🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅꜱ🕶️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛʀᴏꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ꜰᴀᴛɪɢᴜᴇ
ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ
ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄ
Monaco, for all its glamour, had an odd stillness to it when he returned.
Lewis stepped into his apartment, the familiar scent of oakwood polish and ocean salt lingering just beneath the surface of luxury. It had been nearly a month, twenty-eight days to be exact, since he'd last walked through his own front door. The season was in full swing. Races blurred into one another—Bahran, Saudi Arabia, Miami. The weight of time zones clashed with the thrill of podiums. Airports, circuits, press conferences, tire strategy—he lived in a world dictated by split-seconds, mechanical symphonies, and roaring applause.
But none of that filled the quiet now. The emptiness of his home echoed around him, pressing into his skin. It was beautiful, his Monaco flat. Sleek, expansive, with glass doors that opened out to a view of the marina. Yet somehow, today, it felt impersonal. Cold. Too quiet.
He had unpacked only the essentials, leaving his travel-worn suitcase slumped near the entryway. He moved slowly, methodically, as though reacquainting himself with stillness. He tried to read, to scroll aimlessly, to drown himself in music, but his mind kept circling back.
To her.
(Y/n).
That unexpected stranger who had somehow embedded herself into his thoughts like a soft refrain he couldn’t quite forget.
And so, the next morning, he found himself standing outside her apartment door, hesitating for only a breath before he knocked. His knuckles hit the wood three times, measured and patient. He waited. No answer. He tried again.
Still silence.
Just as he was about to turn away, a voice caught his attention.
“She’s not home, monsieur,” came a gentle, accented tone. An elderly woman leaned slightly out from the next-door balcony, her pale hair pinned back neatly with bobby pins and a faded scarf. “She left town last week. Business, I think. She’ll return in two days.”
Lewis offered her a grateful nod and smile. “Merci, madame. Thank you.”
She nodded in kind, then disappeared behind her curtains, leaving him alone once again with the Mediterranean breeze curling around his jacket.
Two days. He could wait two days.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
While Lewis raced across continents, (Y/n) Robinson had been writing her own quiet narrative. It was one laced not with speed, but with intention.
Her modeling career was flourishing, but never chaotic. She chose her projects carefully, more curator than participant. Her shoots took her across Europe: a sustainable fashion campaign in Amsterdam, a barefoot coastal editorial in Lisbon, a moody winter piece for a Danish brand in Copenhagen. The lens loved her, but it was never just about beauty. Her images spoke—through her eyes, her stillness, her grace. They captured something often elusive in the industry: sincerity.
She turned down more offers than she accepted. When a luxury handbag label approached her with an extravagant proposal, she politely declined after learning about their exploitative labor practices. It wasn’t about the money. It never had been.
Her boy best friend, Julian, a French-Moroccan designer rising rapidly through the fashion world, often roped her in for his brand’s campaigns. With him, there were no pretenses. Their work was collaborative, fluid, playful. She modeled. He sketched. She captured behind-the-scenes moments on her vintage film camera.
And in the spaces between, she lived.
Charity was never for show. Once a month, she’d visit a local youth center in Nice, offering workshops in photography and design. The children there never knew her as a model, only as “Miss Y/n,” the woman who brought them paint supplies and listened to their stories.
Her life wasn’t loud. But it was rich.
So when she opened her door that day—hair tousled, dressed in an oversized shirt that fell to her thighs, and blinking in mild confusion—it took her a moment to register who was standing there.
Lewis.
Real, in front of her, with that slightly sheepish grin and hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
“You came back,” she said, surprised but not displeased.
“I did,” he replied, voice warm. “Was hoping you’d be home this time.”
She stepped aside without hesitation. “Come in.”
Her apartment was modest, but it breathed with personality. Light filtered softly through gauzy curtains, landing on books stacked along the windowsill and half-developed photographs pinned haphazardly to the wall above a vintage desk. The scent of lavender clung faintly in the air.
“Coffee? Tea? Biscuits?” she asked as she padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
“Coffee and biscuits sound perfect,” Lewis answered, easing onto the couch.
Minutes later, she returned with a wooden tray: two mugs, a tin of shortbread biscuits, and a bar of dark chocolate cracked into neat squares. She placed it on the coffee table and sat across from him, curling her legs beneath her.
“I’ll go change real quick,” she added. “Unless you’re into pajama interviews.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, you’re good. But go ahead. I’ll still be here.”
She disappeared into her room and returned soon after in denim shorts and a loose white shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Comfortable, understated, lovely.
“So,” she asked, settling in again, “what brings you here?”
“Wanted to see you,” Lewis answered honestly. “And I figured I better do it before either of us flies off again.”
(Y/n) smiled, and it reached her eyes.
Conversation flowed easily after that, pausing and resuming like tides. They spoke of places visited, moments missed, people encountered along the way. He told her about the intensity of race weekends. She told him about an off-the-grid eco retreat she’d modeled for in Spain, where phones were locked away for seventy-two hours.
He liked hearing her speak. She chose her words carefully, not for affectation, but because she thought before she spoke. He liked that about her.
As the sun crept higher, hunger began to stir.
“Want to grab lunch somewhere?” Lewis asked, half rising.
(Y/n) shook her head with a small grin. “No need. I’ll cook.”
“You sure?”
“Sit. Enjoy the view.”
He watched her work in the kitchen—chopping, stirring, seasoning. She moved with a kind of rhythm that made it look effortless. The kitchen was her studio now, her canvas. Soon, she plated the dishes with the same care she gave to styling photoshoots: pan-seared salmon with lemon butter, sautéed greens, and a bowl of herb-infused couscous.
As he took his first bite, he closed his eyes briefly in appreciation. “Damn,” he muttered. “That’s good.”
“Only ‘good’?” she teased.
“Okay, amazing. Might need to up your salt game next time, though,” he added with a grin.
She laughed and tossed a napkin at him. “Noted.”
After lunch, he insisted on helping with the dishes. Elbow to elbow, they worked through plates and cups, their hands occasionally brushing beneath the water. Neither acknowledged it, but both noticed.
That day turned into a quiet evening, and the next followed in much the same rhythm. He came by again, bringing flowers this time—lavender and peonies, her favorites, though he never asked. She raised an eyebrow in amusement.
“Who told you?”
“Lucky guess,” he lied, knowing full well he’d caught a glimpse of dried petals in a jar on her windowsill last time.
By the third day, it felt like a pattern had been carved. A warm, strange pattern of closeness stitched between their vastly different worlds.
She folded laundry in the living room while he scrolled through his phone, lounging in the same spot on her couch as he had the past two afternoons. He looked at home there—barefoot, relaxed, a world away from the hyper-polished figure seen on television and billboards.
Then her phone rang.
Her eyes flicked toward the screen and lit up.
“Ciao!” she answered brightly.
Lewis looked up.
Italian. Her voice shifted into a melodic cadence, quick and lilting.
The man on the other end laughed, teased, congratulated. She beamed.
“Cinque giorni,” (“Five days,”) she repeated. “Non di più.” (“No more.”)
There was an ease in the way she spoke to him. Familiarity. Warmth. Maybe even history.
Lewis listened, catching fragments of the conversation—cinque giorni, non di più—but not enough to follow it fully. The rest slipped past him like music half-heard through a wall. Still, he could read everything in the tilt of her head, the warmth in her tone, the way her fingers twirled the edge of her shirt absentmindedly. He knew enough to feel it, and he didn’t know why that unsettled him.
When she hung up, she glanced at him.
“That was my friend,” she explained. “He’s taking me to Italy for a few days. Kind of a thank-you gift after our last campaign.”
“Campaign?” Lewis echoed.
She nodded. “We worked together last month. Brand launch. It did well.”
He smiled. Or at least, he tried to.
“That’s great,” he said. “You excited?”
She beamed, shrugging casually. “Of course. I love Italy. I leave tomorrow.”
He nodded again, eyes dropping briefly to his phone. “You deserve the break.”
Something in his voice made her look at him more closely, but she said nothing. She just smiled again and began folding the last of her shirts.
The next morning, she left. Early flight. Taxi waiting. Passport and film camera in her tote bag.
She didn’t text him goodbye. He didn’t expect her to.
Still, he stared at her empty building later that evening, wondering what kind of silence was left behind when someone took their light with them.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
Time moved quickly when it was structured by race calendars. Lewis found himself pulled back into the vortex—media appearances, simulator sessions, press obligations, and strategy meetings. He boarded his flight out of Nice with a practiced ease, the private jet engine roaring to life beneath a sky streaked with gold.
Yet through it all, something sat quietly beneath his ribs—a curious, persistent ache.
He didn’t know what he and (Y/n) were, not exactly. It wasn’t a romance. Not yet. But it wasn’t casual either. It was the beginning of something that refused to be labeled. A quiet chemistry. A budding comfort.
And now she was in Italy. With a man.
Lewis wasn’t jealous, not in the possessive way he’d once been in his younger years. He respected her independence, admired it even. But still, it stirred something. An ache that whispered: you miss her.
And as the plane soared above the clouds, he wondered if she thought of him too.
He hoped, somewhere between the vineyards and sun-drenched cafes of Italy, she did.
Even just a little.
To be continued...❤️
🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴ🕶️