans in again, stealing another kiss, gentle at first, but it doesn’t stay that way. heat builds between you both, lewis's restraint slipping with each second. it's not long until the kiss deepens, his mouth claiming yours like he’s been holding back all day. the inked hand that was once on your jaw trails down your body.

you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it up in urgency, needing this to escalate badly— until you remember the necklace you're wearing, how it could break from your carelessness. you fumble, trying to take off the necklace yourself, price be damned. you needed lewis now, but his gruff voice stops you in your tracks.

"hey, wait." he nods toward the necklace. “keep it on.”

“really? while we’re—?”

“i wanna watch you both shine while i fuck you.” he says, bluntly, already pulling your shirt up and over the necklace himself, tossing it aside somewhere in the bedroom without looking.

“you’re insane.”

he just smiles at you, already knowing. “oh, but you love it.”

somehow, the necklace feels heavier while lewis is fucking you. it bounces on top of your collarbone with each thrust he gives, relentless and unforgiving. he's entranced by the image of you completely, eyes locked on your body the whole time.

the way your soft lips part, begging to be kissed. eyes wide, tears running down your cheeks. but most of all, he's obsessed, by the way your rich chocolate skin contrasts with the glittering diamonds, each sparkle adding to your glow.

"god, you look beautiful." he grits out, trying to hold back before he finishes earlier than expected. "driving me fucking insane..."

you've lit a fire in him— watching him struggle to keep his composure, while the evidence of his love sits on your neck and inside of you, mashing against your walls as he rearranges them to the shape of his cock.

"you wanted a statement piece, yeah?" he breathes out, tatted arms holding him up surround both sides of you, "y'know what this piece says?"

"what?" you reply, shakily.

"that you're mine." he says, not without groaning out from the way you clench around his words. he smirks at your eagerness, glad his words affect you like you affect his mind, body, and soul. "don't forget, when you wear it out, with women staring at you with jealousy, men wanting to bed you, it's a symbol of our love." he leans down to nip at the skin on your neck isn't covered by the necklace, deciding to gift you another necklace, free of cost and made by sir lewis hamilton's teeth.

limited edition and the only one who can and will wear it, is you.

"it's called the eternity necklace for a reason." you cry out when he bites down harder, surely leaving a mark for you to scold him about later. but now, you don't even think about it for too long, not when lewis's wet tongue traces over the blooming mark, soothing the pain.

"you're mine for eternity."

"m'— all yours, daddy." you say it with conviction, knowing what it does to lewis. it seems to have worked, because his eyes darken, hips pushing into your pussy even harder, bringing you closer and closer to an orgasm.

"say it again. louder." he demands.

you listen, wrapping your arms and legs around him, bringing down closer. "i'm all yours daddy!" you yell into his ear, eyes shut from the heat of it all. you whimper how it's too much, you can't take it anymore, begging him to let you cum.

"not yet." you whine, toes curling, finding it hard to hold off the orgasm desperately trying to escape you.

"open your eyes, baby." he growls, teeth clenched. he's there already, just needing one more thing to send him over the edge. your eyes snap open, forcing them to stay that way despite the overwhelming pleasure threatening to close them.

"cum all over daddy's cock." he says, "fuck, let it all out." your breath hitches, finally letting your body relax, as the juices spill out of your pussy, soaking his crotch completely.

a deep, throaty groan leaves him as he feels the squirt around him, and with one last thrust deep into your pussy, his hips stop, pushing into you as his cum fills you completely, warmth spreading all over.

there's no longer any sinful smacks of skin to skin, just soft pants filling the room. lewis looks over at you worriedly, checking for any sign that you're hurt, and relaxes when he sees nothing. "kiss me," you huff, wanting more love from him. he rolls his eyes at your demand playfully, but lewis presses his lips to yours anyway, pulling back with an amused smile, thinking back to what happened.

"daddy? really?" he chuckles, "i didn't think you were into that."

"i could say the same for you," mirroring his same smirk, "considering i felt your balls clench when i said it."

his smug look falters, eyes widening, not realizing he did that in the moment. "...shut up." you just laugh, bringing his face into your bare chest while he shyly mumbles, that's not funny.

and when you finally wear the eternity necklace out, to the gala lewis insists you accompany him to, people stop and stare at you as you walk into the venue. you ignore the stares and hold your head high. lewis smirks to himself, sure that there will be plenty of articles detailing your look, especially about the outrageous piece of jewelry you decided to step out with.

but it isn’t just the necklace that draws them in to look at your neck.

beneath the glittering diamonds, there's hickies— one, two, and another littered on your neck, dark yet loud. no concealer to hide them this time.

lewis made sure everyone would know who you belong to tonight, and well, for eternity.

[jadeittic]

— driver!yn and lewis hamilton having a older brother/younger sister dynamic where he constantly protects her from media pressure

Nobody in the paddock noticed it at first.

Now when YN first entered F1 all sharp edges and impossible confidence, walking into garages like she owned them despite being barely old enough to rent a car in some countries.

Not when she started fighting wheel-to-wheel with champions without a flicker of hesitation. Not even when she started becoming one of the most talked-about drivers on the grid almost overnight.

What people noticed first was how quickly the media turned on her.

One bad qualifying? Headlines. One aggressive overtake? Dangerous. One radio outburst? Emotional. One confident interview? Arrogant.

Meanwhile half the grid could slam helmets around and call strategy "fucking terrible" over team radio and be praised for passion.

Fans noticed immediately, and so did Lewis Hamilton.

The first time the public really saw it was during a Thursday media day. YN jad just gotten out of a disastrous press conference.

Three journalists in a row had asked variations of the same question.

"Do you think the pressure is getting to you?"

"Are you worried your emotional reactions are hurting the team?"

"Do you think you need to mature a little as a driver?"

She was twenty years old. A race prior, another driver had literally shoved a photographer after retiring from the race, and the headlines had called him "fiery."

YN sat there under blinding camera lights gripping her water bottle so hard her knuckles went pale.

"I think," she said carefully, "people are allowed to have emotions in this sport."

One reporter smiled in that awful, patronizing way.

"Yes, but don't you think women in motorsport are judged differently because emotional reactions stand out more?"

The room went quiet. Not because they disagreed, but because they knew what kind of answer would generate views and clicks.

YN's jaw tightened and before she could answer, a voice cut through from the side of the media pen.

"I think that question answers itself."

Lewis was still in his race suit, sunglasses hanging from his collar, media handler looking vaguely panicked three steps behind him.

The reporter blinked. "Sorry?"

He leaned one hand on the back of YN's chair casually. "You guys ask her questions you'd never ask the rest of us," he said.

"Then you write articles about her reactions afterward."

The clip exploded online within an hour. Fans replayed it endlessly not because Lewis raised his voice, but because he sounded tired.

Like he'd seen this exact cycle happen before.

After that, people started noticing everything. Like how Lewis always seemed to appear whenever interviews got too invasive.

How he'd interrupt questions with "She already answered that," or "You're asking the same thing three different ways."

They dynamic became impossible to miss especially during race weekends. Lewis checking whether she'd eaten after difficult sessions, Lewis physically steering her away from hostile interview clusters, Lewis grabbing her phone during one particularly bad media day and muttering "Nope. You are not reading that today."

Fans adored it. Entire compilations started appearing online.

Lewis Hamilton being protective of YN LN for 12 minutes straight

LewYN never beating the sibling dynamic allegations

Lewis once again adopting another rookie

But underneath all the jokes was something fiercely genuine. Because when the pressure got unbearable, when the headlines got cruel, when social media turned vicious after a bad race, Lewis was always the first person checking on her.

And YN, despite pretending otherwise, always answered his calls.

[darling-flora]

rub it in their face, put a rock on her hand

lewis hamilton x yn!wife

fc: cindy kimberly

─── lewis masterlist !

note — short fic since it's been 4 months since my last lewis fic wth... anyways the idea of having wife yn as a recurring character with multiple parts is really appealing to me so let me know if you'd like that !! likes, reblog's and comments are always appreciated ❤

Liked by user1, user2 and 1,579,875 others

F1News Lewis Hamilton reveals he's married in recent interview!

"Since you're moving to another team after 12 seasons with Mercedes what ways have you been trying to get used to wearing red?"

"After it was set in stone that I was going to be joining Ferrari Y/n [L/n] my wife, has been slowly implementing more red into our lives, whether it's a phone case to shoes and even a new living room chair. We've been together for years so with the change of team colors she's trying to get used to it, slowly."

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user1 she's so gorg

user2 so happy for them 😭❤

yourinstagram omg to who??

->user3 GIRL ->user4 THIS IS NEWS TO US!! ->user5 CONGRATS???

user6 Hottest couple

user7 Yayyyyy I love them so much!!!!!

user8 crazy he didn't say she was his wife on the first date 🙄

->yourinstagram ugh #real !! ->yourinstagram he hates me 😔 ->lewishamilton right.... i should've said she was my wife before we even met if we're being honest ->yourinstagram self aware king

user9 I WAS WONDERING IF IT WAS HAPPENING SOON, BUT IT ALREADY DID!??!

user10 they deserve nothing but happiness!!!

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Liked by lewishamilton, anyataylorjoy and 6,579,875 others

yourinstagram treats, new nails, binx and roscoe our babies 💌

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user1 THE ROCK!!

user2 i gasped

user3 They are so perfect for each other 😭

user4 GIRL MARRIED???

->yourinstagram lol im so used to it that when i saw people freaking out i was confused 😭 ->yourinstagram like ohhhh right y'all didn't know... surprise!! ->user5 YEAH a huge surprise 💀 ->user6 i genuinely had to rewind and make sure i heard the word "wife"

user7 you’re so pretty

user8 "new nails" as if we aren't looking at that big ass ring

anyataylorjoy soooooo beautiful ily 

->yourinstagram love u sm 🤍 ->user9 i've never wanted to be apart of a friend group so bad ->user10 it girl convention every time they hang out

user11 So fab

user12 MOM AND DAD!!!! THEY'RE MARRIED

user13 i feel in love

user14 so this is what witnessing an angel looks like

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Liked by user1, user2 and 3,179,375 others

vanityfair Lewis Hamilton says he didn't mean to reveal marriage to Y/n L/n but he's been wanting to for awhile so it's fine.

"We had talked a bit about how we wanted to tell the world but then months started to pass and we never said anything, we actually had a bet to see who would slip up first and obviously, I lost."

"Asking Y/n to marry me was the easiest choice of my life. Every time we talked or I saw her face it would make my day 10 times better, and it still does. She makes me laugh, when she's not with me im thinking about her whether it's me seeing something and it reminding me of her or just missing her, she's always with me, at least in my mind."

Tap the link in our bio to read more.

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user1 stop that's so sweet i canttt

user2 the idea of them planning to revel their MARRIAGE but then forgetting is killing me 😭

yourinstagram wait im crying 😪

->user3 girl me too ->user4 is he always this romantic ??? ->user5 have you seen her? he better be

user6 every time he talks about her it's always the sweetest thing every

user7 keeping it a secret for fun these two... 💀

user8 months is CRAZYYYY i thought maybe a few weeks but wth

user9 Mama e papa

user10 honestly surprised he didn't slip up sooner 😭

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☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

Liked by lewishamilton, anyataylorjoy and 6,579,875 others

yourinstagram 🦌

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user1 that first picture.... my first lady fr

user2 the attractiveness that you both have is kinda too powerful 💥

user3 wake up! an angel just posted!

lewishamilton my wife ❤

->yourinstagram 🤭 ->user4 OUR WIFE* ->user5 okay he's just bragging now ->user6 girl i'd brag too 😭

user7 sweetest girl!!!

user8 omg u look seriously perfect.

user9 u both r so baby doe

->yourinstagram 🙂‍↕️

user10 so glad they know about the doe eye agenda im pushing liked by yourinstagram !

user11 wohooo so prettyy

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

✎…… wife yn that is in the comments of lewis edits is really funny to me

anyways hope you like ily ❤

[cheftsunoda]

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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lewishamilton : found my peace.

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[sunnysidepages]

In Another Life - F1 drivers

𖤓 where they look at you and realise they want to spend the rest of their lives with you or where they think: oh. this is it. this is everything.

𖤓 inspo: based on "I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you" - Waymond Wang (my favourite film ever)

𖤓 fem!reader x grid (ob87, ka12, gr63, cl16, lh44, ln4, op81, mv3, ih6, aa23, cs55)

𖤓 wc: 3,935

𖤓 Sunny radio! This one's for the EEAAO girlies. The ones who get that love isn't about grand gestures — it's about choosing someone in the small, boring, beautiful moments. Each driver, one moment where they realise forever doesn't have to be loud. It just has to be with you.

𖤓 note: Gang, I tried my best not to repeat the scenarios or wording, but if I failed, pls don't kill me it was hard to come up with a new context for 11 drivers 😭Any love would be appreciated.

𖤓 listen to: "Something About You" when reading this.

CHARLES LECLERC — The Grocery Run

The supermarket is almost empty at 11 PM.

Charles should be home. Should be sleeping. Should be reviewing data for tomorrow's sim session. Instead, he's following you through the produce aisle, watching you squeeze avocados like you're defusing a bomb.

"Not this one," you mutter, tossing it back. "Too soft."

"We've been here for twenty minutes."

"We've been here for twenty minutes because you keep putting back the good ones."

Charles laughs — a real one, the kind that used to come so rarely. You don't look up from the avocados, but your mouth twitches. You know what you do to him.

He leans against the shopping cart. Watches you debate the structural integrity of a tomato. Your hair is messy. You're wearing his hoodie — the old one, the one he almost threw away, the one you stole and never gave back. There's a smudge of something on your cheek. Flour, maybe. Or chocolate. He doesn't ask. He doesn't want to stop looking at you long enough to find out.

You're squeezing tomatoes like your life depends on it. Like this matters. Like getting the right one is the most important decision you'll make all week.

And Charles realises, standing in the fluorescent glare of a half-empty supermarket, that he wants every grocery run with you. Every wrong avocado. Every 11 PM debate about produce. Every single boring, beautiful minute of it.

"Charles."

"Hm?"

"You're staring again."

"Can you blame me?"

You finally look up. Your eyes are soft, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the kind of day that follows you home. You'd told him about it earlier — the bad meeting, the rude email, the way everything felt a little too heavy. He'd listened. He'd made tea. He'd suggested grocery shopping at 11 PM like it was a reasonable solution.

It was. Somehow, it always is with you.

"I love you," he says.

You blink. "I know?"

"No, I mean —" He stops. Shakes his head. Tries again. "I'd do this forever," he says quietly. "The grocery shopping. The bad avocados. All of it."

The words hang in the air between the avocados and the tomatoes. Your expression shifts — something soft, something surprised, something that looks like the first time you realised this was real.

"That's a weird thing to say in a produce aisle," you say.

"I know."

"You're so weird."

"I know."

You step closer. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your face into his chest. The shopping cart bumps against his legs.

"I'd do grocery shopping with you in this life too," you mumble against his hoodie.

Charles holds you tighter.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm not letting you go."

The avocados are forgotten.

They'll remember tomorrow. Right now, nothing matters except your heartbeat against his and the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the way you fit in his arms like you were always supposed to be there.

LEWIS HAMILTON — The Kitchen at 2 AM

Lewis can't sleep.

This isn't unusual. He's spent most of his life learning to function on less rest than most people need. But tonight is different. Tonight, the silence is too loud. The city outside is too still. His mind is too full of things he doesn't want to think about.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You're standing at the counter, barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts. There's flour everywhere — on your hands, on your face, on the floor. You're trying to make bread. Or something that was supposed to be bread. It's not going well.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

You don't look up. "Baking."

"It's 2 AM."

"I know."

"You're covered in flour."

"I know that too."

He walks closer. Peers at the lumpy dough on the counter. You're completely unbothered by the disaster in front of you. Just kneading away, humming something under your breath, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. "Is that supposed to look like that?"

"No," you admit. "But I know you haven't been able to sleep recently. And I figured —" You shrug, finally looking at him. Your eyes are tired, but there's something else there. Something warm. Something that makes the silence in his head go quiet. "I figured if you were going to be awake, I might as well be awake with you."

And Lewis realises — standing in his kitchen at 2 AM, watching you fail at baking with the same determination you'd bring to anything else — that this is it. This is the rest of his life. Not the races. Not the podiums. Not the cameras.

This. You. Flour on the floor. Bread that won't rise. 2 AM and nowhere else to be.

Lewis doesn't say anything. He just steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder. You smell like flour and vanilla and something that's just you.

"I can feel you staring," you say, your attention going back to the failed masterpiece in front of you.

"I'm admiring."

"I'm a mess."

"You're perfect."

"I don't know how to make bread," you warn him.

"I don't care."

"We're going to have to eat this. Even if it's terrible."

"I don't care."

"We could order takeout."

"Y/N."

You stop. Wait.

"In every lifetime," he says, quietly, "I would choose this. "

You go still in his arms.

"Even if I am failing at making bread?" you say with a small pout.

"Especially then." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "It's better."

You turn in his arms. Your flour-dusted hands cup his face. Your eyes search his.

"You're a weird man, Lewis Hamilton."

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He kisses you — slow, soft, unhurried. The bread is forgotten. The silence is no longer too loud. And for the first time all night, Lewis thinks he might actually sleep.

LANDO NORRIS — The Takeout on the Floor

Lando's apartment is a mess.

Not the chaotic kind — the lived-in kind. Clothes draped over chairs. Dishes in the sink. A blanket fort in the living room that you'd built three days ago and neither of you had bothered to take down.

You're sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, eating takeout from containers balanced on your knees. Some reality show is playing on the TV — neither of you is watching. You're too busy arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

"It does not belong," Lando insists, pointing a spring roll at you.

"It absolutely belongs. You have no taste."

"I have excellent taste. I'm dating you, aren't I?"

You pause. "That's... actually smooth. I'm mad about it."

He grins — the grin, the one that makes you want to throw something at him and kiss him in the same breath. You're wearing his hoodie. Your hair is in a messy bun. You love him so much it makes your chest ache.

And Lando realizes — sitting on the floor of his apartment, takeout containers balanced on his knees, arguing about pineapple on pizza — that he doesn't need anything else. Not the wins. Not the attention. Not any of it.

Just this. Just you. Just the sound of your laugh and the way you steal his spring rolls when you think he's not looking.

"Lando."

"Mm?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Just watches you. The way you're completely comfortable. Completely yourself. Completely his.

"I want this forever," he says. "The takeout. The floor. The stupid arguments."

You stop chewing. Look at him. "That's a very intense thing to say while you have sauce on your chin."

"I have sauce on my chin?"

"Right there." You point. He wipes the wrong side of his face. You laugh — that laugh, the one that makes his chest feel too full.

"I love you," he says. Because it's true. Because it's the only thing that matters.

You set down your container. Shuffle closer until your knee bumps his.

"I know," you say. "I love you too. Now eat your spring rolls before they get cold."

"Yes ma'am."

You grin. He grins.

The reality show plays on. Neither of you notices.

OSCAR PIASTRI — The Quiet Sunday

Oscar doesn't talk much.

You'd learned this early. He's not cold — just careful. He thinks before he speaks. He measures his words like they have weight. It used to unnerve you. Now it's one of your favorite things about him.

Today is Sunday. The apartment is quiet. You're reading on the couch. He's at the kitchen table, reviewing data on his laptop. The only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of his mouse.

This is what your life has become. Quiet Sundays. Shared silences. A love that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

Oscar looks up from his laptop. Watches you read. You're curled up on the couch, your feet tucked under you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth the way it always is when you're concentrating. You haven't noticed him watching. You never do.

He thinks about all the Sundays he spent alone. Before you. The quiet used to be heavy. Now it's just... comfortable. Because you're in it.

He doesn't say anything. He just watches. Commits it to memory. The way the afternoon light hits your hair. The way you mouth the words sometimes, barely moving your lips. The way you look up, catch him staring, and smile like you know exactly what he's thinking.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"I'm not." He pauses. "I'm just happy."

You set down your book. "That's it? You're just happy?"

"That's it."

You look at him for a long moment. Then you pat the couch beside you. He stands. Walks over. Sits down. You lean your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you.

"This is nice," you say.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It is."

He doesn't tell you that he wants this every Sunday. Every quiet, boring, perfect Sunday. He doesn't have to. You already know.

GEORGE RUSSELL — The Folded Laundry

George is folding laundry.

This should not be a romantic moment. He is wearing an old t-shirt that has a hole in the collar. His hair is sticking up in the back. There is a suspicious stain on his shorts that he refuses to explain.

But he's folding your clothes. Carefully. Methodically. The way he does everything.

You're watching from the doorway. He hasn't noticed you yet. He's too focused on getting the creases right — on your shirts, your socks, the sweater you'd left draped over the chair three days ago.

He folds everything. Even the things you wouldn't bother with. Even the things you'd given up on.

George doesn't know why he's so focused on the laundry. Maybe because it's yours. Maybe because taking care of you — even in small ways — feels like the most important thing he could be doing.

He holds up one of your shirts. It's old. Faded. The one you wear when you're sick or tired or just don't want to try. He folds it slowly. Presses the crease with his palm.

"George."

He looks up. You're in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him with an expression he can't quite read.

"You're folding my laundry," you say.

"It needed to be done."

"At 11 PM?"

"The timing felt right."

You cross the room. Sit on the bed beside the pile of folded clothes. Pick up a shirt — one of yours, one he'd folded so perfectly it looks store-bought.

"You're staring at that shirt like it's precious," you say.

"It's yours."

"That doesn't make it precious."

"To me it does."

You're quiet for a moment. Then you set down the shirt and take his hand.

"You're strange, Russel"

"I know."

"I love you anyway."

He squeezes your hand. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. The laundry is forgotten. The late hour doesn't matter. He's exactly where he wants to be.

KIMI ANTONELLI — The First Rain of Autumn

Kimi doesn't believe in fate.

He believes in hard work. In data. In the things he can see and touch and prove. He's never been one for grand romantic gestures or sweeping declarations.

But then it starts raining.

You're walking back from the café down the street — the one with the good pastries, the one you'd dragged him to because you said he needed to "experience life outside the simulator." He'd complained the whole way. You'd ignored him.

Now you're both soaked. Your hair is plastered to your face. You're laughing — not at him, not at the situation, just... laughing. Like getting caught in the rain is the best thing that's happened all week.

"You're insane," he says, but he's smiling. He can't help it.

"You're boring," you fire back. "Live a little, Antonelli."

You grab his hand and pull him into a puddle. Water splashes up his jeans. He should be annoyed. He's not.

He watches you spin in the rain. Arms out. Head back. Rain dripping down your face. You look ridiculous. You look perfect.

And Kimi realizes — standing in the middle of the street, soaked to the bone, watching you dance in a puddle — that he wants every rainy day with you. Every unexpected storm. Every moment that makes no sense.

"Kimi."

"What?"

"You're staring again."

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one dancing in the rain."

You stop spinning. Walk toward him. Your shoes squelch. Your mascara is running. You've never looked better.

"Come here," you say, tugging his arm.

"I'm already here."

"Closer."

He steps closer. You wrap your arms around his neck. Your wet clothes press against his.

"I love you," you say. Like it's obvious. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

He doesn't say it back. He just pulls you closer. Kisses you. Right there. In the rain. In the middle of the street.

When he pulls back, you're both dripping. You're smiling.

"That was romantic," you say.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He takes your hand. Leads you home. The rain keeps falling.

He doesn't let go.

MAX VERSTAPPEN — The Simulator Break

Max is supposed to be in the simulator.

That's where his trainer thinks he is. Where his engineer thinks he is. Where everyone who needs him thinks he is.

Instead, he's in the break room, sitting across from you, watching you struggle with a vending machine.

"It's not working," you say, pressing the button for the third time.

"Hit it."

"I'm not hitting it."

"Then it won't work."

You glare at him. He shrugs. You hit the vending machine. The candy bar drops. You look triumphant. He looks smug.

"I hate you," you say, picking up the candy bar.

"You love me."

"Debatable."

He watches you unwrap the candy bar, break it in half, and hand him the bigger piece. You don't say anything. You just do it. Like it's instinct. Like taking care of him is as natural as breathing.

Max has won races. Championships. Things people dream about. But none of it feels as good as this. Sitting in a break room. Sharing a candy bar. Watching you wipe chocolate from the corner of your mouth.

He wants this. Not the big moments. The small ones. The ones no one else sees.

"Max."

"Mm?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you stare at me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve."

"Maybe you are."

"Am I solved?"

He thinks about it. About the way you make him feel. About how he doesn't have to be anyone other than himself when he's with you.

"Yeah," he says. "You are."

You smile. Break off another piece of candy bar. Hand it to him.

"Good," you say. "Now eat your chocolate. You have a simulator session."

"I'm skipping it."

"You're not skipping it."

"I'm skipping it."

"Max."

He takes the chocolate. He doesn't move.

He stays exactly where he is.

ISACK HADJAR — The Disaster Dinner

Isack is supposed to be impressing you.

That was the plan. He'd cook dinner — something nice, something sophisticated — and you'd see that he was an adult. A functional adult who could do things other than drive fast.

Instead, he's set off the fire alarm.

You're both standing in the kitchen, waving dish towels at the smoke detector, coughing. The windows are open. The fan is on. Whatever was in the oven is now a blackened brick.

"I'm sorry," he says, for the fifth time.

"Stop apologising."

"I ruined dinner."

"You didn't ruin dinner. You just... created a bonding experience."

He looks at you. You're laughing. Actually laughing, like this is funny, like this isn't a disaster, like you're not judging him for being a terrible cook.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? I can't cook either. I was going to order takeout the whole time."

"I spent three hours on that recipe."

"I know. It was very sweet. It was also very on fire."

He groans, dropping his head to the counter. You pat his back. Your hand is warm. Comforting.

Isack doesn't know why you're still here. Why you're not running. Why you're laughing instead of leaving.

Then he looks at you. Really looks. At the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. At the way you haven't let go of his arm. At the way you're looking at him like he's not a failure. Like he's just... him.

And he realizes: you're not going anywhere. You never were.

"Isack."

"Yeah?"

"You're very dramatic for someone who set off a fire alarm."

"I'm not dramatic. I'm passionate."

"Whatever"

You order takeout. Eat it on the floor. The smoke detector beeps every few minutes.

He watches you laugh. And he thinks: yeah. This is it.

CARLOS SAINZ — The Packing Night

Carlos is supposed to be packing.

He has a flight tomorrow. Another race. Another city. Another week away from you.

But he's not packing. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you fold his shirts. You're not his assistant. You're not his employee. You're just someone who loves him. Someone who's learned that his shirts wrinkle if you don't fold them a certain way.

"You don't have to do that," he says.

"I know."

"I can do it myself."

"I know."

"Then why —"

"Because I want to." You look up at him. Your expression is soft, patient, unbothered. "Because I'm going to miss you. And this makes me feel useful."

Carlos's chest aches.

He watches you fold. The careful way you smooth out the wrinkles. The way you stack them in his suitcase, like you're building something important. You're humming. Something soft. Something he doesn't recognise.

He thinks about all the times he's packed alone. The empty hotel rooms. The silent airports. The feeling of always leaving something behind. He doesn't feel that anymore. Because you're here. Because you're folding his shirts like it matters. Because you make everywhere feel like somewhere he wants to be.

He crosses the room. Kneels in front of you. Takes your hands — the ones holding his shirt — and presses them to his chest.

"Carlos, your shirt —"

"I don't care about the shirt."

You shake your head, but you're smiling. You fold one more shirt. Set it in the suitcase.

"I'll miss you," you say.

"I'll miss you too," he says quietly. "It's only a week."

"I know."

"It'll go fast."

"I know."

Neither of you moves. Neither of you wants to.

"Come here," he says. You lean forward. He wraps his arms around you. Holds on.

The suitcase stays open. The shirts stay folded.

He doesn't care. He'll pack in the morning. Right now, he's exactly where he wants to be.

ALEXANDER ALBON — The First Snow

It doesn't snow in Monaco.

That's what Alex had told you, when you'd first moved here. "If you want snow, you have to travel." You'd accepted this. Mourned it. Moved on.

So when it snows — actually snows, fat flakes drifting down from a sky that's never done this before — Alex is the one who finds you first.

You're standing on the balcony. Barefoot. In your pyjamas. Just watching.

"Are you crazy?" he asks, stepping outside. "It's freezing."

"Look."

He looks. The city is quiet. The snow is dusting the rooftops, the streets, the harbour. Everything is soft. Everything is still.

"It's snowing," he says.

"It's snowing."

"In Monaco."

"I know."

You're not looking at him. You're looking at the snow. Your cheeks are pink from the cold. Your breath fogs in the air. You're shivering, but you won't come inside.

Alex watches you. The way your eyes are wide. The way you're smiling at something so small, so ordinary. Like it's magic.

He thinks about all the things he wants to give you. Big things. Important things. But right now, all he wants to give you is this. The snow. The balcony. The quiet.

"You're staring," you say, still not looking at him.

"I'm allowed to stare. You're the one standing in the snow in your pyjamas."

"It's romantic."

"It's freezing."

"It is not."

You finally look at him. Your nose is red. Your lips are blue. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"I want this forever," he says.

"What, me in my pyjamas running in the snow like a fool?" you say with a small smile.

"Yes, and many more stupid snow days to come"

You smile. Step closer. Wrap your arms around him. He holds you tight.

The snow keeps falling. Neither of you goes inside.

OLIVER BEARMAN — The First Apartment

Ollie's first apartment is small.

Too small, probably. The ceiling leaks when it rains. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work half the time.

But it's his. And you're in it. And somehow, that makes everything else irrelevant.

You're on the floor — there's no couch yet, not until next week — eating takeout from containers balanced on a cardboard box. Ollie is telling you about his day. About the engineers, the setup, the small victory he'd felt when something finally clicked.

You're not really listening to the words. You're watching his hands. The way they move when he's excited. The way he pushes his hair back when he's thinking.

Ollie stops mid-sentence. "Are you even listening?"

"Not really."

"Rude."

"I'm listening to the important part."

"What's the important part?"

You set down your container. Crawl across the floor until you're sitting in front of him. Your knees touch.

"The important part," you say, "is that you're happy."

He blinks. His ears go pink.

"I'm always happy when you're here," he says.

"That's cheesy."

"I know."

"I love it."

He looks at you. At the cardboard box. At the takeout containers. At the whole ridiculous, imperfect, wonderful mess of his first apartment.

He thinks about all the things he wants. The races. The wins. The career he's building. But right now, sitting on the floor with you, he can't remember why any of that matters more than this.

"Ollie."

"Yeah?"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at me like I'm the only thing in the room."

"You are."

"That's very smooth."

"I'm trying."

You lean forward. Kiss him. He's warm. He's here. He's yours.

The ceiling leaks. The neighbors are loud. The heating doesn't work.

None of it matters.

[purplesectorlew]

G R I D P A R E N T S - LH44

masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

author’s note: this was written from a request for “how he (re)introduces her to the grid + his paddock kids™️” in the unethical world. it turned into full blown rookie chaos and lewis hamilton being the most in-love man alive. equal parts humour, awe, and that quiet, unshakable tenderness that defines them. loosely based on my series but can be read alone too!!

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Musician!Reader x Paddock Kids™️ wc: 6.2k!! (fluff / humour / one-shot) summary: silverstone — his home race in ferrari red, your first time back in the paddock as his. three rookies (isack, kimi, franco) fall instantly in love with you and lewis discovers what happens when your paddock kids start calling your girlfriend “grid mom.” proud, jealous, besotted, all at once. warnings: extreme softness, public affection, rookie chaos, found family energy, protective lewis, affectionate teasing, emotional healing, humour, love so loud everyone hears it.

You don’t realise he’s nervous until he starts rearranging you.

That’s how you know, with him. Lewis Hamilton doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t babble. But he will quietly, obsessively, wordlessly adjust you like you’re both about to go live on air.

“Baby, hood up for now, alright?” He lifts the edge of your Dior hoodie like he’s handling silk. “It’s windy.”

It is not windy.

You’re standing in the back of his motorhome at Silverstone, and the air back here is still and warm, humming faintly with artificial lights. You’re twenty minutes from walking through the paddock. The paddock that knows now. The paddock that’s already buzzing because Lewis brought you.

He told you it was fine, no pressure, just come hang out, I just want you near me.

You said yes, because of course you did.

And now his hands are on you like he can wrap calm around you with his thumbs.

“It’s July, Lew,” you murmur, amused. “I’m actually overheating.”

“I’ll carry you,” he says, immediate. Dead serious.

You blink. “Through the paddock?”

“Yes.”

You laugh. “Like a child or like a sacrifice?”

His mouth twitches. “Princess carry.”

You stare at him.

His expression doesn’t change.

God. This man.

“Relax, Sir Lewis,” you say softly, reaching up to fix a braid back behind his ear where it’s slipped free. “Your country awaits.”

He huffs a tiny laugh through his nose, but that doesn’t stop him. He smooths one hand gently over your shoulder, then down your arm. Fingers slow, reverent. You feel him tracing you more than touching you. Mapping. Reassuring himself you’re actually here.

You lean in a fraction, voice low. “You’re fussing.”

“I’m allowed to fuss,” he says, not missing a beat. He doesn’t even pretend to deny it. “This is a big deal for me.”

That part you feel in your ribs.

It’s Silverstone. His home race. His church. His blood. The only place in the world louder than his own heartbeat.

And he’s bringing you through the gate on his arm. As Ferrari’s newest hope and as a man who’s stopped hiding the person he loves.

Last time you came to a race, it was Monza. Quiet. Tucked. You stayed mostly in hospitality, in sunglasses and neutral clothing, acting like some vague “friend of the team.” You kissed him behind a closed door. He squeezed your hand under a table. The most reckless you got was blowing him a kiss in parc fermé, and even that felt like a small earthquake.

This isn’t that.

This time, everyone knows.

This time, you’re not here in a hiding place. You’re here because you are his.

And because he is so obviously yours that half the paddock’s already diarising it like a cultural event.

He leans down, one hand braced on the wall beside your head so he can murmur just for you. “Last chance to run.”

You glance up at him, slow, amused. “You want me to run?”

He doesn’t even entertain the joke. His gaze goes soft, warm, pulled to you like a tide. “No,” he says. “I want you with me.”

There it is. That softness that still makes you ache every time. The one he never used to let the world see and now just… does. Freely. Like it’s no longer a liability to love you with his chest open.

“You ready?” he asks.

You smile. “You are so much more nervous than I am and it is adorable.”

Lewis exhales and breaks, laughter lighting his face so fast it hits you like sunlight. “Shut up.”

“Never.”

He kisses you, fast, like he can’t not. It’s not deep. It’s just a press, his mouth to yours, his palm cupping your jaw for one steadying second. You feel him breathe against you.

Then he pulls back, eyes flicking down to your lips like he always does, and his voice drops into that serious whisper that makes your stomach lose its footing.

“Stay next to me,” he murmurs. “No cameras get too close, yeah? Anyone makes you uncomfortable, literally anyone, you tell me and they’re gone. I don’t care if it’s a journalist or a fuckin' ferrari exec. I’ll have ‘em escorted out.”

You smile, soft, a little helpless. “You’re very sweet when you threaten people.”

“I’m not threatening. I’m establishing guidelines.”

“Mm.”

“And,” he adds, and this part makes him suck in a breath like it actually matters more than anything else, “the kids are here today, obviously.”

Your brows lift. “Your…kids.”

He squints at you. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing a tone.”

You grin. “Am I meeting your children, Lewis?”

He groans into his hands like you’ve killed him where he stands. “See. See? This is why I’m nervous.”

You lean up on your toes, shoulders brushing his. “You mean Kimi and Isack and Franco, yeah?”

He peeks at you from behind his fingers, suspicious. “Yes.”

“The rookies,” you clarify, teasing. “The ones you talk about like divorced parents talk about custody time, yes?”

He levels you with a look. You cackle. He sighs.

“The babies,” he corrects, deadpan. “Be gentle. It’s their first year out here. Kimi’s with Mercedes — you know I’ve known him since he was, like, twelve. Isack’s Racing Bulls; been a fan for a long time.. And Franco’s at Alpine, charming Argentinian disaster. They’re good boys, but they’re also…” He winces. “A lot.”

“Oh?”

“They’re excited to meet you,” he admits. You realise with a little warm shock that there’s pink high on his cheeks.  “Like, properly excited. I’ve been hearing about it all week. They kinda…listen to you. Already. Without meeting you, yet. Which is…yeah. Just. Be nice.”

You blink. “Without meeting me?”

“I maybe mention you,” he says, casual in the way that means violently not casual. “Sometimes.”

Your head tilts. “Uh huh.”

“Like, in passing.”

“Uh huh.”

“Like, a normal, healthy amount.”

“Lewis.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, sheepish and a little desperate. “Okay, fine,” he mutters. “They might be your fans.”

Your mouth actually falls open. “Shut up.”

He groans. “Don’t get smug. Just — I’m preparing you, alright? So you don’t get in there and faint from all the worship.”

“Worship,” you repeat, delighted.

“Behave.”

“Never.”

He gives you a flat look. “I am so serious. Baby. Angel. Love of my actual life.” He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his voice a fond whisper. “Please…please don’t bully me in front of my sons.”

Your laugh is half in his mouth when you kiss him again.

You think you’re prepared.

You’re not.

The paddock at Silverstone isn’t like any other race. It hums. It swarms. There’s electricity in the air, a pulse that threads up through the asphalt and into your bones. The noise is layered: generators, commentators, the high whine of drills from garages, radios crackling, laughter, shouting, laughter again. People move like a current. Photographers, mechanics, engineers in fireproofs. Sponsors in linen. PR girls. Some kid in a bucket hat openly filming you on his phone.

You catch snippets as you walk, Lewis’s hand warm and sure at the small of your back.

“That’s her, right?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Oh my god, they’re actually — that’s them —”

“— looks even better in person, what the f—”

You feel it. The way eyes track you. The way the paddock lives on story more than fuel, and you have just walked in on his arm like narrative.

Lewis clocks it too. Of course he does. You can tell from the way his body subtly shifts, shoulder angling between you and whatever lens feels too close. He’s not glaring. He doesn’t need to. It’s more possessive than that, more assured. His presence alone says: kind eyes or not, this is mine. Be respectful.

You’re almost at Ferrari hospitality when you hear them.

They are…loud.

“—no, listen, you don’t get it,” someone is saying ahead, animated and unbothered about volume, “her bridge on ‘Body Count’? That’s what got me through F2 last year, swear on my life.”

Your eyebrows raise.

“And the live clip in Madrid where she hit the run at the end of ‘Panic Room’?” another voice adds, scandalised. “Brother, I had chills. I told you! I told you she’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but wait,” a third voice cuts in, calmer, a little lower, musing. “Didn’t you say she basically dragged Lewis out of —”

“Shh,” the first hisses. “Man, don’t say that part loud, are you crazy? I’m trying to live long enough to get a full season in Formula One. He’ll hear.”

There’s a small scuffle. A muffled “ow.”

Their voices overlap. French, Italian, Argentine accents. Three rhythms tripping over one another in the same laugh.

You turn the corner.

The boys freeze like wildlife.

They’re gathered in a little pocket of shade along the side of the motorhome, half-perched on flight cases and stackable chairs, lanyards hanging off necks, race suits tied at their waists. Three of them. Three very different energies, and you clock them instantly the way you naturally do. You’ve always been good at reading a room, you had to be.

Closest is Isack, Racing Bulls blue and white still crisp with new-season shine, curls pushed under a cap. The grin that breaks across his face when he sees you could power Milton Keynes. He is absolutely, shamelessly staring. He’s half bouncing on his heels, hands already mid-gesture, like he might actually combust if he doesn’t say something immediately.

He’s the first one you actually recognise, because you’ve seen his face more than once on Lewis’s phone. “Look at this kid through turn 5. Look at his patience. Look at this, he’s thirty laps deep and still thinks. You see that racecraft?” Proud dad voice. You know Isack Hadjar means something to him. You also know, because Lewis told you in private like he was confessing a sacred thing, that the kid loves Lewis back with that specific loud, protective, hero-worship kind of love that almost embarrasses Lewis and secretly heals him.

Isack’s race suit is half-open, hanging at his hips in a way that says “media pen soon, but not yet.” His whole body language at the sight of you is…how do you even name it? Joy. Alarm. Devotion. Panic. Lewis told you once, proud and shy in equal measure, that Isack’s got full “Lewis-Hamilton-poster-on-the-wall energy.” You could tell.

Then there’s the one sitting on a stack of tyres with one ankle casually crossed over the other, chin propped in his hand like this is all very amusing. Franco. You’d recognise the Argentinian accent anywhere, that sun-warm charm. Everything about him says charismatic, disarming, annoyingly pretty. His eyes are bright with mischief, but somehow at the same time look faintly stunned.

And then, slightly behind the other two, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets like he’s maybe not sure how close he’s allowed to get: Kimi. Long-limbed in that teenager-who-shot-up-five-inches-in-one-summer way. Eyes serious. Mouth tight. Soft around the edges. He’s trying very hard to look composed and grown — and failing, in the way that makes your heart ache instantly. The youngest of them, but the one Lewis has known the longest. You can see it in the way Kimi’s eyes flick instantly to Lewis first, like instinct, like checking in with an older brother.

Three pairs of eyes. On you.

You don’t even get to say hello.

“Oh mon DIEU,” Isack blurts, like subtlety has never once been in his skillset. “You’re real.”

Lewis makes a sound beside you that is somewhere between a cough and a strangled prayer.

You, because you are kind, bite the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh.

“Hi,” you say, warm, and Isack actually does a tiny full body jolt.

“Oh, this is insane,” Franco mutters under his breath, delighted. “This is actually insane.”

Kimi hasn’t moved. His gaze flicks from you to Lewis and back again, cautious. Evaluating what the right thing to say to you is, a half nervous smile on his face. You feel the weight of it and — God, okay, Lewis wasn’t exaggerating. This is not paddock acquaintances. This is family.

Lewis squeezes your hip, low, grounding. His voice is soft when he says, “Boys.”

The way their spines all straighten at once is almost funny.

“Behave,” he adds.

Isack, reverent, immediate: “Yes, sir.”

Franco grins. “No promises.”

Kimi doesn’t say anything. He just shifts subtly off the wall like he’s ready to step forward if instructed.

Your heart actually squeezes.

Lewis clears his throat. “This is her.”

Like you’re a myth. Like you’re a legend finally given shape.

Your name comes out of him quieter than you’ve ever heard him say it in public. Careful. Fierce with pride.

Then he turns his head to you and gestures like he’s nervous introducing you, like you’re meeting his mum at Christmas, not three young drivers in a race paddock. “Baby,” he says softly, “these disasters are Isack, Franco, and Kimi.”

“Lewis,” Franco says, affronted. “Rude.”

Isack is already shaking his head at Franco, waving him off without breaking eye contact with you. “No one cares what he’s saying right now,” he says earnestly. To you, in a rush, “I just — hi. Bonjour. I’m Isack. I love you.”

Lewis chokes.

You try so hard not to grin too wide. “Hi, Isack.”

“No, like, properly,” he barrels on, hands flying. “Like musically. I love you musically. Emotionally. Respectfully. Not like — I mean, I respect the relationship, I would never — I’m not trying to, uhhh, challenge the Champion of the World for his woman or anything, because that’s — évidemment — I’m not stupid, I have dreams and also like my bones where they are, merci beaucoup —”

“Dios mío,” Franco mutters, face in his hand, gleeful. “Look at him. Look at his heart just on the floor.”

Isack elbows him without looking. “Shut up, Franco.”

Then, back to you, still on fast-forward, french accent thick and adorable. “I just wanted to say — your music? The way you write about grief like love, not like failure? It got me through last year. I’m not joking. I was — C’était dur…it was a hard season. Pressure. Lot of noise. And I had this thing in my head where I couldn’t feel anything or I’d lose time on track. I was freaking out before the call-up, thinking, ‘what if I can’t live up to it?’ And then I heard your album with the monologues? The one with the rain in the background? And you said ‘survival’s not pretty, it’s just proof you’re still here,’ and I swear to God, that line kept me from actually losing it. So. Thank you. For that. Sorry. Okay. Done.”

He talks fast, tripping over English and feeling more than he can say. He runs out of air and just stands there, breathing hard, cheeks flushed.

You blink. Your chest goes warm. Soft.

There are a lot of things you could say. You’ve heard variations of this from fans before — strangers, sweet and shaking, telling you you caught them when they fell. You’ve learned how to hold that, how to be steady and receive it with care.

But this is…different.

This is a boy Lewis loves.

This is a boy who loves Lewis.

And he’s telling you, voice cracked with sincerity, that something you made kept him standing.

You feel something about that settle deep in your chest like it was meant to live there.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say quietly. You step closer, close enough to be personal, not just nice. “And for keeping going. I’m glad you’re here and fighting. You deserve to be.”

Isack makes a noise you’ve only ever heard from stadium crowds.

Behind you, you feel the way Lewis goes still.

It’s tiny. Barely there. But you know his body now. You know what every inhale means. You know when he’s holding back something like awe.

That stillness, right now? That’s him falling a little bit more in love with you in real time.

Franco drags a hand down his face. “Okay, voy a decirlo! I’m going to be brave and say what we’re all thinking,” he announces. “Esto es una locura. This is crazy. How am I supposed to compete with that? She just healed him like a therapist and smiled.”

“Shut up, Franco,” Isack mutters, flustered.

You laugh, and he points at you, as if you’ve proved his point.

“Hear me out,” Franco continues, warming to his own bit. “I thought I was here today to get some Silverstone mentoring from Lewis Hamilton, global icon, statistical freak of nature, seven-time world champion, future eight-time, God willing.” He moves easily, unselfconsciously affectionate, a hand on Lewis’s shoulder, a grin that says mi hermano, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. Lewis blinks like he’s not sure when he last got casually clapped on the shoulder by a child. “But I’m actually here to meet the woman who makes Lewis Hamilton walk around the paddock smiling like he won at Monaco every five minutes. Which, by the way, is loco. Do you see him right now? Look at him. He’s glowing.”

All three of them turn and stare at Lewis.

Lewis, instantly: “No I’m not.”

You grin. “Yes, you are.”

Isack nods. “You really are.”

Franco giggles. “You look moisturised in the soul.”

Kimi, very quietly, like he’s offering an official assessment. “You look very happy.”

That last one lands. You hear how it lands.

Because for a split second, Lewis doesn’t answer. He swallows. Looks at Kimi. Looks back at you. And something softens in his face so deeply it nearly folds you where you stand.

Happy.

He never used to get called that in here. Not like that. Not without a but. Not without a performance note attached.

And Kimi said it so plainly. Like it’s just a thing he observed and put into the air because truth matters to him.

You take a tiny step forward and slide your hand into Lewis’s. You don’t think about it. Your body just moves.

Kimi’s eyes flick down to where your fingers lace into Lewis’s, and you watch his shoulders,  those narrow, still-soft shoulders that are currently carrying the weight of a billion expectations, drop just a fraction.

Like he’s relieved.

Like he feels safer in the chaos now that you’re anchored to Lewis in front of him.

Oh.

Oh. Okay.

That hits you somewhere a little dangerous.

Then you turn to Kimi properly. He’s still standing a half-step back, posture immaculate, trying not to fidget. You can see the respect there, but also the nerves. He’s known Lewis for years, looked up to him, learned from him. And now you’re here, the person who makes his mentor genuinely happy.

“Hi, Kimi,” you murmur, gentler now because you get it.

He doesn’t quite meet your eye yet. His voice is low and even, careful in that way very serious kids get when they think adulthood means not letting anything spill. “Hi.”

You smile, letting yours be easy enough for both of you. “Your quali yesterday was beautiful.”

His head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical.

“My…?”

“That middle sector?” you say. “The way you carried the speed through that long left and just refused to let it unsettle you? That was gorgeous. You drive like you trust yourself.”

There’s a pause.

Then Kimi turns visibly pink.

Franco straight-up wheezes.

“Oh my GOD,” Isack groans, delighted, slapping a palm to his forehead. “He’s BLUSHING. No, this is — I’m going to be sick. Kimi, are you in love? Tell the group.”

“Shut up,” Kimi mutters, mortified, but he’s smiling, and it’s soft enough that you feel something in your own chest go molten.

He shuffles forward slightly, still slightly shy.

“Grazie. For saying that about quali.” His voice is almost a whisper.

“I try to trust myself. Sometimes it is… difficult. But you make it sound simple.” 

You glance up at Lewis blinking tears away. 

He’s gone.

Not physically. Physically he’s right there, thumb stroking unconsciously over the back of your hand by habit, body angled toward you like gravity.

But emotionally? He is absolutely, completely finished.

Because you’ve just praised Kimi’s driving like it’s art, told Isack that he matters beyond what he can produce, and made Franco laugh so hard he’s wiping his eyes…and Lewis is looking at you like he’s witnessing proof of God.

“Yeah,” Franco says, wiping his face, breathless. “No, I’m sorry, I’m calling it. I’m calling it with witnesses. Lewis is not the paddock dad anymore, this is ridiculous. We’ve all been lying. This is ‘Stepmum steals your kids in one weekend’ behaviour..”

Lewis snaps out of his trance so fast he almost stumbles. “Excuse me?”

Isack leans in conspiratorially, stage whisper loud enough to echo. “We’re promoting her.”

“Promoting her?” Lewis repeats, scandalised.

Kimi nods, very serious, small grin. “Grid Parent.”

“Grid —” Lewis actually laughs, stunned. “Hold on, hold on. I’ve been — wait. I’ve been in F1 for nearly Twenty YEARS. I’ve been mentoring, I’ve been turning up, I’ve been defending you to media, I’ve been calling you at two in the morning when you’re spiralling, I’ve literally nearly cried for some of you —”

“Yeah,” Franco says, kindly, “and we love that for you. Iconic work. Hall of fame for the GOAT. But also?”

He gestures magnanimously at you.

“Have you considered,” Franco continues, all faux-innocent sweetness, “that your girlfriend is cooler than you? And also nicer? And also more emotionally literate? And also, no offence, has better hair?”

“HEY,” Lewis protests immediately.

“Her hair eats yours, boss, I’m sorry,” Isack says, hands up. “I don’t make the rules.”

Kimi nods gravely, confirming. “It’s true.”

You make a strangled sound, trying not to visibly fold in half laughing.

Lewis looks personally wounded. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. I bring you all into my motorhome, play UNO, I feed you—”

“Lewis, you literally gave me almond milk and vibes,” Franco says.

“—I share my wisdom—”

“‘Manifest it, lil bro,’ is not a strategy,” Isack stage whispers.

“—I fight for you in rooms you don’t even know exist—”

Kimi, gently, “we know. Thank you.”

Lewis falters. The bickering dies for half a second. Because it’s not just jokes, and everyone in this little circle knows it.

Kimi says it with that same soft honesty he used a minute ago. Like fact. Like reverence. Like I’ve watched you hold doors open for me that you had to build first with your own hands and I won’t forget that.

Lewis swallows. His jaw works once.

Then Kimi looks at you, and what he says next is almost shy. “He is better now,” he tells you quietly. “Since you came back. Happier. Calmer. Everyone has seen it. We…we like it.”

You feel your whole body go still.

It’s not lost on you what that means, coming from him. From the kid who watches Lewis like a hawk, who measures him for cracks, who wants so badly to learn from him but also to protect him from being devoured by this world. It’s such a simple sentence, but coming from Kimi, the one who’s known him since he was twelve, it carries the weight of everything he’s seen.

Happier. Calmer. We like it.

There’s a pressure behind your eyes you weren’t ready for.

Lewis hears it too. You feel the way his breath hitches. He squeezes your hip, eyes shining. You can tell he’s swallowing a thousand things at once.

You clear your throat, swallow it back, and reach your free hand out.

“C’mere,” you say softly.

It’s not even a question who you’re talking to.

Kimi comes.

You press a palm to the back of his neck, gentle, like you’re settling his nervous system with your thumb. (You are. You’re doing it on instinct. You’ve had to ground people you love before. Vocalists on stage, Maya when she’s spiralling through logistics at 3am, Lewis when he shakes in hotel bathrooms, and the muscle memory kicks in now.)

“You,” you tell Kimi, quiet enough that it’s just for him. “Are doing so, so well. You hear me?”

You'd seen first hand the pressures of this sport. Something about these boys pulled something maternal from deep within your chest you didn't even know existed. He nods.

You lean in just enough. A little point of private warmth in the chaos of Silverstone. “And if anyone…anyone…ever makes you feel like you’re only worth what you put on a timing sheet that day, you tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

His eyes actually go wide. The corners of his mouth twitch up, small, private. 

Franco makes a noise like he’s being physically strangled trying not to scream. “Oh, that’s it,” he whispers, delighted horror. “We’re adopted. We’re actually adopted. Mamá said yes.”

Isack claps, once, triumphant. “Grid Maman,” he declares. “Official. Locked in.”

Lewis stares at you like you’ve just snatched the oxygen mask off his own face and put it on the kid.

It’s not jealousy.

You thought, for a second, it might be. He warned you, jokingly, about “don’t replace me in front of my sons,” like he was only halfway kidding.

But what’s on his face right now isn’t jealousy. It’s pride so fierce he almost can’t stand upright under it.

You see it in the way his eyes shine. The way his mouth trembles at the edges. The way his shoulders drop, like a tension he didn’t even know he was holding just got lifted.

Because this is everything to him. This is two lives that he’s been holding separately, the you he loves with something reverent and quiet and all-consuming, and the boys he’s taken in like promises, finally touching.

And it doesn’t combust. It just…fits.

You watch that realisation hit him, and you know, with a bone-deep certainty that makes your knees threaten to give: he’ll remember this for as long as he lives.

“Unbelievable,” Lewis says softly, voice a little wrecked. He squeezes your hand like a thank you and turns to the boys. “I actually cannot leave you alone for five minutes.”

Franco grins. “Nope.”

Isack nods, solemn. “Absolutely not.”

Kimi, dead serious: “Boundaries are important.”

“Boundaries are —” Lewis stops. Blinks at Kimi. “Who taught you that?”

Kimi glances at you with a grin. “She did. On Instagram. In that interview clip. About ‘emotional labour and reciprocity’.” 

Your eyebrows nearly raise to your hairline as you listen to his attempt at pronouncing reciprocity in his adorable Italian accent. You aren’t sure if he even knows what the words mean, but the fact he learnt them from you. Well…your heart melts again.

Lewis’s mouth falls open. “You watched her interview about…?” He trails off. Looks at you, wonder-drunk. “Oh, no, this is…this is crazy. This is actually crazy. You’ve radicalised my children.”

“Someone had to,” Franco says.

Isack points at Lewis. “You were busy being slightly traumatised and noble, Sir Lewis.”

“Okay,” Lewis says faintly. “We’re done. Conversation’s over.”

You are absolutely shaking trying not to laugh.

Isack leans forward then, suddenly shy again. “Can I, um.”

You blink at him, soft. “Yeah?”

He’s already reaching for his phone before he’s even asked, grin blinding. His accent thickens when he’s nervous, the ‘please’ comes out rushed into an almost “s’il te plaît”.

“Would it be weird if I asked for —” he gestures vaguely at his phone, eyes wide, hopeful, “— a photo? For my mum. I swear to God it’s for my mum this time. I know that sounds like a lie, but she’s obsessed with you and if she finds out I was in a five metre radius and didn’t get proof, she’ll actually disown me and then I’ll have to live with Kimi and he’ll feed me dry rice until I die.”

Kimi rolls his eyes. “You have to fuel properly for performance.”

“See?” Isack gestures wildly at him. “Do you see my potential future?”

You laugh, soft. “Come here.”

You lean in, and Isack takes the world’s most careful selfie. Arm outstretched, eyes wide, grin so huge it almost splits his face. Kimi ends up in the frame too because Isack just naturally loops his arm around his neck and drags him in without warning. Franco ducks his head into shot at the corner last minute, tongue out.

You can feel Lewis watching all of this. Not tense. Not hovering like a bodyguard.

Just there. Soft. Present. Like this is also healing something in him nobody else can touch.

“Send me that,” Lewis says idly, like it’s nothing, and all three of them explode.

“WHAT no you’ll post it —”

“YOU’RE GONNA GO SOFT LAUNCH US —”

“WE’RE NOT READY FOR THAT YET—”

Lewis laughs, proper, head tipping back, joy spilling out of him in a way that turns heads across the paddock. That laugh turns something molten inside you every single time, and it’s no different now.

“Relax,” he grins. His eyes find you again. They always do. “Might just make it my lockscreen.”

Isack gasps. Franco clutches his chest. Kimi just blinks, but his mouth is doing an ‘oh’ that gives him away.

“Okay,” Franco says, recovering, wiping at his face like this has been a deeply stressful experience. “Before PR sees us and tries to sanitise this whole moment, I need to ask the real question.”

Lewis narrows his eyes. “Franco—”

Franco ignores him, laser-focused on you. “Are you coming to our garages before lights out? Like just come and say good luck?”

You tilt your head. “If I’m allowed?”

Franco, immediately, like you’ve insulted him. “Allowed? This is your paddock now. Queen’s access.”

Isack nods, urgent. “Please come. My engineer doesn’t believe I know you. I need to humble him. I’ve been talking crazy all week, I can’t back down now.”

Kimi just looks at you, that quiet steady gaze again. “It helps seeing a friendly face” he admits, chin jerking toward Lewis. “Before I get in the car. I don’t…usually say these things. But it helps me focus.”

Your throat tightens. This boy.

This boy who’s balancing an entire nation’s expectation on shoulders that have only barely finished growing, standing here in front of you asking if you'll be a calming presence in the moment he needs it most.

“Then I’ll be there,” you say softly. “Of course.”

Kimi exhales with a small smile and nods.

You feel Lewis’s hand squeeze yours so tight you almost gasp.

“Right,” Lewis says, clearing his throat. His voice has that thin edge it gets when he’s holding down emotion with his teeth. “That’s enough for now. They’ve got briefs and I’ve got some media stuff..Go do your jobs, please, before my heart actually gives out.”

“Copy, boss,” Isack grins.

Franco leans in like he’s about to kiss your cheek, then stops himself at the last second as if feeling Lewis’s narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows and just winks instead. “Welcome to the family, preciosa.”

You snort.

Kimi hugs you tightly, pulls back and looks you dead in the eye and gives you a lopsided grin and nod.

Respect. Acceptance. Trust.

You nod back.

He ducks his head, blushing and satisfied, and follows the other two.

They scatter down the paddock in a clatter of voices and limbs and youthful chaos, and you swear you’ve never loved them more than in the moment Isack spins around, walking backward, and shouts down the lane for everyone to hear: “LOVE YOU, MAN.”

The entire paddock turns.

Lewis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ.”

Franco, already twenty paces ahead, cups his hands around his mouth: “LOVE YOU TOO, MAMÁ.”

“Oh my God,” Lewis groans, face in his hands. “No. Absolutely not. Security!”

You’re laughing so hard you have to bend over, hand on your stomach.

He’s still muttering about betrayal and disrespect and outrageous slander when you step into him.

That’s all it takes.

One tiny step, and his arms are around you like a reflex.

It’s easy now, the way you fit. Natural. His body finds yours like memory. One hand slides to the small of your back, pressing you in, the other comes up to cradle the back of your neck. He tucks you under his chin like he’s hiding you from the sun.

“You alright?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head against him. “Are you?”

He lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh into your hair. “I don’t even have words for what just happened.”

“You got replaced,” you say, gentle.

He scoffs. “Rude.”

“Your sons promoted me.”

“Disrespectful.”

“They love you,” you say, voice dropping.

He stills. Then, quieter, so quiet you almost miss it under the noise of Silverstone, “Yeah. I know. I love them too.”

You close your eyes. You press your mouth softly to the point where his throat meets his jaw, just there, just a brush. You feel him shiver. You feel him breathe.

“They’re doing so well,” you whisper against his skin. “They feel safe because of you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his heartbeat where your chests touch. It’s not steady. It’s not calm. It’s fast, tripping, overwhelmed, but not with panic. With something sweeter.

After a long moment, his voice comes out low and a little rough. “They like you.”

You smile into him. “Mm.”

“They like you more than me.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright. “Mm.”

He narrows his eyes. “Why are you proud of that?”

You grin. “Because I win.”

He groans. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. I bring you to my home race, introduce you to my children, and you steal them!”

“You’re just mad I have better hair.”

“I will actually leave you here.”

“No you won’t,” you say, smug, looping your arms around his waist and pulling him in flush, right there in the middle of the paddock where everyone can very much see. Where you would never, ever have done this a year ago. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping, eyes softening into that look again, the one that wrecks you. The one that says yeah, and? Like loving you in public is not a question for him anymore, it’s the air he’s willing to breathe forever.

He leans down until his forehead rests against yours. His voice is just for you, even here, even now.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I am.”

The noise of Silverstone hums around you both. Cameras flash somewhere in your periphery. You know, distantly, that this moment will end up everywhere.

But right here, right now, it’s just him. The warmth of his hands on you. The way his mouth curves into a smile he can’t fight. The way he looks at you like this is everything he’s ever wanted.

“Silverstone loves you,” you murmur. “Ferrari red suits you.”

His throat works. “You suit me.”

You shouldn’t still melt at that. You do anyway.

There’s movement all around. PR people, engineers, journalists... but right now the world narrows to this small pocket of air between you, full of engine scent and static and the steady rhythm of his breath.

“Do you know,” he says suddenly, voice lower, “I didn’t think I’d ever bring anyone here again.”

You go still at his honesty. He glances around, at the motorhomes, the garages, the flags snapping in the wind, the world that made him and almost unmade him, too.

“I used to think if I let anyone into this again, they’d see too much,” he says. “All the pressure, the noise, the… performance of it. But you just walked in like it was nothing. Like it’s home.”

“It is home,” you say quietly. “For you. So it’s home for me too.”

Something flickers through hi. Gratitude, disbelief, love so fierce it almost looks like pain. Then he catches your wrist and pulls you forward, mouth finding yours, one hand cradling your jaw.

It’s not the kind of kiss you can hide behind sunglasses or PR smiles. It’s slow, sure, grounded. The kind that tells a watching world that this, right here, is real.

When you part, he’s smiling. Soft, unguarded, dizzy with love.

“You realise the entire paddock just saw that,” you whisper.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Let them.”

“Ferrari’s PR is going to have an aneurysm.”

“Worth it.”

You laugh into his chest, and he wraps both arms around you like a shield. Behind him, someone cheers. You think it’s a mechanic. Then someone else joins in. It ripples, absurdly, until you’re both laughing too.

Lewis presses his forehead to yours. “They’re laughing with us, right?”

“Mm,” you hum. “Definitely not at you for being the most in-love man alive.”

He huffs, mock wounded. “Terrible.”

“Tragic.”

“Utterly.”

He leans down again, voice gone rough with affection. “Still not sorry.”

You smile against his mouth. “Didn’t ask you to be.”

And for a long, golden moment, the rest of Silverstone falls away. It’s just the two of you — your hands in his, the roar of engines somewhere in the distance, and the quiet knowledge that this time, he’s not walking through it alone.

“Grid Parent, huh?” he whispers, amusement curling in his voice.

You hum. “Promotion seems official.”

“Hm.”

He noses lightly along your cheek, barely touching. You feel him smile against your skin.

“Good,” Lewis says softly. “’Cause I’m keeping you.”

Later, when the official Ferrari account posts a candid, the one where he’s laughing with his forehead pressed to yours and Kimi, Isack, and Franco are grinning in the background, the caption will read:

Family. ❤️ #Ferrari #SilverstoneGP #TeamLH

And the comments will lose their minds.

Lewis won’t care.

He’ll be too busy scrolling through it beside you, muttering about “my kids” and pretending not to beam when he sees the rookies tag you both with “Grid Parents ❤️.”

You’ll just laugh and lean against him, and he’ll turn, kiss the crown of your head, and say it like he always does, a quiet vow.

“I love you more than anything, angel.”

taglist: @forzalewis44xo, @70srogertaylor, @mikaissance <3(lmk if u want to be added)

[miaaxxzf1]

Lucky Charm | LH44

SUMMARY: You were known as a lucky charm, somehow, whoever you supported always seemed to win. The rumor brought more sponsorships, more invitations, and eventually a race weekend with Scuderia Ferrari… where you ended up cheering for Lewis Hamilton

PAIRING: lewis hamilton x reader

F1 MASTERLIST

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There was a rumor about you.

A stupid one, really.

The theory was simple, every time you publicly supported someone: an athlete, a celebrity, whoever, they won. Every single time.

It was probably just a big coincidence. At least that’s what you always said. If anyone insisted on an explanation, you usually joked that you simply had a talent for recognizing rising stars.

Still, the internet loved the idea.

Somehow you had become known as a lucky charm for whoever happened to have you around.

Teams from all kinds of sports started inviting you to their events. Officially it was for appearances, sponsorships, brand partnerships… but everyone knew why they really wanted you there.

Just in case the theory was true.

It was convenient for you too , more sponsors, more money, more visibility. Not that you accepted every invitation. You were busy. Between working on your new fashion collection and finishing your next album, your schedule was already full.

You almost declined Ferrari’s invitation to attend a Formula 1 race.

But then you realized you had never actually been to one before.

It could be interesting, right?

You didn’t really know much about Formula 1, but you figured you’d pick things up once you were there. And Ferrari probably hadn’t invited you because of the lucky charm thing anyway.

They were Ferrari.

They probably won all the time… right?

So you agreed. A race weekend, a few media appearances, some sponsor events.

And apparently you’d get to meet the drivers.

Drivers.

The word sounded weird when you said it out loud, like you were talking about Uber drivers instead of elite athletes.

You already knew one of them, though:

Lewis Hamilton.

You had met him at the Met Gala and a couple of other events afterward. You’d talked a few times mostly about fashion, sustainability, music. He seemed cool.

So when you arrived at the Ferrari garage and started meeting everyone, it wasn’t completely unfamiliar territory.

Photos were taken. Someone asked you to film a quick TikTok. People moved around quickly, preparing for the race.

Lewis noticed you almost immediately.

He came over with an easy smile, greeting you like you were just continuing a conversation from last week instead of months ago.

You picked up right where you had left off the last time, talking about fashion designers, upcoming shows, random things that had nothing to do with racing.

Eventually, though, someone called his name from the other side.

He glanced back toward you before leaving.

“It was really great seeing you again,” he said. “But just out of curiosity…”

You already knew what was coming.

“Who are you cheering for today?”

You rolled your eyes slightly.

“Don’t tell me you believe that theory too.”

He grinned.

“I mean… it seems to work.”

“Are you not already winning enough?” you replied. “You’re not like a ten-time world champion or something?”

He laughed.

“I’m definitely not a ten-time world champion. But still… you have to tell me.”

You shrugged.

“Lewis, it’s not like I know any other Formula 1 drivers besides you and maybe Charles.”

You paused.

“So… of course you.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Does that help you with something?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a small smile. “Maybe.”

Then he was gone, heading toward the engineers while the garage grew busier as race time approached.

You watched the screens for a moment.

Apparently he was starting near the front.

What did they call that again?

P3.

That sounded good… right?

The race started with a roar that made the ground vibrate.

And somehow, within the chaos of the first lap, Lewis took the lead.

You didn’t understand half the things happening on the monitors around you, but it was still fascinating.

At one point you leaned toward someone standing next to you.

“What’s that thing that rotates on the back of the car?”

The man glanced at the screen and answered with a completely straight face.

“You don’t know? That’s the Macarena.”

You blinked.

“The Macarena?”

“It seems to be working pretty well today.”

You couldn’t help laughing.

Apparently it was working very well.

Because a while later, the race ended with Lewis crossing the finish line first.

His first win with Ferrari.

Wait.

What do you mean it was his first win with Ferrari?

That was definitely going to make the rumors about you stronger.

Because somehow… it had happened again.

You pushed the thought away immediately.

It was ridiculous.

But Lewis clearly hadn’t forgotten the conversation.

After the race and the media, the first thing he seemed to do was look around until he found you.

When he finally did, he walked straight over and pulled you into a quick hug.

“Congrats,” you said, laughing.

“Thank you,” he replied, still catching his breath. “I don’t know what kind of black magic you’re doing, but it works really well.”

“I’m not doing anything, I swear.”

“You know it’s been a while since I last won, right?”

You blinked.

“Oh. Wow. I thought you won more often… wait, that sounded wrong. I didn’t mean...”

He laughed.

“Relax.”

Then he tilted his head slightly.

“So… how can I convince you to come to more races?”

You stared at him.

“Do you think I’m unemployed and have that much free time? Songs don’t write themselves.”

“You could definitely come to races and still write them”

You laughed again, knowing he was mostly joking.

“Where would I get inspiration from?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to write them about you?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I definitely wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head.

“So we have a deal?” he asked

“No.”