𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰? — lh44 + nr6
lewis hamilton x !rosberg wife reader
nico rosberg x !wife reader
you tell yourself every night that this is the last time. the last call. the last lie. the last moment you let lewis hamilton drag you back into the gravity of something that should’ve died years ago. you’re nico rosberg’s wife, the woman the world calls perfect, the supermodel with a spotless reputation—
and yet all it takes is your phone lighting up at 1:14am, his name glowing like a warning, for your resolve to crumble.
“come back,” he whispers. “you know you where your heart lies.”
and god help you, but you do.
like a moth to a flame, you just can’t help yourself.
fc : candice swanepoel + a few pics of viv a/n : based off of moth to a flame by the weeknd. lewis is very toxic in this- i love a good !dark driver fic. reader has questionable morals obvs. obvious warnings of infidelity and sexual content + age gap between both reader and lewis and reader and nico! (6 years) mdni! 18+ also im sorry this took so long, my mental health has been in the GUTTER recently:( love yall!!
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yn_rosberg (late 2016) (reader is 25, nico + lewis are 31)
liked by nicorosberg, sebastianvettel, danielricciardo and 1,209,000 others.
yn_rosberg : 2016 has been so great to us <3 even better now that my husband is a world champ;) love you so much my angel
tagged : nicorosberg
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newer comments
username775 : after all these years, they are still my end game.
↳ username89 : YUP
↳ username287 : let's all thank seb for introducing them !!!!
↳ username123 : i imagine the dynamic is very awkward...she is best friends with seb who is best friends with lewis and she is married to...rosberg
↳ username431 : her and seb have been best friends FOREVER. and they are all adults...i fear its not that serious.
older comments
nicorosberg : best year of my life ❤️ i love you more than you’ll ever know
liked by yn_rosberg
mercedesamgf1: our world champion & our favorite paddock angel 🤍
liked by yn_rosberg and nicorosberg
adrianalima: angel ✨ love this for you!!!🥹
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schecoperez : felicidades, campeón 👏 (yn, amazing photos as always)
liked by yn_rosberg and nicorosberg
username007 : you two winning 2016 together >>>>
liked by yn_rosberg
username090 : imagine being world champion and married to her… king
liked by yn_rosberg and nicorosberg
sebastianvettel : Huge year for the both of you! Congratulations! 🎉
liked by yn_rosberg and nicorosberg
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flashback! 2016 - abu dhabi
The moment the checkered flag waves, you don’t even process it. You don’t understand that it’s real until Nico is sprinting toward you, helmet already off, sweat in his hair, eyes wide with something feral, triumphant, and disbelieving.
“YN!”
You barely get a breath in before he’s picking you up—arms tight around your waist, lifting you off the ground and spinning you in circles as the crowd around you erupts. Mechanics are shouting his name, crew members are slapping his back, cameras are flashing nonstop, but all you feel is him. His heartbeat pounding through his race suit, that wild laugh he only ever lets out when he’s overwhelmed, the way he holds you like you’re part of this victory.
“You did it,” you breathe against his cheek, your fingers sliding up into his damp hair. “Nico, you actually did it.”
He pulls back just enough to cup your face with shaking hands. “We did it,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “God, I love you. I can’t believe—”
He’s swallowed back into the crowd, pulled onto shoulders, shoved toward the podium steps. You stand there laughing as he looks back at you over his shoulder like he can’t believe you’re real either.
You’re wearing a fitted white mini dress, soft and clean against the chaos of Parc Fermé, and turquoise Louboutins that were supposed to be “a fun pop of color” but now match Nico’s racing boots exactly. It makes the mechanics tease you, makes Toto smirk and say, “You two are nauseatingly coordinated.”
You feel warm. You feel proud. You feel like you’re standing in the center of a miracle.
On the podium, Nico is glowing. Completely glowing. He keeps lifting the trophy like he’s afraid someone will take it away. You press a hand to your chest as you watch, Toto standing tall beside you with his arms crossed, jaw tight with pride.
“You should be proud,” he says quietly.
“I am,” you reply, a little breathless.
And you are—down to your bones.
Nico eventually slips away for media duties, promising he’ll be right back and telling you not to move because, “I want to see you the second I turn around again.”
So you return to the garage, still riding that high, still smiling like an idiot… until your steps slow.
Lewis is walking in from the media pen.
His shoulders are rigid, his expression carved from stone—anger, frustration, disbelief swirling behind his eyes. You don’t blame him. Everyone knew this championship meant everything to both of them. Five points. Five points is all that kept him from the crown.
But the moment he spots you, something in him shifts. He smirks. A sharp, knowing, infuriating smirk. Great. Exactly what you need.
He stops a few feet from you, letting the silence stretch until you can practically feel him trying to get under your skin.
“What are you doing lurking around the garage?” he asks, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Shouldn’t you be busy celebrating with him?”
You ignore the jab. You’ve learned to.
“I’m waiting for Nico,” you say simply, brushing past him.
He steps in your path. There it is. The Lewis Hamilton everyone warns each other about when the season gets tense. When he feels cornered. When he feels wronged.
“I have a genuine question,” he says, folding his arms. “Do you hate me because your husband does? Or do you just do everything he tells you to do?”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t hate you. I just don’t particularly like egotistical, self-absorbed—”
“Careful,” he murmurs, stepping closer.
Your pulse skips. That annoys you even more.
“You’re unbelievable,” you hiss. “Even now, you’re trying to make this about you.”
“You’re the one shouting,” he says lightly.
“I am not shouting.”
He tilts his head. “You want to check again?”
Before you can fire back, he moves—quick, smooth, practiced. His hand comes up and covers your mouth gently, palm warm against your skin, fingers splayed along your cheek.
“Shhh,” Lewis whispers, eyes locked on yours. “We wouldn’t want the media seeing this, would we?”
Your breath stutters. You shake your head even though you hate giving him that satisfaction.
His thumb brushes across your bottom lip—slowly. Deliberately. Your breath hitches, your spine tingling despite every rational part of your brain screaming don’t react, don’t you dare react.
He notices. Of course he does.
Lewis’ hand slides from your cheek to your neck, thumb resting lightly just below your jaw. Not tight, not threatening—just enough pressure to make heat curl low in your stomach.
His eyes flick down to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“If you really want to celebrate later,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear it, “come find me, princess.”
Then he drops his hand and steps back—calm, composed, like he didn’t just ignite something inside you without touching more than the edge of your throat. And he walks away. Right as Nico walks in.
“Hey!” Nico beams, coming up behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist. “You ready? The team wants to go out!”
You smile up at him, and it’s real. Of course it’s real. You love him. You’re proud of him. You want to live in this moment forever.
But a part of you—the part that’s still warm where Lewis’ hand touched you—won’t stop replaying what just happened. Over and over.
Even when Nico pulls you close. Even when he kisses you. Even when you head out with the team—everyone except Lewis. Even when you’re in your husband’s arms, celebrating the biggest night of his career…
You can’t stop thinking about the smirk. The shush. The thumb on your lip. The hand at your throat.
The way Lewis said princess like he already knew you wouldn’t ignore it. Like he already knew you’d come back.
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several days later...fia gala 2016
You shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not tonight. Not when your husband is still glowing with the kind of happiness most people never get to experience. Not when the world is calling it the Rosberg year. Not when Nico keeps smiling at you like you personally placed the trophy in his hands.
And yet… Every time your mind settles, a flash of Lewis’ eyes, his voice in your ear, his hand on your neck—all of it bleeds back in like a bruise under the skin.
You shiver as you zip up the gown—floor-length, white silk that drapes over you like water—and you force the memory away with a sharp exhale.
You feel guilty even thinking about him. Even letting him take up a corner of your mind. You should be thinking about Nico. You want to be thinking about Nico.
“Wow,” Nico murmurs from the doorway.
You jump a little. He’s leaning against the wall, tie half-tied, still in dress pants and a button-down, hair slicked back. His eyes travel slowly—over your dress, your legs, your collarbone, your face—and he looks disarmed. Completely undone.
“I married the most beautiful woman on the planet,” he says softly. “How did I get this lucky?”
You smile because you love him. Because he means every word with that earnest, boyish heart.
“You earned it,” you tease.
He laughs and pulls you in for a kiss. It’s gentle. Warm. Nothing like the kind of kiss you’re pretending you forgot about.
You swallow that thought immediately.
It’s madness from the second the car doors open. Flash after flash, cameras popping nonstop, screaming fans, reporters calling your names like a chorus.
Nico holds your hand proudly, chin up, waving. Every time he looks at you, someone snaps the moment. You can already tell which shots will be on the front page tomorrow.
You should be floating. You are floating.
But then— You feel it. A gaze. Heavy. Burning. Intentional.
You don’t look. You don’t have to. You know it’s him.
You catch it only in your peripheral vision: Lewis standing a few feet away on the carpet, expression unreadable, but his jaw tight, eyes locked on you like he’s replaying something only the two of you know.
You force yourself to look away. To keep smiling. To keep your arm looped through Nico’s.
He doesn’t deserve your stomach twisting this way.
Inside, the glamour buzzes like electricity: crystal chandeliers, gold lighting, elegant gowns, tuxedos, champagne. Everyone wants a moment with Nico tonight.
Sebastian finds you first.
“There she is,” he grins, pulling you into a big, warm hug. “The true star tonight.”
You laugh. “Seb, it’s his championship.”
“And half of it is because you kept him sane,” he says, tapping your forehead. “Don’t deny it.”
You roll your eyes but it warms you anyway. He’s always been the big brother you never had—overprotective, dramatic, annoyingly right about everything.
He chats with you for a few minutes before spotting someone he needs to entertain.
“Don’t go far,” he tells you. “I need to steal you and Nico for a photo later.”
“I’ll be here,” you promise.
But you need a moment. The room is hot, crowded, suffocating. You slip into a side hallway, quiet and dim, decorated with framed photographs of FIA history.
You take one breath. Then two.
Then— A voice behind you, smooth like velvet.
“Big night, Mrs. Rosberg?”
You freeze. Slowly, you turn.
Lewis stands there in a black suit tailored to sinful perfection, hands in his pockets, gaze sharp and dark and too knowing.
“Leave me alone,” you say instantly.
He steps closer, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come on. You can do better than that.”
You clench your jaw and look away, staring at the carpet, the wall, anything but him.
“Why are you even talking to me?” you whisper.
He shrugs lightly. “Maybe because you’ve been avoiding looking at me all night.”
“I haven’t—”
“You have.”
Your anger flares. “What the fuck do you want from me, Lewis?”
He steps forward—just one step—but it feels like the world tilts.
“I want you,” he says simply.
Your breath stops.
He leans in just enough that you can feel warmth radiate off him. “I couldn’t have the trophy. Your husband made sure of that. But he doesn’t deserve both.”
“That’s not—”
“He has the championship,” Lewis cuts in quietly, eyes flicking down your body in a way that makes your knees weaken. “He shouldn’t have you, too.”
You step back, instinctively.
He follows.
You step back again.
Your spine hits the wall.
Your heart is hammering so loud it’s almost painful.
“Lewis—”
His hands lift slowly, deliberately, settling at your waist. His fingers press into the silk of your dress, claiming, confident, almost comforting if it weren’t so wrong.
“If you want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice low enough to curl heat through your stomach, “say the words, princess.”
You should. God, you should.
But your hands stay at your sides. Your breath trembles. Your body betrays you with the smallest, weakest lean toward him.
Lewis’ eyes darken.
His hands slide upward—slow, reverent, sinful—following every curve of your body until one hand settles where he touched you days ago: at your neck.
He grips lightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to command your entire nervous system.
“Last chance,” he whispers.
You don’t move. You don’t even blink. He uses that hold to pull you into him.
The kiss is immediate. Aggressive. Hungry. A collision of everything you’ve been pretending you didn’t feel. His lips move against yours with heat and frustration and something dangerously sweet beneath the anger. His free hand fists in the fabric of your dress as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
Guilt burns through your bloodstream.
But so does desire.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are parted, breath unsteady, heart completely out of rhythm.
Lewis traces your lower lip with his thumb, the touch intimate, damning.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “This will be our little secret.”
You swallow hard. He pulls his thumb from your lip slowly, deliberately.
“And when Nico falls asleep tonight…” He leans in, his mouth grazing your ear. “…come find me.”
Then he walks away without looking back.
You stand there for several long seconds, trying to pull yourself together, trying to quiet the pounding of your heartbeat.
You return to Nico and wrap your arms around him the moment you see him. He kisses your cheek, holds you close, whispers, “Everything okay?”
You nod. Guilty. So guilty. But not guilty enough to convince yourself to ignore Lewis Hamilton. Not anymore.
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this part contains smut!
The hotel room is quiet except for Nico’s breathing. He’s already asleep, stretched out across crisp white sheets, one arm thrown carelessly over your pillow like he expects you to still be there when he wakes. His tux jacket is draped over a chair, the championship medal resting on the nightstand, catching the faint glow of the city lights outside.
You sit on the edge of the bed, heels kicked off, dress unzipped halfway down your back. Your heart won’t slow down. Lewis’ voice keeps replaying in your head. When Nico falls asleep tonight… come find me.
You tell yourself you’re just going to step out for air. That you just need to clear your head. That this is about control—about proving to yourself that you can walk past his door and keep going.
You slip on a coat. Quiet. Careful. One last look at your husband.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, even though he can’t hear you.
And then you’re gone.
The hallway feels longer than it should. Too quiet. Too empty. Every step echoes like it’s announcing your guilt to the entire hotel. You stop outside Lewis’ door. You don’t knock right away.
Your hand hovers, shaking slightly, and for a moment—just one—you consider turning back. The door opens before you can decide.
Lewis stands there like he’s been waiting all night. Jacket gone. Shirt slightly undone. Hair looser than it was at the gala. His eyes flick over you, sharp and dark, drinking you in.
“You came,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer. He steps aside and lets you in. The door closes behind you with a soft click that feels louder than it should.
The tension snaps instantly. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t touch you right away. He just looks at you, gaze burning, jaw tight like he’s been holding himself back for hours.
“I shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says.
You take a breath that shakes. “I don’t even know why I—”
Lewis crosses the space between you in three strides and cups your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks.
“Stop,” he murmurs. “Just… stop thinking.”
And then he kisses you. It’s not tentative this time. There’s no teasing. No warning. It’s desperate and consuming and heavy with everything you’ve been denying since Abu Dhabi. His hands find your waist, your back, your hips, pulling you into him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You kiss him back.
That’s the moment it’s over.
The rest is heat and urgency and whispered breaths. The world narrowing down to hands and mouths and stolen time. You’re painfully aware of every second ticking by, every touch wrapped in guilt and want in equal measure.
He reaches up gently and unzips your dress, hands trailing down your spine as he does. You fumble with the buttons on his dress shirt and place slow and deliberate kisses on his chest. He starts to chuckle lightly and look up at the smirk splayed across his face.
"Don't be cheeky, Hamilton."
"I can't help it, Rosberg."
With that, your lips crash and his hands roam your body again. He gently presses you down into the mattress and hovers above you, dropping his head down and pressing light kisses to your breasts. His hands sneak behind your back and gently unclasp your bra.
"So fuckin' beautiful." He mumbled as his fingers trail down your torso and wrap around the waistband of the small black thong you had on.
His lips trace every part of your inner thighs and finally place a kiss over your clothed clit. You feel a tingle in your spine and feel Lewis chuckle against, the vibration causing your legs to shift inward.
"Uh-uh, legs wide for me, princess. I need to see all of you." He murmured as he ripped your panties off with one swift motion.
He gently takes one finger and slides it down your slick folds, causing you to gasp.
"So wet for me already, does he get you this way? Or is it just the thought of what you're doing to him?" He asks as he slowly rubs over your clit.
You let out a weak moan, ignoring the question. He speeds up his motions and reaches up with his other hand to grab your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eye.
"Which is it, Princess? Does your husband get you like this? This fuckin' soaked?" He questioned again, his eyes ten shades darker than when you began.
"No-No, Lew. It's just you." You managed to spit out as he smirked and leaned down to place a rough kiss on your lips. His fingers stopped abruptly, leaving you with a groan.
He chuckled and brought his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean.
"Fuck, you taste like heaven, Princess. Can't believe he gets this every night." He groans and presses his lips to your chest, then your stomach and stops right above where you need them the most.
"Lew, stop teasing or I am leaving." You whined and he chuckled.
"We both know you won't do that, angel. You need this just as bad as I do." He mumbled and finally let his tongue explore you.
Your hands shoot down and grab into his curls. Your back arches as his tongue swirls repeatedly over your sensitive spot. You let out a loud moan and his other hand creeps up and he shoves two fingers in your mouth.
"Quiet, love. We don't want your husband finding out and ruining the fun." He mumbled against your clit as you began to suck on his fingers.
He slowly inserted a finger and then two, curling up towards and pressing right against your g-spot. He kept your clit right between his lips, sucking and licking as he felt you get closer and closer. You bit down gently on his fingers as you reached your orgasm, your thighs squeeze the side of his head tightly and he only pries them open and keeps going.
His tongue lapping up every little last bit you'd give him. He raises up and leans over you, his mouth covered in you. His lips crash against yours again and you taste yourself off of him, causing another moan to escape your mouth.
"Up, baby. I need you on your knees." He mumbled in your ear and gently helped you up.
You kneeled in front of him, bright eyes staring up at him which only fueled him more. You leaned into gently press small kisses around his waist line, one hand reached up to gently trace along the tattoos on his chest and the other unzipping his dress pants and palming over him, he was rock hard.
He sprung free from his dress pants, much bigger than you even anticipated. You gently lick the tip which causes him to hiss and place his hand gently on the back of your head.
"Bigger than you're used to, angel?" He questioned as you gripped the base and took him in your mouth. You established a smooth rhythm, his hand applying a small amount of pressure to the back of your head, just keeping your head steady.
He stopped you, your lips still barely wrapped around his tip and forced you to look up at him.
"You didn't answer the question, pretty. Is it bigger than you're used to?" He asked rubbing a finger over your hollowed cheek. You nodded gently, forcing his cock further back into your mouth causing him to groan.
He allows you to continue and the room fills with his low groans and the sounds of your mouth. You pull back and rope of spit comes out of your mouth, causing you to spit and continue to stroke him.
"Let me feel you, angel. I need you." He mumbles and he lifts you up off the floor and places you gently on the bed.
Your legs automatically spread for him as he leans over you, his chain swinging close to your face. You feel him gently line himself up and start to press into you. He held your face gently and placed kisses down the side of your neck. He bottoms out and his full length is inside of you which releases a low growl out of him and a loud moan out of you.
"Fuck- you feel incredible. Like you were made just for me." He murmured into your jaw as he picked up the pace.
"Lew- I-I-" You tried to find the words as your hands wrapped behind him and gripped into his shoulders.
"What princess? What do you need?" He asked as he slammed into you.
"Just you. All of you. Please." You moaned out pressing a kiss to his ear lobe.
"As you wish, baby." He said as he leaned his forehead against yours.
He continued at a steady pace, leaning down to kiss you. You feel another orgasm building down in your stomach. He lays a hand gently across the bottom of your belly, applying a small amount of pressure only bringing your closer.
"Fuck, Lewis-" You gasped as you feel it about to snap in your core.
"I know, angel. Go ahead. Cum for me. All over me." He mumbled into your ear lowly, and bit down on your ear, sending you over the edge.
He feels you tighten around him and fucks you even quicker, helping you through your high. He slipped out of you and then flipped you over on your stomach. He gripped your hips, pulling you closer to him. You feel him enter and stretch you all over again. You let out another big moan and feel his big hand come and cover your mouth.
"He really thought he'd get to keep that trophy and you. Selfish bastard." He growled into your ear as he pounded deeper into you.
You feel his tongue and lips gently trace your spine as his cock keeps inching further inside of you. His hand leaves your mouth and suddenly both of his hands grip your hips again, tight. His pace slows but stays steady. He abruptly pulls out which leaves you hollow and groans as he releases on your ass.
"Stay still, angel. I got you." He says and comes back seconds later and cleans you up with a wet towel.
"All good." He murmurs and you sprawl back into the bed, head against the frame of the bed. He joins you, wrapping his arms around you. You hesitantly tangle yourself around him. The room is dim and quiet again, city lights casting shadows across his exposed skin.
For the first time, neither of you speaks. When he finally does, his voice is softer. Almost… human.
“He loves you,” he says.
It’s not a question.
You swallow. “I know.”
“He’s good to you.”
“Yes.”
Lewis exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Figures.”
You turn your head to look at him. “Why are you doing this?”
He laughs quietly, bitter. “You really want an honest answer?”
“Yes.”
He turns to face you. His expression isn’t cocky now. It’s raw. Exposed in a way you didn’t expect.
“Because losing the championship wasn’t the worst part,” he admits. “Losing to him was. And watching him have everything—everything I wanted—just…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “You’re not a trophy. I know that. But you feel like something I was never supposed to touch.”
Your chest aches.
“You make it worse,” you whisper. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” he says. His hand lifts, thumb brushing your cheek gently. “But you still came.”
You don’t argue.
Eventually, reality creeps back in. The clock. The night. The man sleeping in the room you’re supposed to be in. You sit up and start to dress, movements slow, careful. Lewis watches you silently.
When you reach for your shoes, he speaks again. “This doesn’t have to be the last time.”
You pause.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
He smirks faintly. “You shouldn’t come looking for me.”
You slip on your coat and turn to him. “We can’t do this.”
“I know,” he says easily. “But we will.”
You hate that he’s right. You leave without another word.
Back in your room, Nico stirs when you slip under the covers. He wraps an arm around you instinctively, pulling you into his chest.
“There you are,” he murmurs sleepily. “I thought you’d disappeared.”
You press your face into his shoulder, breathing him in. Familiar. Safe. Loving.
“I’m here,” you whisper.
You are. But as you close your eyes, Lewis’ voice echoes in your head, low and certain— You came. And the worst part is knowing you will again.
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yn_rosberg (2018 - for the sake of the story - nico did not retire until 2018) (reader is 27, nico + lewis are 33)
liked by nicorosberg, sebastianvettel, danielricciardo and 2,345,000 others.
yn_rosberg : another yearly recap :) so many amazing things this year and my amazing husband has officially retired from formula 1, so proud of you my love!!!!!!
tagged : nicorosberg
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(late 2018 - end of season/nico just announced his retirement)
Two years later, everything is different. And somehow, nothing is. The world reacts exactly how you knew it would when Nico announces his retirement. Shock, disbelief, endless headlines dissecting his choice like it’s a crime instead of a man deciding he’s done chasing something he already caught.
You, though—you understand immediately.
You’re beaming beside him as he explains it calmly, confidently, like this decision has been sitting in his chest for years just waiting to be spoken aloud. He’s peaceful. Grounded. Free.
That night, you celebrate him.
Not loudly. Not publicly. Just the two of you, tucked away from the noise, sharing wine and laughter and stories from the past—his karting days, your first runway show, the strange way your lives collided and stitched themselves together.
“I don’t regret a second of it,” he says softly as you curl against him on the couch. “I got everything I wanted.”
Your chest tightens.
“I just want you to be happy,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Whatever that looks like.”
He smiles at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had.
Later, you crawl into bed together, limbs tangled, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. It feels safe. It feels warm. It feels like the life you’re supposed to be living.
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. Once. You don’t look at it. It vibrates again. You know without checking. Lewis.
You silence it quickly, flipping it face down and murmuring, “Sorry—management,” when Nico stirs slightly.
He hums, half-asleep. “They can wait.”
You nod, even though he can’t see you. Eventually, his breathing evens out. Deep. Steady. Trusting.
You lie there for several minutes staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like you’ve already done something wrong. Then you slip out of bed.
Lewis opens the door before you knock. His eyes drop immediately—to the oversized dress shirt hanging off your shoulders.
Something sharp flashes across his face.
“You’re wearing his clothes? To come see me?” he asks, voice tight.
You cross your arms defensively. “He’s my husband. I can wear whatever I want.”
Lewis lets out a humorless laugh and steps aside to let you in, slamming the door shut behind you.
“So,” he says, turning to face you, arms folded. “Retirement. That’s it then?”
“Yes,” you reply. “He’s happy.”
“And what does that mean for us?” he presses.
You hesitate.
“I think,” you say carefully, “maybe this is our sign.”
His jaw clenches. “Our sign to do what?”
“To stop,” you whisper. “To let this go. Nico’s moving on with his life. Maybe you should too.”
Lewis stares at you for a long moment. Then he steps closer.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I am,” you insist. “I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to.”
He searches your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “Then say goodbye.”
You do. Not with words.
The night is heated, frantic, soaked in the kind of intensity that only comes when both of you believe this is the end. Every touch feels heavier. Every kiss lingers longer than it should. There’s something desperate in the way he holds you, like he’s trying to anchor himself to a moment slipping through his fingers.
After, you lie together in silence again. Lewis breaks it first.
“This doesn’t feel like goodbye,” he says quietly.
You sit up and start getting dressed. “That’s because you don’t want it to be.”
He watches you pull the shirt back over your shoulders. “And you?”
“I need it to be,” you reply.
You slip out before he can stop you. You tiptoe into your shared suite with Nico, kicking off your slippers and unbuttoning his oversized shirt that covered you. You let out a small sigh and gently lie down beside him.
He pulls you close without opening his eyes.
“Come here,” he murmurs. “I was dreaming about you.”
Your throat tightens. You nestle into his chest, letting the warmth of him wrap around you. Letting the reality of his presence ground you.
You tell yourself this is it. That you’re free. That you’ll never fall back into Lewis Hamilton again. Relief washes over you as you finally close your eyes. It doesn’t last. Not even close.
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(mid season 2019)
Airports blur together. Hotel rooms feel temporary. Nico is busy in his own way now—commentary, interviews, long days writing and thinking and finally letting Formula 1 exist without owning him. You’re proud of him. Genuinely. You love that he’s found peace.
You tell yourself you have too.
Paris is electric the night of the Dior show. Backstage hums with controlled chaos, stylists darting around like fireflies, makeup artists murmuring instructions, assistants clutching clipboards like lifelines.
You’re opening and closing the show. A statement. A crown.
You step onto the runway, lights blinding, posture perfect, expression carved from calm and confidence. The room disappears the way it always does when you walk—no sound, no faces, just movement and breath and the echo of your heels. Until you feel it.
That familiar pull. That unmistakable gravity. You don’t look directly. You don’t have to. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him.
Lewis sits front row, dressed impeccably, frozen in place like the world has stalled around him. His mouth parts slightly as you pass, eyes tracking you with open reverence, like he’s seeing something holy and dangerous all at once. Like a moth to a flame.
Your pulse stutters, but you don’t break stride. You refuse to give him anything—not a glance, not a crack in your composure.
Backstage, you press your palms into the counter of your dressing area and breathe. He wasn’t really there, you tell yourself. You imagined it. Just smoke and mirrors. You’re tired. Jet lagged. Emotional.
You splash cold water on your wrists and steady yourself. When it’s time to close the show, you don’t look for him. You don’t scan the crowd. You focus on walking—just walking—letting muscle memory carry you forward.
Applause crashes over you like a wave. You bow. You exit. Done.
In your dressing room, you finally allow yourself to exhale as you change out of the gown, fingers trembling just slightly as adrenaline drains away. Your phone lights up on the vanity.
Two notifications. One from Nico.
i’m so proud of you. opening and closing dior? that’s my wife. you were unreal tonight. can’t wait to hear everything. love you 🤍
Your chest softens. You smile. Then you open the other. No greeting. No explanation. Just an address. A room number. Lewis’ hotel. Your stomach twists.
You stare at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering. You tell yourself you won’t go. That you don’t need to. That you’re stronger now.
It’s always just one call away, a voice whispers in the back of your mind. You lock your phone. You pace. You unlock it again. Forty minutes later, you’re knocking on his door.
The suite is dimly lit, warm, deliberate. Candles flicker softly across the room. A table is set near the window, room service untouched—carefully chosen, like he knew exactly what you’d like. Lewis stands when he sees you. For a second, neither of you speaks.
“You were incredible,” he says finally, voice low.
You nod. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I had to,” he replies simply.
You sit across from him at the table. The distance feels intentional. Necessary.
He pours you champagne, slides a plate toward you, spears a bite of food and lifts it to your mouth without asking.
You hesitate. Then you let him feed you. His thumb brushes your lip when you bite down. Barely there. Still enough to make your breath catch. He watches you eat like it’s something sacred.
“You look happy,” he murmurs.
“I am,” you say. And you mean it. Mostly.
Lewis leans back slightly, eyes never leaving you. “Does he know you still think about me?”
Your throat tightens. A beat.
“No,” You admit. “He doesn’t.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and fragile.
You feel the pull again—that familiar ache in your chest, the way your body seems to remember him even when your mind tries not to.
You push back from the table and stand abruptly. “I can’t stay.”
Lewis’ expression shifts. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… resigned.
“I know,” he says softly. “You should go call your husband, I'm sure he misses you."
You grab your coat, hands shaking. “Nothing can happen tonight.”
He steps closer but doesn’t touch you. “I didn’t ask it to.”
You meet his eyes—dark, steady, aching.
“You may love him but you know where your heart truly lies.” Lewis mumbles quietly.
You don’t answer. You can’t. You turn and walk out before the flame burns you alive.
Back in your own hotel room, alone, you sit on the edge of the bed and press your phone to your chest.
You tell yourself this was proof. That you can walk away. That you can choose differently. But deep down, you know the truth. Your heart hasn't changed ways at all.
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nicorosberg (early 2020) (reader is 29, lewis + nico are 35)
liked by yn_rosberg, sebastianvettel, mercedesamgf1 and 3,450,000 others.
nicorosberg : 5 years married to the love of my life. Couldn't imagine my life without you. I am so incredibly in love with you, angel.
tagged : yn_rosberg
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For the first time in a long time, life slows down just enough for you to breathe. No races. No runway madness. No constant movement pulling you in opposite directions. Just you and Nico, wrapped in the quiet certainty of five years married.
Your anniversary feels like a dream Nico carefully curated just for you. Dinner at your favorite restaurant—the one tucked away from tourists, where the staff knows your names and your order by heart. Candles. Wine. His hand resting on your thigh under the table like it belongs there.
“I still can’t believe you married me,” he says, laughing softly.
You smile at him over your glass. “I can’t believe you still look at me like that.”
“How else would I look at you?” he asks. “You’re my wife.”
The way he says it—steady, sure, unguarded—makes your chest ache in the best way.
Back home, the night folds into intimacy that’s slow and loving and familiar. No urgency. No desperation. Just warmth and closeness and the kind of connection built over years of choosing each other.
Later, Nico slips into the shower, humming softly to himself. You pull on one of his shirts and step out onto the balcony, the cool night air brushing against your flushed skin. The city below is quiet, lights glowing like distant stars.
Your phone vibrates. Once. You already know.
Your heart sinks before you even look. Lewis. You stare at the screen, fingers numb, then force yourself to open it. It’s a photo. A box.
You recognize it instantly—the worn edges, the careless way it’s placed on his bed like an offering. Polaroids spill out of it, familiar and unforgiving.
You. Smiling. Sleeping. Crying. Wrapped around him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.
remember?
You told him to burn them. Years ago. You begged him to.
Your vision blurs as tears spill over, chest tightening like something is collapsing inside you.
does he know the pictures that I keep?
You don’t reply. You can’t. Your shoulders shake as you turn away from the balcony, pressing your hand over your mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. A moment later, warm arms wrap around you from behind.
“Hey,” Nico murmurs, concern threading through his voice instantly. “What’s wrong?”
You inhale sharply and wipe at your face, forcing a shaky smile.
“I’m just—” You laugh weakly. “God, I’m just emotional, I guess. Five years. I just… can’t believe I get to love you like this.”
He turns you gently to face him, thumbs brushing your cheeks, eyes soft and earnest.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Come here.”
He pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re fragile, like your tears make sense to him even if he doesn’t know why. You press your face into his shoulder, breathing him in, hating how safe it feels.
“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”
“I love you too,” you say back.
It’s true. That’s the worst part.
Later, Nico falls asleep easily, arm slung over your waist, breath warm against your neck. You lie there staring into the dark, heart still racing, phone burning like a secret against the mattress.
When you finally slip out of bed, the apartment is silent. You step into the bathroom and close the door softly. Then you call him. He answers on the first ring.
“Hey,” Lewis says, voice low, familiar, devastating.
“What the fuck was that?” you whisper, anger and grief tangling together. “You had no right.”
“You looked happy,” he replies calmly. “Thought you might need reminding.”
“You promised me,” you say. “You said you’d get rid of them.”
“I lied,” he admits easily. “Couldn’t.”
You press your forehead against the cool tile. “I can’t do this anymore.”
There’s a pause. Then—
“Does he know I'm the one you're calling while he sleeps?” Lewis asks quietly. “Does he know why you really cry?”
Your throat tightens.
“No,” you whisper.
Lewis exhales softly. “Thought so.”
You should hang up. You don’t. You sit there on the bathroom floor, phone pressed to your ear, heart splitting down the middle as you listen to his breathing on the other end of the line.
Nico stirs faintly in the bedroom. You don’t move. You don’t speak. And Lewis doesn’t either. He doesn’t need to.
Because somehow—despite five years of marriage, despite love, despite promises—you’re still answering his calls in the dark.
Still letting him keep your pictures. Still crying for reasons your husband will never know.
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(late 2021)
When Nico brings it up, he’s smiling—casual, hopeful, nostalgic in a way that makes your chest ache before your mind can catch up.
“I’ve got commentary duties at the race,” he says one morning over coffee. “You’re free that weekend, right? You could come with me. Like old times.”
Your stomach drops. Old times. You know exactly what that means. The paddock. The noise. The ghosts. Him. You hesitate just a fraction too long. Nico notices, of course. He always does. But he doesn’t press. He never does.
“You don’t have to,” he adds gently. “I just thought… it might be nice.”
And it would be. For him. So you nod.
“I can come,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”
You tell yourself you mean it. You tell yourself you’re stronger now. That it’s been years. That you can exist in the same space as Lewis Hamilton without unraveling.
You’re wrong—but you won’t know that yet.
The paddock hasn’t changed. It still hums with electricity, with purpose, with the sharp scent of fuel and adrenaline. It still feels like a world that belongs to Nico—where people greet him warmly, where respect follows him like a shadow.
Nico kisses your cheek before jumping into his duties, microphone already in hand.
“Go find Seb,” he says. “He asked about you.”
You smile. “Go be brilliant.”
He grins back. “I always am.”
Sebastian wraps you into a hug the second he sees you.
“There you are,” he says warmly. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten us.”
You laugh. “Never.”
Walking beside him feels safe. Familiar. Like being a kid again, trailing after someone who always knew where they were going. You catch up easily—about Nico, about life, about how strange it feels watching the sport from the outside now.
And then— You hear Lewis before you see him. His laugh is unmistakable. Low, confident, edged with something sharp.
You don’t look. You don’t want to. But Sebastian does.
“Lewis,” Nico says first, polite, measured. Professional.
“Nico,” Lewis replies, eyes flicking over him quickly. Then—casually, carelessly— “So where’s that pretty wife of yours?” he asks. “Haven’t seen her in years.”
Your heart stutters. Seb stiffens beside you. You step into view before Nico can respond.
“Hi, Lewis,” you say, forcing a smile. “It’s been a while.”
For just a second, something real flashes across his face. Surprise. Hunger. Satisfaction.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
Nico’s hand settles immediately at the small of your back. Protective. Possessive. Subtle—but Lewis sees it.
Lewis’ lips twitch.
“Good to see you,” he says smoothly, eyes never leaving yours.
“You too,” you reply, even though it feels like a lie.
Seb clears his throat loudly. “I’m stealing her,” he says, already guiding you away. “Need you in the garage real quick.”
As you walk off, you feel Lewis’ gaze burn into your spine.
That night, the hotel room is quiet. Nico pulls you into bed with ease, curling around you like he’s done a thousand times before. His arm is heavy and warm across your waist, his breath steady against your neck.
“You did great today,” he murmurs. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“I’m glad I did,” you say. And you are. Mostly.
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. You don’t dare to move. It vibrates again.
You shift just enough to glance at the screen without waking him.
you might want to put your husband on a leash. he gets territorial when i’m around.
Your chest tightens. You lock the phone without replying and turn into Nico’s chest, pressing your face against him like proximity alone can erase the tension crawling under your skin.
He tightens his hold instinctively, half-asleep.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”
You don’t sleep much after that.
Because even years later— Even married for years, even loved, even safe— Lewis Hamilton still knows exactly how to pull at the thread. And somewhere deep down, you hate that it still unravels you.
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(end of 2022 season)
By the end of the 2022 season, the paddock feels like it’s holding its breath. Sebastian’s retirement announcement has shifted something fundamental—like a chapter closing not just for him, but for all of you who grew up inside this world together. You come to the final race for him. Only for him. Because he’s family in every way that matters.
Hanna’s party is small by F1 standards. Intimate. Warm. Full of laughter that sounds a little too loud, like everyone is trying to outrun the sadness creeping in at the edges. There are candles, soft music, familiar faces. No cameras. No obligations.
You hug Sebastian tightly when you arrive.
“I’m so glad you came,” he murmurs into your hair.
“There was never a question,” you say. “I wouldn’t miss this.”
Lewis is there, of course. He always is where Sebastian is.
You avoid him at first. You stick close to Hanna, to Seb, to the small circle of people who feel safe. You laugh when you’re supposed to. You raise a glass. You tell Sebastian how proud you are of him, how loved he is, how this isn’t an ending—it’s a beginning.
Eventually, the room grows too warm. Too crowded.
You slip outside onto the balcony for air, resting your hands on the railing and letting the night cool your skin. The lights of the circuit glow in the distance, familiar and distant all at once.
“Running away?” a voice asks behind you.
You close your eyes.
Lewis steps beside you like he belongs there, forearms resting casually on the railing, suit jacket abandoned somewhere inside. He looks relaxed. Dangerous. Unfairly comfortable in your space.
“Just needed a minute,” you reply.
He hums. “Funny. You always seem to need one when I’m around.”
You don’t rise to it. You should know better by now.
“This isn’t about you,” you say quietly.
“Isn’t it?” he counters, turning his head to look at you. “You’ve been pretending I don’t exist all night.”
“That’s because I’m trying not to ruin something important.”
Lewis smiles then—not sharp, not smug. Soft. Familiar. The version of him that knows exactly how to disarm you.
“You don’t ruin things,” he says gently. “You just feel too much.”
Your chest tightens.
You hate that it still works. That after all this time, after all the distance and denial, his voice can still reach into you and pull.
“You look tired,” he adds. “Does he know that?”
“Yes,” you snap, sharper than intended. “He knows me.”
Lewis tilts his head. “Does he know the reasons that you cry?”
The words hit you like a bruise.
You turn away from him, gripping the railing tighter. “Don’t.”
Silence stretches between you.
Then he says quietly, “Come with me.”
You shake your head immediately. “No.”
“I didn’t say now,” he replies calmly. “We’ll leave separately. No one will notice.”
You know this script. You’ve memorized it.
And still—you nod.
You leave the party twenty minutes later, hugging Sebastian goodbye, promising to see him soon, heart pounding like it’s already aware of the damage you’re about to do.
You meet Lewis somewhere private. Somewhere anonymous. Somewhere that feels too familiar for comfort.
The moment the door closes, restraint dissolves. The sex is frantic, aching, wrong in the way only something forbidden can be. There’s no pretense left—no teasing, no denial. Just heat and guilt and the weight of years crashing down on both of you at once.
At some point, you feel him slide your wedding ring off your finger. You don’t stop him. That might be the part that hurts the most.
When it’s over, the silence feels deafening.
You dress quickly, hands shaking, heart racing as reality rushes back in. You can’t look at him. You won’t.
“This was a mistake,” you say, voice thin.
Lewis doesn’t argue. You reach for the door.
“Wait.” You pause.
He crosses the room slowly and holds something out to you. Your ring. It glints softly in his palm. You stare at it, throat burning.
“You might need this,” he says quietly.
You take it from him, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Electricity still lingers there, unwanted and undeniable.
You slip the ring back onto your finger where it belongs.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you whisper.
Lewis looks at you with something like understanding. Something like resignation.
“I know,” he says.
You leave without looking back. And the walk away feels heavier than the pull ever did.
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(beginning of 2024)
2024 arrives quietly, which feels cruel considering how loud everything inside you has been for years.
Nothing dramatic marks the moment you finally decide you’re done. No fight. No ultimatum. Just exhaustion—bone-deep, soul-weary exhaustion. You’re tired of checking your phone. Tired of lying by omission. Tired of carrying a second life inside your chest like a fault line no one else can see.
You call Lewis because it feels wrong to end something this toxic without hearing his voice one last time.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hello,” he says, like he’s been expecting you. Like this is normal. Like you haven’t been unraveling for weeks.
“We need to stop,” you say immediately, before fear can soften your resolve. “I can’t do this anymore.”
There’s a pause. Not surprise—never surprise with him. Just calculation.
“You’ve said that before,” he replies calmly.
“I mean it this time.”
He exhales through his nose, almost amused. “You always mean it in the moment.”
“That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking despite yourself. “I’m serious, Lewis. This is killing me. I’m married. I love my husband. I don’t want to be this person anymore.”
Silence stretches. Then—
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’ll come back.”
The certainty in his voice makes your stomach twist.
“You always do,” he continues softly. “You can block me, delete me, pretend I don’t exist—but eventually, something will hurt, or you’ll feel lonely, or you’ll remember how it feels when I touch you, and you’ll come back.”
“That’s not true,” you whisper, though part of you is terrified that it is.
He presses harder, sensing weakness. “We’re not done. We’ve never been done.”
Something inside you snaps—not loudly, but cleanly. Like a final thread breaking.
“No,” you say. “This ends now.”
You hang up before he can respond.
Your hands are shaking as you block his number. Your heart pounds like it doesn’t believe you’ve actually done it. You stare at the screen for a long moment, half-expecting it to light up anyway.
It doesn’t. That’s when you finally break. You draw a bath, the water impossibly hot, and sink into it like you’re trying to disappear. The tears come fast and silent, blurring the ceiling above you. You cry for the years you lost, for the version of yourself you became, for the damage you’ll never be able to fully explain or undo. You cry because it hurts—even when something is wrong, letting go still feels like grief.
The front door opens somewhere in the apartment. You hear Nico’s footsteps, familiar and grounding. He knocks softly on the bathroom door.
“Hey,” he calls gently. “You okay?”
You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “Do you… want to join me?”
There’s a brief pause, then the door opens. Nico steps inside, concern written all over his face. He undresses quietly, slipping into the tub behind you, pulling you back against his chest with careful arms.
He doesn’t ask questions. He never pushes. He just holds you.
Warm water laps at your skin as he presses soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your temple. His touch is patient. Devotional. Nothing like fire—everything like home.
You lean into him, exhausted, and he tightens his hold as if sensing how fragile you are.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin.
You close your eyes, letting the words settle where they belong.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
He rests his chin on your shoulder, thumb tracing slow, comforting circles on your arm. It’s sweet. Intimate. Safe. The kind of love that doesn’t demand anything except honesty you’re still learning how to give.
You stay like that for a long time—wrapped in steam and quiet and a tenderness Nico will never know is stitched together with something broken. Despite the ache in your chest, you let yourself believe that maybe choosing him—truly choosing him—might finally be enough.
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(end of 2025) (present day!)
f1gossipgirls
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f1gossipgirls : the rosbergs brought a plus one with them to the fia charity gala! it appears that yn is pregnant with their first child! congratulations to the both of them!!!!!
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flashback! early 2025
It’s a random Tuesday morning. No glamour. No warning. Just a quiet house and a feeling you can’t shake. You stare at the test in disbelief. Then again. Then again.
Your hands are shaking when you sit on the edge of the bathtub, tears spilling before you even realize you’re crying. You laugh—broken, disbelieving—pressing the plastic stick to your chest like it might disappear if you let go.
Nico finds you there minutes later.
“Hey—what’s wrong?” he asks, panic already rising.
You look up at him, eyes glassy, lips trembling into a smile. You hold out the test with both hands.
“I think… I think we’re having a baby.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
Then he drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out. He laughs, breathless and stunned, pulling you into his arms so tightly you can barely breathe.
“Are you serious?” he whispers into your hair. “Are you serious?”
You nod, sobbing now. “I’m scared.”
He pulls back, cupping your face, eyes shining. “I’m not. I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”
He kisses you then—slow, like a promise. Like a vow renewed.
That night, he sleeps with his hand on your stomach, even though there’s nothing to feel yet.
“Hi,” he whispers softly into the dark. “I’m your dad. I already love you more than anything.”
You fall asleep smiling, heart full, past finally quiet.
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back to present day!
December 2025 feels softer than any year before it. You’re seven months pregnant, round and glowing in a way you never expected, your body moving slower now—deliberate, precious. Nico treats you like something sacred. A hand always at the small of your back, fingers splayed protectively over your stomach as if he’s afraid the world might forget to be gentle.
No one knows yet. Not the press. Not the paddock. Not even most of your friends. You’ve guarded this joy fiercely, quietly, like it might shatter if too many eyes land on it.
Sometimes, late at night, you lie awake with Nico’s arm heavy over you, your baby rolling beneath your skin, and you think about how far away your old life feels. Lewis hasn’t existed in your world since early 2024. No calls. No texts. No shadows. Just absence—and healing. And still, tonight matters.
The charity gala is grand, impossibly elegant. Black tie. Crystal chandeliers. Familiar faces from a lifetime ago. You smooth your hand over your gown—custom, flowing, designed to skim your bump instead of hide it. Nico wanted to announce it together. Proudly. No whispers. No apologies.
As you step into the room beside him, the air changes. People notice. Eyes flicker downward. Double takes. Sharp inhales. Murmurs ripple through the crowd like electricity.
“Oh my god.”
“Is she—?”
“Nico—?”
You smile, one hand instinctively settling on your stomach as Nico beams beside you, chest puffed out like he’s just won another championship.
Congratulations come fast. Warm. Genuine. Sebastian nearly crushes you in a hug, laughing in disbelief. Toto’s eyes mist over. Even people you barely know look at you like you’ve unlocked some secret level of happiness.
And then— You feel it before you see him. Lewis stands across the room, frozen.
For once, there’s no mask. No charm. No carefully curated indifference. Just shock—raw and unfiltered—as his gaze locks onto your stomach. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s trying to understand something in a language he never learned.
Pregnant. With Nico’s child. The reality hits him visibly, like a blow to the chest.
Eventually, inevitability drags him toward you. He approaches with practiced composure, suit impeccable, smile almost convincing.
“Congratulations,” he says to Nico first, offering his hand. “I didn’t know.”
Nico grins, proud and open. “Yeah. We wanted to keep it just for us for a while.”
Lewis turns to you. His eyes soften, just a fraction. “You look… incredible. I’m happy for you.”
You nod, polite, distant. “Thank you.”
For a moment, it almost feels normal. Almost clean. Then Nico excuses himself to greet someone else, kissing your temple before he goes.
The second his back is turned, Lewis leans in. His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “Once you’re done playing house with him, I can remind you where home is.”
Your breath catches—but only for a second. You turn fully to face him, eyes steady, unflinching.
“I already know where home is,” you say quietly. “And it’s not you.”
Something flickers across his face—anger, hurt, disbelief—but you don’t stay to watch it bloom. Nico’s hand finds yours again moments later, grounding, warm, real.
And as he pulls you back into the light, you don’t look over your shoulder. Never to look back again.
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nicorosberg
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nicorosberg : our baby girl is here 💕 we could not be happier!
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epilogue!
Happily ever after doesn’t arrive loudly. It comes in the quiet hours before dawn, in a sunlit kitchen that always smells faintly of coffee and baby soap. In the soft weight of your newborn against your chest—warm and perfect and yours. In the way Nico moves through the house like this life was always written for him—barefoot, half-awake, reaching for both of you without thinking.
The baby has your eyes. Nico’s smile.
You learn the rhythm of it all quickly. Feedings and naps, tiny fingers curling around yours, the way the world shrinks down to this small, sacred orbit. Nico is endlessly patient, endlessly in love. He talks to your child like they understand everything already. He kisses your temple every morning like he’s still amazed you’re here.
You are happy. Truly, deeply, uncomplicatedly happy.
Lewis becomes a ghost. Not gone—but distant. Peripheral. Something you no longer chase or fear. You don’t look for him. You don’t reach out. You don’t wonder anymore.
Sometimes, though, he appears anyway. One morning in Monaco, you’re standing on the balcony, your baby bundled against you, the city just waking up below. Nico is inside, humming softly as he makes breakfast.
Down on the street, a familiar figure slows mid-run. Lewis. Sweat-darkened shirt, headphones around his neck, eyes lifting—then freezing when he sees you.
You don’t flinch. You don’t hide.
You sway gently, pressing a kiss to your baby’s head. Your child squirms, tiny hand gripping your finger like it’s the most important thing in the world. Lewis watches.
There’s something unreadable in his expression. Longing, maybe. Regret. A quiet understanding that whatever once pulled you toward him has finally, irrevocably burned out.
You don’t wave. You don’t turn away either. Eventually, he keeps running. You go back inside.
Nico wraps an arm around your waist from behind, presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Everything okay?”
You smile, leaning into him. “Yeah. Everything’s perfect.”
You do mean it. Because love didn’t drag you back this time. It let you stay.
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