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author’s note: happy halloween!! anon said “make it like the movie” and i took that personally. this is how to lose a guy in ten days but make it formula one, make it british, and make it hurt a little. had so much fun writing this, obviously based heavily on the film. enjoy!!
pairing: lewis hamilton x reader
wc: 14k (one-shot)
summary: he makes a bet he can make any woman fall in love with him in ten days. you’re writing an article called how to lose a guy in ten days. neither of you realise you’ve picked each other. ten days of champagne, motorbikes, driving him completely insane, bad decisions, and one very inconvenient love story later, someone has to lose. (slow-burn rom-com chaos, lowkey a crack fic, hurt/comfort, and the kind of love that sneaks up on you.)
warnings: language, suggestive content, mutual manipulation (lighthearted), alcohol, emotional whiplash, full of cliches, angst, tender!lewis, vulnerable!reader, and a slightly soggy happy ending.
The ballroom at the Dorchester looked like money had literally exploded all over it. Champagne towers. Velvet drapes. Tables covered in enough crystal to blind a man if he stared too long. A string quartet played something slow and expensive, but no one was really listening.
Lewis stood near the back with George, both of them half-hidden behind a floral arrangement that probably cost more than most people’s rent.
Lewis looked every inch the part, tailored tux, braids tied back, chain glinting against his throat. But the expression on his face said it all: I’d rather be literally anywhere else.
George leaned against the marble pillar beside him, already two glasses deep, tie loosened, posture the picture of boredom.
They were surrounded by brand execs and IWC reps, everyone watching the premiere of the new Timeless Love campaign on an enormous screen.
Golden light, slow-motion smiles, a watch glinting on a tanned wrist. The kind of perfectly curated, soul-sucking romance montage that made Lewis’s eyes glaze over.
He swirled the champagne in his glass, pretending to be impressed. God, this was boring.
George sighed dramatically, caught his eye, and wordlessly plucked two more glasses off a passing tray. He handed one over like a peace offering.
Lewis accepted it with a faint grin. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Mm,” George muttered, clinking their glasses. “Don’t say that too loud, they’ll make you propose to me for the cameras.”
Lewis smirked, glancing toward the execs. “You know what this campaign’s missing?”
An exec turned, a polite smile plastered on. The kind of smile that said he’d tolerate Lewis only because his name sold things.
Lewis grinned. “Me.”
The exec blinked. “You?”
“Yeah. I’d sell those watches faster than any of the models you’ve got.” He flashed that trademark grin. Dimples, head tilt, the whole thing. The one that got him out of trouble ninety percent of the time.
Toto, from somewhere behind them, sighed like he was already regretting his life choices. George snickered into his glass.
The exec looked Lewis up and down, unimpressed. “You? The face of timeless love? You’d have to prove you even believe in it.”
Lewis barked a laugh. “Oh, come on. Women love me.”
“It’s true!” George cut in, deadly serious. “I’ve seen it firsthand. Every day. For three years. It’s honestly traumatic.”
The exec grinned, warming to the teasing. “Love isn’t about charm, Hamilton. It’s about staying power. Commitment.”
Lewis tilted his head, pretending to think. “Yeah, well, I could do that.”
“Sure you could,” George muttered under his breath.
Lewis shot him a look. “I could!”
The exec folded his arms, amused. “Alright then, picture it. Not the one-night flings, not the headline girlfriends. I’m talking marriage, kids, dog, Sunday mornings in matching pyjamas. That kind of love.”
Lewis shrugged like it was no big deal. “Piece of cake.”
“Prove it,” the exec said lightly, half-teasing.
Lewis squinted. “Prove it how?”
The man chuckled, swirling his drink. “Show us you can do timeless love. Bring someone to the gala next week — no, better…make her fall for you. The real thing.”
Toto actually groaned. “You’re encouraging him.”
“Oh, I’m challenging him,” the exec said, smiling now. “Tell you what, Lewis. You make it happen, you bring her here, hopelessly in love, the campaign’s yours. You’ll be the face of IWC’s ‘Timeless Love.’”
George choked on his champagne. “You’re kidding.”
Lewis leaned back, grin stretching slow and dangerous. “Ten days?”
“Ten days,” the exec confirmed. “That’s all the time you’ve got.”
Lewis clinked his glass against George’s, the picture of confidence. “Ten days, one heart. Come on…I’m Lewis Hamilton.”
He smirked, taking a sip. Easy.
But as the laughter faded and the execs drifted away, Lewis stayed leaning against the pillar, glass turning slowly in his hand.
Ten days.
How hard could it be?
He’d made harder bets. Risked more.
This wasn’t racing. This was charm. He was a master at both.
Besides, he’d never lost a bet like this before.
He let out a quiet, self-satisfied hum, dimples flashing again as he glanced toward the crowd of glittering guests. Somewhere in there, his “timeless love” was waiting, she just didn’t know it yet.
Your desk looked like it had survived a minor hurricane. Coffee stains, open notebooks, post-its, and at least four empty takeaway cups forming some sort of shrine to sleep deprivation. The office was loud, the kind of open plan buzz where everyone was too caffeinated to feel their stress anymore.
“Where’s my ending paragraph, Y/N?” your editor’s voice carried across the room.
You didn’t even look up. “Where’s my mental stability, Sarah?”
“Don’t get smart with me, I sign your paychecks.”
You grinned, typing faster. “Barely.”
You were a features writer for The Column — part glossy lifestyle mag, part chaos factory. You’d written about everything from fast fashion to failed Tinder dates. The last piece, ‘Why You Should Never Date a Man Who Owns a Podcast’, had gone viral. Unfortunately, now everyone expected you to be the resident “relationship expert.”
Which was funny. Because you’d spent three years studying philosophy, politics, and economics at LSE, then another two getting your master’s in journalism in the U.S, a program people would kill to get into, only to end up writing about bad boyfriends and skincare trends.
Still, the salary was good. The office had free coffee and sunlight. And if you squinted hard enough, you could almost convince yourself you were still doing real journalism.
Almost.
The rest of the team had gathered around the conference table for the weekly pitch meeting. A sea of glowing laptop screens, half-drunk oat lattes, and egos. You slid into your chair just as Sarah, the editor, gestured for quiet.
“Alright, people. Valentine’s issue. I want love, heartbreak, obsession, disaster. Make it real, make it funny, make it sell.”
You leaned your chin on your hand, trying to look engaged while silently praying someone else would volunteer first.
Your best friend and coworker Em, the resident dating columnist and self-declared “therapist of emotionally unavailable men”, kicked you under the table. “You go.”
You shot her a look. “Why me?”
“Because I did last week and got yelled at for writing about faking orgasms.”
“Valid point.”
Sarah’s eyes landed on you. “Y/N? You got something?”
And maybe it was the caffeine. Or the chaos. Or the fact that your brain imploded under pressure, but the words came out before you could stop them.
“Yeah. Uh… ‘How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.’”
The room went quiet. A few heads turned. Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
You swallowed, heart hammering. “I—uh—date someone. A normal guy. And I do all the things women supposedly do to ‘drive men away.’ Too clingy, too emotional, too much. And I document it...the texts, the reactions, the breakup. Ten days. Ten steps to losing a guy.”
Em’s eyes went wide. “That’s… actually kind of genius.”
Sarah leaned back in her chair, thinking. “It’s bold. Self-sabotage meets social commentary. A step by step plan of what not to do, huh?”
“So… I can do it?”
She smirked. “You’ve got ten days. And you better find a guy who doesn’t bolt on day two.”
You exhaled, nodding, heart racing with equal parts dread and adrenaline.
Ten days. That’s all it would take.
You opened your notes app, typing a new headline at the top of a blank page:
HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS — EXPERIMENT BEGINS NOW.
You grinned, leaning back in your chair. What’s the worst that could happen?
By 10 p.m., you and Em were already six margaritas deep and loudly defending feminism to a man named James who definitely didn’t ask. The lights in the Rivoli Bar were dimmed, air humid with far too many people packed into it.
“Okay,” Em said, dragging out the word as she scanned the bar, “we need a test subject. Ten days, remember? You can’t write about how to lose a guy if you don’t at least flirt with a pulse. Heartless woman.”
“I’m not heartless,” you said, sipping your drink, eyes scanning. “Just… emotionally selective.”
“Babe, you studied PPE at LSE and got a journalism master’s from Columbia. You analyze people for fun. You’ll be fine.”
You snorted. “That’s not comforting.”
Em grinned, already locking eyes with someone across the bar. “Him. Tall, clean suit, good watch. Go.”
You followed her gaze. Decent-looking, confident, talking with his friends near the bar. You shrugged. “Sure. For journalism.”
“For journalism,” Em repeated with a mock salute, already shoving you forward.
The bar was packed. Low lighting, loud laughter, the faint smell of citrus and aftershave. You slid into the open space next to him, pretending to check your phone before glancing up.
“Hey,” you said, casual. “Can I ask your opinion on something?”
He smiled, polite, a little curious. “Depends. Is this a trick question?”
“Kind of.” You grinned. “Would you dump a girl for texting too much?”
He laughed, surprised. “Texting too much?”
“Yeah. Like…let’s say she texts good morning, good night, random memes, existential questions… hypothetically.”
He chuckled again, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Good,” you said, nodding. “Just checking.”
He looked amused. “You doing research or something?”
“Something like that.” You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “So, what do you do?”
He hesitated, awkward laugh. “Uh… I’m married.”
You blinked, biting the inside of your cheek. Great. “Oh.” Silence. “Cool.”
“Yeah,” he said, lifting his hand like proof, the ring glinting under the lights.
You forced a grin, fighting laughter. “Good talk, though.”
You turned back toward Em, mouthing he’s married! while she tried (and failed) not to laugh into her drink.
Meanwhile…
Across the room, Lewis had ditched his jacket and undone the top buttons of his shirt, looking too good for his own ego. The post-IWC afterglow had turned into drinks with George, Toto, and half the Mercedes PR team. They were all clustered around a high table, the kind that encouraged gossip.
George leaned in, scanning the room. “You’re seriously gonna waste the night on your phone?”
Lewis didn’t look up from his drink. “I’m good.”
“You’re not good, you’re boring,” George said. “We need to find you someone.”
Toto smirked. “Yes, maybe that would help him practice his campaign skills.”
Lewis shot him a look. “Very funny.”
George ignored him, elbowing Toto. “That one…there, near the bar. Red dress, smart eyes. She’s not even looking at her phone. That’s a green flag.”
Lewis glanced over, half-distracted…and froze when he saw you laughing with Em, something wild and unbothered in your smile. You were leaning against the counter, hair catching the light, one hand still holding your drink like it was part of your personality.
George grinned. “Told you.”
Lewis took another slow sip, smirk tugging at his mouth. Alright, maybe one more drink won’t kill me.
George’s voice floated faintly over the music.
“She’s perfect. Classy, smart, way out of your league. Try her.”
Lewis shot him a dry look. “You make it sound like I’m applying for a job.”
“Yeah,” George said, sipping his drink, “and you’re underqualified.”
Toto muttered something in German that probably translated to God help us all as Lewis set his glass down and crossed the room.
Across the room, your phone buzzed on the bar top.
A text from Sarah (Editor):
Find a subject tonight. No excuses. ❤️
You groaned softly, typing back: You’re unhinged.She replied instantly: That’s why I get results.
You set your phone down, lifted your drink, and—
He reached you just as you turned from the bar, muttering something under your breath about men being statistically disappointing.
You didn’t see him until his hand caught your arm. Warm, steady, and annoyingly confident.
“Careful,” a smooth voice said, low enough to cut through the noise. “Didn’t want you to spill that.”
You looked up, and your first thought was that he looked familiar. Your second thought was oh, shit.
Because it was him.
Lewis Hamilton.
Dark eyes, black shirt unbuttoned just enough, that stupidly confident smirk, an aura of fame that shimmered even under dim lighting. You locked eyes for half a second too long.
Lewis grinned. Game on.
He raised an eyebrow with that lazy kind of self-assurance that came from knowing people looked when you walked past. You tried to look unimpressed. It didn’t work.
And he was smiling at you like he already knew he was trouble.
You raised an eyebrow right back. “Appreciate the concern. Are you in charge of spill control tonight, or is this a new side gig?”
He chuckled, low. “Depends. You offering better hours?”
You smirked. “You sound like a man who’s used to women laughing at all his jokes.”
“They usually do.”
“Hmm. Tragic.”
Lewis grinned wider, dimples flashing. God, she’s quick. “You know who I am, right?”
You gave him a polite, painfully blank look. “You’re the guy who drives cars for a living, yeah?”
That laugh...deep, genuine. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I’m impressed. Going in circles professionally, that takes commitment.”
“Those circles pay for dinner.”
You tilted your head. “Ah, capitalism in motion.”
He blinked, amused and slightly thrown. “You talk like a lecturer”
“I talk like someone with a PPE degree,” you said, sipping your drink. “Philosophy, Politics, Economics. LSE.”
“Right.” He smirked. “One of those.”
“And a journalism master’s from Columbia,” you added, because you could tell he wasn’t expecting it. “So don’t worry, I’m overqualified for small talk.”
Lewis laughed, soft and genuine this time. “Overqualified and underpaid, huh?”
“Welcome to media,” you said dryly.
He leaned on the bar beside you. “You don’t like what you do.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that tonight?” you said, half to yourself.
“Because you look like you’d rather be running the UN than writing listicles.”
You smiled, conceding the point. “I wanted to write about international politics. Democracy fatigue, moral authority, global realignment—”
He blinked. “You just said ‘democracy fatigue’ in a bar.”
You smiled over the rim of your glass. “And you just basically bragged about being loved by millions by asking, do you know who I am?. We all have our vices.”
He grinned, half-impressed. “Touché.”
The bartender slid another drink toward you, courtesy of him. You accepted it... for journalism, obviously.
You talked until the bar lights dimmed. Somewhere between stories about his early races and your rant about Britain’s hollow soft power, laughter spilled easily, the air between you buzzing. He looked at you like he wasn’t used to women talking at him like that, like you were some beautiful anomaly in a sea of predictability.
When he asked, “You hungry?” you realised how late it had gotten.
“Starving,” you admitted.
So you went. Just like that, two near-strangers slipping into the London night, the city humming around you.
He took you to a tiny place tucked off Portobello Road. A flickering neon sign, handwritten chalkboard menu, the kind of spot only locals knew. You sat across from him in a booth, sharing food and laughter under dim lights.
“So, serious question,” he said between bites, “what’s your take on politics?”
You gave him a sly look. “You don’t want that answer.”
“I think I do.”
You set your fry down, pretending to think. “Fine. The West is losing moral legitimacy, nationalism’s back in fashion, and democracy’s being treated like an optional accessory.”
Lewis blinked, caught between laughter and awe. “You just dropped a geopolitical thesis over chips.”
You smiled. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, grinning. “Don’t apologize. I’m just not used to political analysis between bites of halloumi.”
You smirked. “Then you’re welcome.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Alright, so explain this. How does someone who says things like ‘moral authority’ end up writing about relationship red flags?”
You huffed a laugh. “Because people love gossip more than they love nuance.”
“That can’t be it.”
You shrugged. “It pays well, the people are fun, and sometimes I get to sneak a little truth in between the clickbait. Besides, everyone underestimates a woman writing about love. That’s when you can really say something.”
Lewis smiled, intrigued. “That’s clever.”
“It’s survival,” you corrected, stealing one of his fries. “Also, I have rent.”
He laughed, leaning back, watching you with that look again, one that said he was already imagining what it would be like to know you better.
By the time you got back to his, the chemistry was a tangible thing.
The apartment was sleek, modern, and warm, all soft lighting and clean lines. His hand brushed your lower back as he let you in. Not an accident, but not pushy either. Just enough to make your breath catch.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, voice lower now, watching you take in the space.
You wandered a few steps in, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed you. A record played somewhere. Soft jazz, smooth and slow.
He thought about kissing you right then and there. Imagined sliding the straps of your dress down your shoulders.
He really, really did.
But then the bet echoed in his head. Ten days. Timeless love.
He cleared his throat, straightened, grabbed a lighter, and lit a few candles on the counter. Then paused. Considered. Blew them all out.
“Too much,” he muttered, flicking through his playlist until he landed on something less bedroom and more background noise.
You had disappeared into the bathroom by then, phone pressed to your ear.
“Em,” you whispered. “He’s Lewis Hamilton.”
“THE Lewis Hamilton?”
“Yes!”
“Oh my God. You’re gonna sleep with him, aren’t you?”
“No!” you hissed. “It’s the first night!”
“You’re in his house!”
“Because he offered me food! I just ended up here I–”
Em snorted. “Right. For food.”
“I swear, Em, it’s just—”
“Bye, you slut.”
You hung up, staring at yourself in the mirror, heart racing, lipstick a little smudged, brain screaming at you to get a grip.
You took a breath, smoothed your dress, and muttered to your reflection.
“For journalism.”
Then you opened the door and walked straight back into the game.
They ended up in his bedroom without really meaning to.
Lewis had shown her around the flat. Or, more accurately, wandered aimlessly while pretending there was a reason she should see every room. The space was clean, minimalist, and stupidly expensive. Soft lighting. A hint of cologne lingering in the air.
“This is…” you started, stepping into the doorway. “Very… neat.”
He smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Just unexpected,” you said, turning in a slow circle. “I was picturing something more…” You gestured vaguely. “Messy. Playboy chic.”
Lewis laughed, crossing his arms. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He lingered by the dresser as you sat on the edge of the bed, deliberate but casual, pretending not to care. He mirrored you, perching on the low set of drawers opposite. The space between you hummed.
You patted the mattress beside you, a small, teasing smile. “You can sit, you know. I don’t bite.”
He arched a brow and patted the wood beside him instead. “I’m good right here.”
You tilted your head. “Suit yourself.”
It was almost comical. Two adults in a silent standoff across five feet of carpet, neither willing to break first. But the air between you felt heavy, thick with the kind of tension that made everything seem funnier, sharper, more alive.
Eventually, he stood, slow and confident, and crossed the space. Sat down beside you. Close enough to feel the heat of his arm against yours.
“See?” you murmured. “Not so bad.”
He looked at you, amused. “You always this bossy?”
“Only when it works.”
That made him laugh. You smiled back, triumphant. For a second, it was just that. Quiet amusement, mutual curiosity. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth.
“You’re staring,” you said softly.
“Am I?”
“You were about to say something smug.”
“I was thinking,” he said instead, voice lower now, “you’re not what I expected.”
You smiled, sweet but sharp. “Good. I’d hate to be predictable.”
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was deliberate. A collision of confidence and bad ideas. You kissed him back before your brain could catch up with your mouth. The taste of champagne still lingered between you, dizzy and warm.
You pulled back first, breathless. “Too soon.”
“Too fast,” he agreed.
Then you both leaned in again anyway, laughing into the next kiss.
Each time you broke apart, one of you said it, too soon, too fast. Like an inside joke neither of you really meant. His hand found your jaw, thumb tracing slow circles. Yours tangled briefly in the fabric of his shirt, a half-hearted anchor in the pull.
Eventually, you pulled away for real this time, trying to catch your breath and your composure. “I should go,” you murmured, standing before he could say anything clever enough to stop you.
He stayed seated, looking up at you with that calm, unreadable grin that made your pulse skip. “You always leave right when it’s getting good?”
You smiled, a perfect mask. “Not always.”
He followed you to the door, his tone light but his eyes lingering. “So… am I ever going to see you again?”
You slipped your shoes back on, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Maybe.”
He walked to the window as you stepped out into the hallway, curiosity tightening into something else. Watching you head down to the street, he leaned out just a little, elbows resting on the frame.
“She’s already falling in love with me,” he muttered under his breath, smug and certain.
Down below, you waved at him through the chill London air before turning toward the waiting taxi. You grinned to yourself, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.
“I’m gonna make you wish you were dead,” you whispered. “Poor guy.”
And with that, you climbed into the cab, both of you convinced you were the one holding the upper hand.
Lewis woke up grinning, stretching like a man who’d already decided he was winning. He showered, dressed, and drove to the Mercedes HQ with an extra bounce in his step. His team noticed, of course, they always did.
By mid-morning, he was perched on the edge of a desk in one of the offices, a coffee in hand, smirk fully in place. George and Toto were there, mid-meeting, until Lewis dropped the small black leather bag onto the table with a self-satisfied thud.
Toto blinked. “Please tell me that’s not evidence from a crime scene.”
Lewis grinned. “She left her bag.”
George squinted. “What, like on purpose?”
“Who knows?” Lewis said, casual as anything. “Fate, maybe.”
Toto sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Lewis, I don’t think fate is in your job description.”
George leaned forward, curiosity winning. “Let me see it.”
Lewis raised a brow. “We’re not going through her bag.”
George, of course, immediately did exactly that, and with a suspiciously clumsy elbow, sent it tumbling off the table. The contents spilled everywhere: notebook, keys, lipstick, half a pack of gum, and a pair of Arsenal tickets.
George froze mid-crouch. “Oh my god. Arsenal.”
Lewis grinned, picking them up. “My team.”
Toto muttered, “This is ridiculous.”
“And this—” George said, holding up a small rectangle, “is a business card.”
Lewis took it. Y/N Y/L/N, Features Writer — The Column. Address, phone number. Everything he needed.
He looked up, grin spreading slow and deliberate. “See? Fate. She wanted me to find this.”
Toto made a sound that was half a laugh, half despair. “Or she just forgot it..”
Lewis leaned back in his chair, twirling the card between his fingers. “Smart, sexy, Arsenal fan. I won’t even hate my life for the next ten days.”
Toto groaned, massaging his temple.
Lewis ignored him, already planning. “Right. Flowers. Big ones. Romantic, but tasteful.”
George smirked. “You’re sending her something, aren’t you?”
Lewis’s grin turned smug. “Roses. Lots of them. It’s part of the plan. ‘Timeless love,’ remember?”
By the time the flowers arrived, the entire office smelled like a botanical garden. The bouquet was enormous, a hundred white roses bursting from a crystal vase that could probably pay rent on its own. The card tucked between them read, in bold, neat, handwriting:
You’re a hundred times more beautiful than a hundred roses. – L.H.
Em squealed so loud half the office turned. “Oh my God, Y/N!”
You tried not to smile, pretending to keep typing. “He’s just dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” Em leaned over your desk, eyes wide. “Lewis Hamilton sent you a hundred roses. You’re living in a literal fanfiction.”
You snorted. “Please. This is research.”
The entire office had gathered now, heads popping over monitors, whispers spreading like wildfire. Someone muttered, “She’s actually doing it,” and another said, “This is insane.”
You basked in it. The performance. The perfect story. You’d left that bag on purpose, after all. Bait. And he’d taken it. Perfectly. Predictably.
Em nudged your shoulder. “You kissed Lewis Hamilton.”
“Technically, yes.”
“Technically?”
You shrugged. “It was fieldwork. I’m the journalist, remember?”
“Right,” Em said, laughing. “Fieldwork. With tongue.”
You threw a pen at her, still smiling.
An hour later your phone buzzed on the desk. Unknown number. You already knew who it was.
“Y/N,” you answered, too breezy to be natural.
Lewis’s voice crackled down the line, rich with that lazy confidence. “You left something at my place.”
“Oh? My dignity?”
He laughed. “Your bag.”
“You can come collect it,” he offered.
“Tempting,” you said. “But I think I’ve already gotten what I wanted.”
“Arsenal tickets?” he asked, feigning surprise.
You froze for half a beat. “You went through my bag?”
“George did,” he said quickly, though the grin in his voice gave him away. “I just… supervised.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re a fan?”
“Born and raised,” you said.
He leaned back in his chair, twirling the pen in his hand. “You going to the match?”
“With my friend Em, yeah.. She’s been dying to go.”
He hesitated, smile widening so much that you could hear it over the phone. “Orrrr… you could take me.”
You laughed. “You think I’d trade my best friend for a man who brags about himself in the third person?”
“Depends,” he said, easy and confident. “Does your best friend own a private box?”
You tried not to laugh, failed spectacularly. “Wow. Subtle.”
“Come on,” he teased. “One match. You bring the sarcasm, I’ll bring the champagne.”
You paused, pen tapping your desk. You could almost see his smug smile through the phone, could feel it.
“Fine,” you said finally. “But I’m not wearing a football shirt.”
He laughed, full and delighted. “We’ll see about that.”
You hung up, setting the phone down with a grin. Em was already staring.
“You’re taking him, aren’t you?”
You shrugged, still smiling. “Obviously. I told you…perfect bait.”
She giggled leaning over your shoulder as you typed the next line of your notes.
Day Two: He’s cocky. Overconfident. Arrogant. This is going to be fun.
The Emirates was electric.
Arsenal versus Tottenham, the kind of North London derby that could divide households and rewrite moods for a week. The crowd was deafening, flags waving, flares bleeding red into the cold air.
You weren’t even pretending to care that much about football, but Lewis was locked in. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the pitch like his life depended on it. Every near miss made him curse under his breath. Every tackle got a muttered commentary.
Five minutes left. Score: 1–1.
You leaned closer, voice light and sweet. “Lew, can you get me a drink?”
He didn’t turn. “Now?”
You tilted your head, letting a small, helpless smile play at your lips. “Please?”
He finally looked at you, brow furrowed like you’d asked him to betray the crown. “There’s five minutes left.”
“I’m thirsty.” You shrugged, almost innocent. “You said you’re a gentleman, right?”
His jaw flexed. He was trying not to look irritated…timeless love, he reminded himself. He could be patient. He could be charming.
“Fine,” he muttered, standing up. “What do you want?”
“Diet Coke,” you said sweetly.
“Diet Coke,” he repeated flatly, like it was a personal attack.
As he disappeared down the aisle, you hid your grin behind your hand. Day Two, you thought. Test number one: inconvenience him.
Meanwhile, Lewis elbowed through the crowd to the concourse, muttering curses under his breath. Diet Coke. Diet fucking Coke. He waited behind three people arguing over crisps, the noise of the stadium echoing from above. He could hear it building, a swell of anticipation that made his heart spike.
He paid, grabbed the drink, and started back toward the seats just as the entire stadium erupted.
The sound was thunderous. Pure euphoria, red and white everywhere. Arsenal had scored.
Lewis froze in the aisle, stunned. His screen lit up with goal alerts before he could even see the replay.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the drink like it had personally betrayed him. Five minutes. One drink. One bloody Diet Coke.
By the time he got back, you were on your feet, cheering with everyone else, scarf half-raised, eyes bright. You turned as he approached, smile wide, utterly unbothered.
“Did you see it?!” you shouted over the noise.
He handed you the cup, deadpan. “No.”
“Oh, shame,” you said, voice syrupy with faux sympathy. “You missed it. It was so good.”
He stared at you for a long second, lips twitching like he was deciding between laughter and homicide. Then he dropped into his seat, ran a hand over his jaw, and exhaled through a grin that looked more like surrender.
Timeless love, he reminded himself again. Prove it.
Outside the stadium, the night was crisp, full of leftover noise and flashing car lights. Fans poured into the streets, red scarves and drunk laughter spilling everywhere.
You walked side by side, your arm brushing his occasionally. He looked better under the sodium lights, eyes golden brown, scarf slung around his neck, expression still a little irritated.
“So…” you started, watching him out of the corner of your eye. “Are you always this nice, Lew?”
He glanced at you, something dangerous flickering behind his grin. “No.”
You smiled, stepping closer. “Good. Neither am I.”
The pause between you felt suspended, breathless, like the moment before kickoff. Then he leaned in, just enough for your lips to meet. It wasn’t long. Just charged. Controlled. Too practiced to be accidental.
When you pulled away, his mouth curved into that familiar, cocky smile.
In his head, he was already celebrating. She’s hooked. She doesn’t even know it yet.
You, on the other hand, turned toward the waiting taxi, the taste of champagne and chaos still on your lips.
Perfect, you thought. Now to become the most insufferable woman he’s ever met.
You waved at him over your shoulder, smile sharp. “I’m gonna ruin you,” you murmured under your breath, too soft for anyone but the night to hear.
And as the cab door closed, Lewis watched you go, still grinning, convinced fate had handed him the perfect opponent.
Ten days, he thought. And she’ll be mine.
You sat at your desk the next morning, fingers flying across the keyboard. The cursor blinked over your new title:
DAY 3 — Clingy Call Chaos.
The notes were half-satire, half-diary. You typed as Em leaned over your shoulder, sipping her iced coffee like she was watching reality TV.
He missed Arsenal’s winning goal because I asked for a drink. Diet Coke. Five minutes left on the clock. Men are so predictable. They think they’re patient when they’re just desperate to impress.
Em giggled. “You’re evil.”
You grinned, typing faster.
He smiled, but it was the smile of a man who’s questioning all his life choices. Anyway, Day Two: success. Next up, the clingy phase.
You hit save, pulled out your phone, and took a deep breath. Showtime.
“Ready?” Em whispered.
You nodded, already putting on your softest, most irritating baby voice. “Hi, baby!” you cooed into the phone. “Just wondering what you’re doing! Miss you!”
Em snorted so hard she nearly choked on her coffee. “You’re diabolical.”
“Wait for it,” you mouthed, hitting call again.
Across London, Lewis was in a full team briefing. Screens displayed graphs, race simulations, strategy plans. Everyone was focused, except his phone, which wouldn’t stop buzzing.
Toto glanced up mid-sentence, brow furrowing. “Everything alright, Lewis?”
Lewis ignored it the first time. And the second. But then the third call came through, the ringtone echoing through the quiet room. He grabbed the phone, silenced it, glanced at the screen. Y/N 💋.
George smirked. “Ooooh, new girlfriend. Miss Arsenal tickets is calling, huh?”
Lewis rolled his eyes. “Something like that.”
The phone buzzed again. Voicemail notification. He opened it.
“Hi baby! It’s me again. Just wondering what you’re doing! Miss you. Call me back, okay? Love youuuu.”
He stared at the screen, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ.”
George lost it completely. “Oh my God, she love you’d you?”
Toto’s expression was unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You said this was timeless love, ja?”
Lewis groaned, running a hand down his face. “She’s clingy. So clingy.”
The phone buzzed again. Incoming call — Y/N 💋.
George was crying with laughter now. “Answer it! Put her on speaker!”
Lewis glared. “No chance.” He silenced it again, just in time for the voicemail alert to pop up.
“Babyyyy, I miss you Lew Lew. Say it back.”
George was howling. Toto had actually taken off his glasses and was wiping his eyes.
Lewis sat back, phone still buzzing in his hand, trying to look unbothered. It’s fine, he told himself. It’s all part of the plan. She’s falling. This is good. Play along.
He exhaled through his nose, typed a reply.
You’re insane.
Seconds later, his screen lit up again.
Crazy in love? ❤️
George fell out of his chair. Toto stood, muttering something about needing a stronger espresso.
Lewis pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile he didn’t want to admit to. This is fine, he told himself. It’s working. She’s hooked. Ten days, one heart.
Then the phone buzzed again.
Voicemail.
“Hi baby, just me again! I’m making pasta tonight. You like pasta, right? Call me. Miss you.”
He dropped his head into his hands. For fuck’s sake.
But even through the irritation, even as the team laughed around him, he could feel something else under his skin. A twitch of amusement. Curiosity.
Because somehow, this was the first time in a long while someone had managed to throw him off balance.
Across town, Em had tears streaming down her face, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
“You did not say pasta.”
“Oh, I did,” you said proudly, saving your draft. “Day Three: chaos achieved.”
You clicked your pen, smiling. “Let the unraveling begin.”
After another 15 missed calls and a flurry of overly affectionate text messages, Lewis caved. Texted a simple.
Dinner? At mine, I’ll cook.
Em had screamed into her latte and literally kicked her feet with joy. This was working.
Lewis spent the entire afternoon convincing himself that tonight would be smooth. Controlled. Simple.
He’d cook, she’d be impressed, and he’d be one step closer to winning this ridiculous bet. Ten days. Timeless love. Easy.
He’d even set the table properly, candles, cutlery, everything in place. A small, smug victory.
He opened the door and immediately lost that sense of calm.
You stood there holding two tote bags, a backpack, a candle, a mug, slippers, and what appeared to be a stuffed animal shaped like a cloud.
“Hi, baby!” you said brightly, pushing past him before he could speak.
He blinked, completely thrown. “That’s… a lot of stuff.”
“Oh, just the essentials,” you said, heading straight for the living room. “I like to be prepared.”
“For what, exactly?”
“Life,” you replied simply, setting down your bags like you were moving in.
He stared, stunned. “You live twenty minutes away.”
You smiled. “Long distance relationships are hard.”
He was shell-shocked. Actually, visibly shell-shocked.
In the kitchen, he lifted the lid on the pot like it might remind him why he was doing this.
“Dinner’s ready,” he called out.
“What is it?”
“Carbonara.”
You wandered in, peered into the pan, and wrinkled your nose. “Too oily. I don’t really do carbs.”
He froze mid-stir, jaw tightening. “You don’t… do carbs.”
“Not on weekdays,” you said breezily, opening one of your bags and pulling out a bottle of oat milk like you owned the place.
He exhaled through his nose, counting silently. Ten days. Ten days.
You poked at the pasta anyway. “You really went all out, huh?”
“Trying to impress you,” he muttered, tight lipped smile as he glanced up.
“That’s sweet.” You smiled, totally unbothered. “Let’s watch something.”
Later, you grabbed the remote, switched on The Notebook.
He blinked at the TV, horrified. “You’re kidding. A match is on.”
“It’s all the same,” you said, curling up on his sofa. “Men running around chasing something that won’t love them back.”
He pressed his lips together, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “It’s United–City.”
You patted the cushion next to you. “Come sit, baby. Let Ryan Gosling teach you about emotional depth.”
He sat. Rigid. Completely still. The sound of violins filled the room while his phone buzzed with score updates he refused to check.
She’s moved in, he thought. It’s been three days. What the fuck is wrong with this woman?
He poured himself wine. Then more wine. The stem twisted between his fingers while you commented loudly on plot holes and cried exaggeratedly at the rain scene. He tried to hide his wide eyed horror as you purposefully ugly sobbed onto his shoulder.
At some point, you ended up closer, your knee brushing his. His irritation started to unravel into something else as his eyes dropped from your face to the curve of your shoulders, and then inevitably further down.
When you turned toward him, smiling faintly, his breath hitched. He leaned in without thinking, the kind of quiet magnetism that had undone plenty of people before. Make her fall in love with you Lewis.
You met him halfway, lips soft, familiar. The tension broke. He deepened it, tongue brushing your bottom lip, hands tentative but sure. Soft palms sliding down your waist to your hips, pulling you closer. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip as you wrapped your arms around his neck, moaning softly into his mouth whilst he pulled you down onto his lap. His hips bucked up instinctively, palming gently at your ass.
He thought, Finally. A reprieve. The universe owes me this.
Then you pulled back slightly, eyes mischievous, and, still close enough to make him dizzy, whispered something that made his entire brain short-circuit and all the desire that had coiled tight in his stomach to dissipate .
You’d given his dick a nickname.
Not a good one.
He froze, half-way between shock and disbelief. “What did you just call—?”
You repeated it. Sweetly. Like it was perfectly normal.
He blinked, horrified. “You… named it?”
You smiled, tone dripping with faux sincerity. “Every great love story needs a name, baby.”
He stared at you, utterly lost. “Y-you’re unbelievable.”
“I know.” You winked. “That’s why you like me.”
He leaned back, dazed, staring at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every decision that led him here. He discretely adjusted himself as you focused back on the stupid movie, trying desperately not to look at you like you were crazy. Ten days, he told himself. Ten days, and then the campaign’s mine.
By the time you left, you’d scattered your things around his apartment like breadcrumbs, slippers by the door, candle on the table, a mug with your lipstick on the rim in his sink.
He stood in the doorway watching you go, jaw tight, glass still twisting between his fingers. The scent of your perfume and pasta hung in the air.
This was fine. Everything was fine. It's for the campaign. Ten days.
Lewis had promised himself he’d keep it together today.
Professional. Calm. Unbothered.
Timeless love.
He repeated the mantra as he adjusted his hoodie, heading through the Mercedes factory floor. It was an ordinary day, PR debriefs, meetings, cameras. Safe. Controlled.
Until the security guard appeared looking traumatised.
“Uh, Mr. Hamilton? There’s… someone here for you. With a dog.”
He froze. “A what?”
“She says she’s your… girlfriend?”
Every head in the room turned. George immediately started grinning like a cartoon villain.
His eyes widened, fists clenching. No. Not here. Not now. “My what sorry?”
When you appeared at the door thirty seconds later, sunshine and chaos incarnate, Lewis’s heart sank.
You were holding a small white puppy in a pink jumper.
“Hi, baby!” you sang, striding into the room. “Surprise! Meet our baby!”
The entire engineering team stopped what they were doing.
Toto literally turned around and walked out. No words. No expression. Just… gone.
George leaned back in his chair, absolutely delighted. “Oh my God, she brought a dog.”
Lewis blinked again, shell shocked. “Our—what?”
You lifted the puppy higher. “Our baby!”
He looked from you, to the dog, to the fifty people watching. Timeless love, he told himself. Be nice. Be charming. The campaign depends on this.
He smiled, the kind of smile that looked great in photos and hurt to hold. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice just a little too high. “She’s… adorable.”
You giggled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “I knew you’d love her.”
He stiffened, then…because he could feel everyone watching. He kissed the top of your head.
Timeless love. Timeless love. Timeless love.
George was wheezing. “Mate, she’s perfect. You two look—oh, I can’t even say it.”
Lewis shot him a glare so sharp it could cut carbon fibre.
Then you reached into your bag. “Oh! I made us something!”
He hesitated. “You… what now?”
“Our family album!” you announced proudly, holding up a glitter-covered scrapbook.
Toto, passing by the glass wall outside, caught sight of it, muttered “nope,” and disappeared again.
You opened the album with dramatic flair. “Look!”
The first page: a badly photoshopped wedding photo. You in a white dress, Lewis in a tux. The next: a fake honeymoon picture, his head crudely cropped onto some stranger’s body holding you on a beach. The last: a baby photo, with both your faces merged onto a single, unfortunate infant.
Lewis felt his soul leave his body.
George fell out of his chair. “That’s…oh my God—that’s…brilliant!.”
You beamed up at Lewis. “Do you love it?”
“I… it’s definitely something,” Lewis said, face twitching between politeness and sheer panic as his hand rested on your lower back.
Then his phone rang. Mum.
Before he could react, you plucked it right out of his hand.
“Hi, Mrs. Hamilton!” you said sweetly. “Yes! Just showed him the album now...thank you so much for the baby photos! He was such a cute baby, huh? Okay… love you, bye!”
You hung up, proud. “She sends her love!”
Lewis stared, open-mouthed. “You did not just—”
You smiled, angelic. “She’s so lovely. No wonder you turned out like this.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, through clenched teeth, “excuse me one second.”
He turned, walked straight to the far end of the room, hid behind the wall, and muttered something into his hands that definitely wasn’t PG.
George followed, still laughing. “You good, mate?”
Lewis groaned. “She’s moved in emotionally too... she’s spoken to my Mum! We have a fucking dog! It’s day four, George.”
George grinned. “Timeless love, bro.”
Lewis glared shaking his head. “I’m going to timelessly murder you.”
“Oh come on mate, think about the contract when you’re the face of the campaign. 6 more days. Easy, mate. She’s insane but she’s pretty, huh?” George nudged Lewis’s shoulder with his.
“Pfft, sure. Pretty fucking deranged!” Lewis whisper shouted.
That evening, he tried to salvage some part of his sanity.
He had tickets to a basketball game…his version of church. He needed normal. Desperately.
Then you texted.
Surprise date night! Wear something fun 😉
He didn’t ask. He should have asked.
You dragged him to a pop concert instead. Front row, screaming fans, flashing lights.
You were jumping, laughing, shouting every lyric at the top of your lungs.
He sat there in his hoodie, arms folded, face blank. The crowd was vibrating; he looked like he was in a hostage video.
“Isn’t this amazing?!” you yelled over the bass.
He forced a grin that made his jaw ache. “Incredible!”
You wrapped your arm through his, leaning close. “This is so us!”
He checked the basketball score on his phone. His team was winning by twelve.
He wanted to die.
By the final chorus, you were on your feet, screaming, phone flashlight waving in the air. He sat still, pretending not to notice a group of fans filming him from the row behind.
When it was finally over, you turned to him, breathless and glowing. “That was the best night ever, right?”
He looked at you for a long moment, every muscle in his jaw tight, on the verge of screaming…then exhaled a laugh that sounded halfway between disbelief and surrender.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Best night ever.”
You grinned, lacing your fingers through his. “See? You’re falling for me already.”
He smiled back, tired, amused, utterly doomed. She’s unbearable, he thought. She’s completely insane.
But as he watched you bounce ahead of him through the crowd, hair wild, laughter bright, he caught himself smiling for real.
She’s kind of funny, though.
And when you turned back to grab his hand, he let you.
Because for now, he still had to win.
Timeless love. Timeless love. Timeless love.
Lewis walked into the factory like a man who’d just won a world title.
He was still humming from last night’s disaster… the concert, the puppy, the album… because somehow, despite everything, he hadn’t lost his cool yet.
He dropped into a chair across from George and Toto, coffee in hand, smirk firmly in place.
“She’s in love with me,” he said, completely serious.
George burst out laughing. “No, she’s not.”
“She is,” Lewis said. “She brought a dog. A dog, mate. That’s a commitment gesture.”
Toto adjusted his glasses. “Or a red flag.”
“She kissed me in front of fifty people,” Lewis continued, unbothered. “Made a family album. Called my mum. You don’t do that unless you’re obsessed.”
George snorted. “You don’t survive that unless you’re deranged.”
Lewis just smiled. “Man, I’ve got this. Five more days and the campaign’s mine.”
Across London, you were slumped at your desk, hair in a messy bun, tapping your pen against your phone.
Em was sitting cross-legged on your desk, eating crisps out of a mug. “He hasn’t dumped you yet?”
You glared. “No. He just takes it. Every time. I make it unbearable… and he smiles.”
“Maybe he’s too polite?”
“I made him miss the match. I named his plant. I called his mum. What does a girl have to do?”
Em was grinning. “Maybe he likes the crazy.”
You threw your pen at her. “This isn’t going according to plan!”
Em giggled, leaning in conspiratorially. “When are you seeing him again?”
You sighed. “He said he’s having a boys’ night. Beer, video games, testosterone.”
Em’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, you have to show up. Uninvited. Full chaos.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Em—”
“Ruin. His. Life,” she said slowly, savouring each word.
You bit your lip, considering. Then grinned. “Alright. Let’s make it interesting.”
The lads’ night was loud, easy, predictable.
Beer bottles clinked, pizza boxes stacked, and for the first time all week Lewis felt like himself again. No dog jumpers, no glitter albums, no emotional landmines. Just football highlights, bad jokes, and George trying to prove he could cook frozen chips.
“This,” Lewis said, leaning back, “is peace.”
Lando grinned. “Freedom, you mean.”
Charles raised his glass. “To the single life.”
George snorted. “You’re not single, mate. You’re in deep.”
Lewis smirked. “She’s obsessed. Five days in, she’s basically moved in. Family albums, baby voice, fake dog child—”
The doorbell rang.
George nearly spat his drink. “No way.”
Lewis frowned. “Don’t even joke.”
It rang again.
And then…chaos.
“Hi, baby!” you sang as you burst through the door, a blur of perfume, love, and a small puppy in your arms. “Surprise! I missed you!”
The room froze.
Toto, visiting for half a beer and instant regret, stood up and walked straight out the door without saying a word.
George was already red in the face from laughing. “Oh my God, there she is! Talk of the devil!.”
You were beaming, radiant, faking being oblivious. “Hi Georgie!! You didn’t tell me the other boys were so cute!”
Lewis’s smile was frozen in place. Timeless love. Timeless love. Timeless fucking love.
“Sweetheart,” he said through his teeth, “what are you—”
Before he could finish, you plopped yourself onto his lap, the puppy nestled between you, and kissed him. Hard. Tongue practically half way down his throat, hand on his chest.
His entire body went rigid.
“Baby—” he muttered against your mouth. “Baby, not in front of the boys—”
You pulled back just long enough to pout. “What, are you embarrassed of me?”
George was gone. Lando wheezed into a pillow. Charles had pulled out his phone to record, openly delighted.
Lewis forced a laugh, cheeks burning. “No, of course not, it’s just—”
“You don’t like when I’m affectionate?”
He blinked. “I—what? No, I—”
You stood, crossing your arms, eyes blazing with faux hurt. “Wow. Unbelievable. I come all this way to surprise you, and you act like I’m ruining your fun!”
The lads went completely silent.
Lewis looked helplessly at George, who whispered, “Mate, I’m so sorry, but this is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You gasped, turning toward the group. “Do you think this is funny?!”
Beer sprayed somewhere in the back.
Lewis tried to reach for your hand. “Baby, calm down—”
“Don’t baby me!” you snapped, knocking over his beer in the process. It splashed down his shirt, dripping onto the puppy.
“Christ—”
“See?! You’re yelling again!”
“I’m not— you just— oh my God!” He finally stood, rubbing a hand down his face. “I can’t do this anymore!”
The room fell dead quiet.
You froze, internally delighted. “What?”
He exhaled, defeated. “You’re exhausting. Every time I think I’ve caught up, you do something even crazier. I’m done, okay? I can’t do this anymore.”
You blinked, playing your part perfectly. “Fine.”
“Fine!”
“Enjoy your freedom,” you said, grabbing the dog carrier.
“Enjoy your… whatever that is!” he shouted back, pointing at the puppy.
You glared. “Don’t yell in front of our baby!”
“I didn't agree to have a child!”
The puppy barked. You shot him one last, dramatic look, then stormed out.
The elevator doors closed behind you.
And the second they did, your shoulders dropped. You exhaled the loudest sigh of relief of your life, slumping against the mirrored wall.
“Oh thank God,” you muttered. “Finally.”
You grinned, whispering to the puppy, “Mission success. He’s done.”
The doors pinged open, and you stepped out into the night like a soldier returning from war.
Upstairs, the silence was deafening.
Lando set his drink down. “Mate…”
Lewis dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t. I actually can’t.”
George was still half-laughing. “You can’t or you won’t?”
“I can’t do this timeless love thing anymore,” Lewis muttered, slumping onto the couch.
Charles leaned forward, grin wicked. “You know what you need?”
Lewis glared. “Don’t say it.”
“Therapy,” Lando said, barely holding back laughter. “Couples therapy.”
George nodded solemnly. “Only way to fix it. You want that campaign, mate? Get professional help.”
They all cracked up.
Lewis buried his face in his hands, groaning. “Couples therapy after five days? You lot are insane.”
George grinned. “Yeah, well. So is she.”
And somewhere deep down…under the frustration, the beer, and the complete humiliation, he had to admit it… maybe they had a point.
Timeless fucking love, he thought. Right.
Lewis showed up at your apartment before noon, knocking like a man trying to win back his sanity.
When you opened the door, he was standing there, braids perfect, jacket unzipped, expression carefully arranged somewhere between remorse and charm.
“Baby,” he said softly, hands finding your waist before you could speak. “I’m sorry.”
You raised an eyebrow. “For what exactly?”
“For everything.” His smile was a little too practiced, the kind that said please don’t cry, please don’t leave, please don’t ruin my potential campaign deal.
He pressed his forehead against yours, voice low and smooth. “I’ll do anything, yeah? Whatever it takes.”
You studied him, the faint scent of aftershave, and forced a smile. For fucksake does this man ever give up?
He smiled too, telling himself he’d got her back. Timeless love. Just play it cool.
When he suggested therapy, you almost broke.
Em had to put her phone down because she was laughing too hard.
“You’re joking. He said WHAT?”
“Oh, he’s committed,” you said. “He thinks this is his redemption arc.”
“Alright,” she said, grinning. “Dr. Emmarie Fields, Relationship Specialist, at your service.”
The “therapy office” was just Em’s living room. A candle flickering unevenly on the table, one of her old university degrees propped up behind a stack of gossip magazines.
Lewis sat at one end of the couch, posture military straight. You perched close enough to make him nervous.
Em adjusted her fake glasses and smiled warmly. “Welcome! I’m so glad you both came. Why don’t you tell me what’s been happening?”
You took a dramatic breath. “He doesn’t appreciate me.”
Lewis turned, eyes wide. “What? I literally came here to prove I do.”
“You shouted at me in front of your friends!”
“You crashed my boys’ night with a dog!”
Em nodded seriously, scribbling fake notes. “Okay. Communication breakdown. That’s very common.”
Lewis exhaled, tension written all over his jaw. Timeless love, he reminded himself. Smile, nod, don’t explode.
Em looked between you. “And how’s your… intimacy?”
Lewis froze. “Our what?”
“Your physical connection,” Em said smoothly. “Are you feeling close?”
He rubbed his neck, searching for words. “We were going to, but she—” He gestured vaguely, then gave up. “She… named… it.”
Em raised an eyebrow. “Named… what, exactly?”
He looked like a man recounting a war story. “It.”
You crossed your arms. “It was a sweet name.”
“It was not a sweet name,” he said tightly.
Em coughed, clearly fighting a grin. “Alright. Let’s maybe not personify anything today.” She made a show of writing something down. “This sounds like a trust issue. Maybe you both need a change of environment.”
Lewis frowned. “Like what, a holiday?”
“Not a holiday,” Em said. “A reconnection weekend. Somewhere calm. Familiar.” She turned to him pointedly. “Maybe somewhere that feels like home.”
He hesitated, brow furrowing. “Home…?”
Em nodded, tone gentle. “A weekend with family, perhaps? That kind of comfort could ground you both.”
You bit your lip to hide your absolutely mortified expression. Tried to subtly shake your head at Em. Didn't work.
He sighed, long and low, rubbing his brow. “I don’t know if that’s… the best idea.”
“It’s a great idea,” Em said firmly, eyes twinkling. “You’ll be surrounded by love, by history. And your mum will adore her, I’m sure!.”
Lewis looked heavenward, muttering something under his breath that sounded like timeless fucking love, before finally giving in.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll take her home.”
You smiled, faux sweetly. “That sounds perfect.”
Em beamed, flipping to a new page in her notebook. “Wonderful! I’ll invoice you for today’s session.”
Lewis blinked. “I’m sorry…what?”
“£300,” she said casually.
“Three hundred— for this?”
Em smiled serenely. “Emotional labour isn’t free, Mr. Hamilton.”
You patted his knee. “She’s the best in the business.”
He forced a smile that looked more like pain. “Yeah. I can tell.”
Em winked at you over his shoulder. “Progress already.”
Outside, Lewis rubbed his brow, muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable.”
You linked your arm through his. “Weekend away, huh?”
He sighed, resigned. “Yes…yeah, my family will love you.”
You grinned. “Of course Lew Lew. We’re reconnecting, baby.”
He shook his head, laughing at the nickname despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe. But you’re stuck with me now.”
He looked at you then, long enough that something softened, just for a second.
Then he smiled, half-exasperated, half-charmed. “Apparently.”
Inside, Em watched from the window, grinning. “Oh, they’re so doomed,” she whispered.
The ride out of London felt like slipping out of a tight dress. The city thinned into hedgerows and open fields; the air grew greener, wetter, easier. You sat behind him on the motorbike, arms looped around his waist, chin tucked into the soft notch between shoulder and neck. The engine hummed a steady, low-thrum lullaby through your ribs. Every time he leaned into a curve, you followed without thinking, your palm flattening over his stomach, his hand squeezing your knee like a silent I've got you.
He glanced back at a stoplight, visor lifted. “You good?”
“Warm,” you lied, breath fogging between you. Your fingers were numb...somehow, your heart? Annoyingly not.
He smiles, small and boyish, then put the visor down and took you the rest of the way.
His mum’s house was the kind of pretty you can’t buy: ivy creeping over soft brick, a white door worn at the edges, wind chimes making shy music in the breeze. The garden smelt like rosemary and damp earth. Someone had set out a tray of biscuits and a pot of tea as if hospitality were muscle memory.
The door opened before you could knock. “There you are!” his mum said, voice bright with sunlight. She pulled him into a hug that made his shoulders drop, then turned to you without missing a beat. “And you must be Y/N.” Her warmth hit you like central heating. You braced for polite frost, for measured welcome. You got a full-body hug. You didn’t know where to put that.
“Hi,” you managed, muffled against her shoulder. “I brought—” You held up the flowers you’d panicked-bought at a petrol station. “I panicked.”
“They’re lovely,” she said, eyes crinkling. “Come in, come in. Shoes off, we’ve just boiled the kettle.”
Inside. Family photos, soft sofas, a dog you’d never met deciding you were his new favourite person. A cousin waved from the kitchen; an aunt put more biscuits on the plate with a conspiratorial wink at you; two small kids peered around the banister, then sprinted over like you were a fairy-tale princess. You took it in with the dazed smile of someone who’d stepped onto a moving walkway and couldn’t quite get off.
Lewis watched you absorb it all. The tightness at his jaw that had lived there for days… loosened. His hand found the small of your back, guiding you lightly. “Tea?” he asked.
“Please,” you said, trying not to stare at the seven year old who had wrapped herself around your shins and announced, “I like your hair.”
“I like...uh, yours,” you told her solemnly.
“Well!” his mum said, delighted. “That’s settled.”
By late afternoon the living room had turned into a low-stakes riot: someone put on a record, the kids built a den out of cushions, and his mum declared it “game night” with the gravity of an Olympic organiser. Cards, a bowl of crisps, a plate of Victoria sponge. You watched Lewis laugh with his dad and felt something worse than fondness tug in your chest.
You took your place at the table opposite him. His mum sat beside you and, with absolutely zero shame, whispered, “If you slide that ace up your sleeve, I won’t tell.”
You stared, then bit your lip to stop the grin. “You’re corrupting me.”
“She’s corrupting all of us,” Lewis warned, mock-severe, though there was nothing severe in the look he gave you: curious, fond, like you were still a riddle he was enjoying failing to solve.
You cheated. Of course you did. At first tentative, then with the giddy confidence of someone cheered on by a world-class accomplice. His mum distracted him with questions about a holiday photo while you stacked your hand with quiet, illicit glory. When you laid the winning cards down with a flourish, the room groaned.
“Absolutely not,” Lewis said, pointing at you and then, treacherously, at his mother. “Conspiracy. Match-fixing.”
“I would never,” you said, angelic. His mum tried not to laugh and failed.
“You two—” he put a hand to his heart, theatrically wounded. “Right. I’m going inside to play with the kids. They’re not lying and cheating.”
The room dissolved into laughter. You flounced, a performance, a parody of triumph, and his nephew shouted, “Cheater!” in your direction, then crawled into your lap anyway.
Later, after cake and den-collapse and the slow drift of family into corners, he found you on the back step. The dusk was a soft purple; the garden buzzed with small, secret sounds. He sat so your knees touched. “You’re dangerous,” he said quietly.
“To whom?”
“My honour. National security.” His eyes warmed. “My mum.”
“Your mum helped me,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said, smile crooked. “I’m never living that down.”
The next morning the world smelled like rain before it arrived. He rolled his motorbike out and handed you a helmet. “Lesson time.”
“You’re joking.”
“Trust me,” he said, the words easy, the look careful. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
It did something ugly and lovely to your insides. You let him position your hands on the grips, his palms warm around your fingers, his voice a steady metronome in your ear: light on the clutch, breathe, don’t fight the balance, just feel it.
“Like this?” you said, wobbling two yards and yelping.
“Exactly,” he said, ready with a laugh you could tell he’d hold back if you needed him to. He jogged beside you, one hand hovering at your hip, the other on the seat. “I’m here.”
You did it again. And again. He made a terrible joke about centre of gravity. You called him a nerd. He looked unreasonably happy. When you finally let the bike carry you more than a few metres on your own, the wind caught your hair and you whooped. He heard it, turned... and the look on his face, brief and unguarded, almost knocked you off the bike more than the gravel did.
Later, you clung around his waist as he took you along a hedged lane, your cheek to his back, the world turning to a green blur. He reached down once, without looking, and covered your hand with his for a beat. It felt like the kind of gesture you’d keep finding in your pocket hours later.
By sunset you were damp from a fine mist that turned to rain, both of you sprinting back up the path laughing like thieves. Inside, his mum wrapped you in a towel and kissed your cheek in that offhand, absolute way mothers do when they mean it. You made an inarticulate sound you pretended was a cough.
Dinner was a warm blur: stew and bread and the soft rise-and-fall of family talk. He rested a hand on your thigh under the table...not suggestive, not a claim, just weight and warmth and there you are. He didn’t move it for a long time. His shoulders looked relaxed for the first time all week. You laughed too loudly at some ridiculous story about him knocking over a display at a garden centre as a teenager. His mum laughed harder. He shook his head, mock-affronted, but his eyes kept finding you like a compass.
After, the rain hardened. You took your plate to the kitchen; the house clicked over into that late-evening quiet, a kettle boiling, a distant TV, someone humming upstairs. You slipped into the bathroom with the sole intention of not crying like a madwoman over a perfectly normal hug you’d received six hours ago.
You sat on the closed toilet lid and tried to breathe around the thing rising in your chest. It felt stupid, sentimental, teenage. But you hadn’t planned for this bit. Not the way his mum had held your hand while asking which biscuit you preferred, not the way the littlest niece had fallen asleep against your shoulder, not the way family felt like a warm jumper you’d forgotten could fit.
The door clicked. He stopped on the threshold when he saw you... your hair damp, eyes glassy, hands knotted in your lap like you were praying for a minute of sense.
“Hey,” he said softly, already kneeling before you’d decided what to do with your face. He looked ridiculous. Rain dark curls stuck to his forehead, t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, a towel haphazardly thrown around his neck. And he looked beautiful in the way kind men do when they make themselves small to meet you where you are.
“What’s wrong?” He brushed a wet strand of hair away from your mouth, thumb gentle at your cheekbone as if to coax the truth out.
You shook your head, a laugh catching on the edges and turning into something else. “I’m fine.”
“Liar,” he said, so tenderly it wasn’t a challenge.
The words crumbled. “She hugged me,” you said, hearing how absurd it sounded. “Your mum. She just… hugged me.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. Something in his face softened further, like a lake gone still. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s good at that.”
You swallowed hard. “I’m not— I don’t usually—” You gestured: the room, the house, the feeling. “I wasn't expecting–” The truth felt slippery and too bright. “I didn’t think they'd like me so much.”
He nodded once, slow. “They do.” He leaned in, voice lower.
More tears spilled down your cheeks. “No crying, sweetie,” he said, like a secret, thumb wiping away your tears. “It's a good thing.”
You made a noise that might have been a laugh or a sob. He took it as both. His hand stayed on your cheek; his other found your knee, steadying. He was close enough that you could see every freckle on his face, the mole on his right cheek just along his cheekbone, the kind of things you only notice when you’re this close. You counted his breaths to keep yours even. When he smiled, small and helpless, it felt like being let into a warm room.
“Okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Okay.”
The kiss wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t the version you’d written into your outline or the kind you’d used like a weapon two nights ago. It was the sort of kiss that happens because not kissing would be a stranger act. Slow. Careful. A question asked and answered without either of you naming it. Somewhere downstairs a tap dripped. Rain smudged itself across the window like a child’s drawing.
He pulled back first, forehead resting against yours, breathing a little uneven. “We should—” he began, meaning be sensible, meaning this is a terrible idea, meaning I’m not sure when pretending became something else. But you kissed him again anyway, and the conversation dissolved into the simplest language you shared.
The gentle thud of a door. The soft sound of clothes finding the back of a chair. A bed that wasn’t yours becoming a boundary you crossed carefully. His hand tracing the edge of your shoulder as if to learn it by heart. His lips trailing your body like it was something to be worshipped. Your laugh, quiet, surprised, at his whispered teasing. The wordless relief of being wanted not as a foil, not as a bet, but as yourself. Even if you didn't know that yet. The storm did its best to drum the house into a lullaby.
He watched you like he’d been trying to solve you and had finally decided he didn’t need to. Frustration shifted, molecule by molecule, into awe. She’s impossible, he thought, a little dazed. She’s perfect. When sleep came, it did so kindly. His hand found your thigh and stayed there. His shoulders, as if remembering how, remained loose.
In the morning the house would smell like toast and rain washed air. His mum would hand you a second mug of tea without asking how you took it. The kids would ask if you were staying forever. He’d catch your eye across the kitchen, startled by how natural it felt to lean against a counter and talk about nothing. You’d both remember the original rules of your own games and not say them out loud.
For now, the slow exhale of the countryside, the cat that chose your feet as a pillow, his heartbeat under your ear. Somewhere in the hallway, your borrowed towel slid off its hook and folded onto the floor like a sigh. You were warm. You were tired. You were dangerously close to forgetting which parts of the story you’d scripted and which parts had simply arrived.
The ballroom glittered like a dream built for photographs. Chandeliers dripping gold, champagne bubbling under white lights, the hum of conversation smooth and rehearsed. Every corner gleamed with money and reputation.
Lewis had done this a hundred times before.
But never like this.
Tonight, the IWC “Timeless Love” campaign was officially unveiling its new face — him.
Ten days, one bet, one win.
That was the plan.
And then you walked in.
He saw you before anyone else did. The dress, dark green silk, simple and devastating, caught the light like it had been made for him to look at. Your hair swept up, a few loose strands framing your face. You smiled at the hostess, thanked the waiter, then scanned the room until your eyes landed on him.
Something in his chest shifted.
You started toward him, the crowd parting like the moment had been scripted.
He met you halfway.
“Wow,” he said softly, almost to himself. “You look…” He didn’t finish. The word beautiful felt too small.
You smiled, trying to sound casual. “You clean up alright, Hamilton.”
He laughed quietly, nervous, real. And before he could stop himself, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. It wasn’t calculated, not for the cameras, not for the brand... it just happened. His hand found yours instinctively after, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
You let him.
Toto and George exchanged a look across the room.
George whispered, “He’s so gone.”
Toto smirked shaking his head. “He was gone days ago.”
Lewis pulled you closer, his hand light at your back. “You okay?”
“Of course,” you said. “Glad you invited me.”
Something in him eased at that.
He guided you through the crowd, hand resting lightly at your back, fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress like he was reminding himself you were real. Every so often his hand slid down, settling naturally at your hip. Steady, protective, possessive without meaning to be. You didn’t move away.
The bet, the campaign, all of it blurred into background noise. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like he was performing. You laughed at something he said about George, a proper laugh, head tilted, eyes bright, and he looked at you the way a man looks at something he knows he shouldn’t want but already does.
He smiled for the cameras, talked about “timeless love,” but his arm stayed around your waist longer than it needed to.
For a few perfect moments, it felt like maybe, just maybe, none of this was fake at all. That you were in love.
Then everything shattered.
You were halfway through a conversation with one of the IWC PR managers when laughter from the corner caught your attention. The kind of laughter that sounded like men telling secrets.
“…mad, right?” one of the execs said. “Hamilton made a bet he could make any woman fall for him in ten days. Used it as proof for the campaign. Guess he really sold it.”
You froze.
Every sound in the room dulled.
He what?
The champagne in your hand suddenly felt too heavy. You turned, scanning for him. There he was, laughing with George, relaxed, radiant, completely unaware that the floor had just dropped out beneath your feet.
At that same moment, he caught another conversation.
Your editor, by the press table, waving her phone, saying brightly to a journalist...
“It’s perfect. Her column goes live at midnight. How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. It’s brilliant — she actually did it. And with Lewis bloody Hamilton at that. He just wouldn't leave!”
Lewis stopped breathing.
Across the room, you looked at him.
He looked at you.
And everything...the laughter, the flashbulbs, the champagne, blurred into silence.
The terrace was cold and too bright with city light. You stood with your back to him, staring at the Thames, the wind teasing at your hair.
He found you there, the door swinging shut behind him.
“Y/N,” he started, voice low, careful.
You didn’t turn. “You made a bet.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I heard them,” you said, voice trembling but sharp. “You made a bet. That you could make me fall in love with you in ten days. The campaign, the charm, all of it...I was the proof.”
His chest tightened. “It’s not— it wasn’t like that.”
“Don’t lie to me,” you snapped, turning to face him now, eyes burning. “Was it true or not?”
He hesitated. “At first, yeah. It started as a bet. But it—”
“Oh my God,” you breathed out, almost laughing in disbelief. “You actually did it.”
He stepped forward, desperate. “No, listen—”
“Do they know?” you cut in, voice cracking. “Your family? Your mum? Those little kids who adored me? Do they know I was just some fucking bet, Lewis?”
The words hit harder than you expected. His expression faltered, a flash of guilt, of pain.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t bring them into this.”
“Why not?” you shouted. “You brought me into it. You made me meet them, you made me believe it was real for a second. And I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head, chest heaving. “God, I actually believed you.”
He looked stricken, the air between you tight and hot with everything unsaid. “You think I planned to care? You think I wanted to feel like this?”
“Clearly not enough to stop yourself.”
He exhaled, pacing, fingers tugging at the knot of his tie. “You used me too, Y/N. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“I was writing an article!” you shouted. “You were supposed to be content, not someone who—” You bit the word off, but it was too late.
“Someone who what?” he asked, voice rough. “Who made you feel something?”
You turned away, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. “You were supposed to be fake.”
He laughed once, humourless. “You were supposed to be easy.”
You flinched.
The silence that followed was almost unbearable.
He finally said it, quiet, breaking. “You were supposed to be a bet.”
He swallowed hard. “And I think I fell in love with you.”
Your voice came out small. “You don’t get to say that.”
He stepped closer anyway, eyes glassy. “I’m saying it.”
You shook your head, tears spilling now. “You don’t get to use those words.”
He looked like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. “I mean it.”
You exhaled, trembling. “This is fucking ridiculous”
He closed his eyes, a sharp breath leaving his chest like it hurt.
“Fuck,” he muttered, ripping his tie loose. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Tell me about it,” you said, voice shaking.
"You were trying to push me away? All that crazy shit? Wasn't real?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Of course it wasn't fucking real! Are you stupid? Couples therapy after knowing you a week? Jesus Christ Lewis–"
He bristled at your tone, eyebrows furrowing in pain. "Right. So none of it was real then?"
You glare at him. Embarrassed, hurt. Confused. Aching for him underneath it all.
"Does it even matter? You won. My article barely makes sense because I couldn't make you leave anyway."
"It does matter, to me"
"Lewis, come on. This is stupid. It wasn't real was it? Never was." You mumble looking at the ground.
He felt it like a punch to the gut. Right. How stupid of him.
"Yeah? Fuck you. We both won. You lost me, you happy now?!"
Your eyes met, both glassy. You want to say something, anything. But people are watching. You're already embarrassed enough. Everyone knew you were just a bet, a way for him to secure his campaign. your guilt, shame, embarrassment swirled into something ugly in the pit of your stomach until you had to leave. Had to get out.
You brushed past him, leaving him standing there under the city lights, his chest rising and falling like he was trying not to break in half.
Inside, through the glass doors, George stood frozen halfway to the bar, watching him. Toto was beside him, silent.
George whispered, “What the hell just happened?”
Toto sighed, straightening his jacket. “I think we just witnessed them fall in love and fall out if it in 3 minutes...”
Lewis stayed outside, gripping the railing until his knuckles went white, the faint tick of his IWC watch loud as a countdown.
She was supposed to be a bet, he thought. And somehow, winning it has made him feel like he's lost everything.
You pushed through the crowd, eyes burning, your editor calling after you, champagne spilling somewhere behind.
He was supposed to be an article, you thought. And somehow, losing him was the last thing you wanted.
How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days
by Y/N Y/L/N
If you’ve ever wondered whether you can make a man run for his life in under two weeks, allow me to present the field notes. The experiment was simple: meet someone, make him fall, and then behave so outrageously he sprints for the exit.
I didn’t plan for the man in question to be Lewis Hamilton. But here we are.
Day One: The Meeting.
The brief was clear: find a man, date him, lose him.
Ten days. Ten methods.
Enter Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion, statistically handsome, and probably allergic to emotional availability. I met him at a bar after his IWC event, all velvet charm and impossible dimples.
He bought me a drink. I rolled my eyes.
He said, “You’re too clever for this place.”
I said, “You’re too famous for it.”
By the next morning, I’d accidentally kissed him. Multiple times.
Journalism, I told myself. Research. Nothing else.
Day Two: The Clingy Call.
To test his tolerance, I went for the classics: sixteen calls in one afternoon.
“Hi baby! Miss you! Say it back!”
He was in a meeting. His PR team heard every word.
He should’ve blocked me. Instead, he texted: Dinner tonight?
He cooked pasta. I refused. Said I didn't like carbs.
Day Three — Dinner Disaster.
Candles. Music. Wine that probably cost more than my rent.
He was trying so hard it was almost cruel.
I arrived with overnight bags, slippers, and a candle labelled Our Home.
He smiled through it. Barely.
Then, mid make out, I gave his anatomy a nickname and spoke to it in a baby voice.
He froze. I laughed. Field research.
He didn’t throw me out. I began to suspect the man was indestructible.
Day Four: The Dog Incident.
I turned up at Mercedes HQ with a puppy.
“Meet our baby,” I said brightly.
He kissed my head...in front of Toto Wolff...like a man trying to remain professional while questioning every life choice. George Russell was crying laughing. Toto left the room entirely.
Then I unveiled the “family album”: photoshopped wedding pictures and fake baby edits.
His mum called mid-meltdown. I answered.
“Hi! Just showing him the album now. Thank you for the baby photos!”
He didn’t speak for five minutes. I thought I’d won.
Then I asked, “Concert tonight?”
He cancelled his basketball plans, endured two hours of Taylor Swift screamed at close range, and still held my hand.
Day Five: Boys’ Night Meltdown.
He was with the lads. I turned up uninvited.
Sat on his lap, knocked over his drink, scolded his friends in a baby voice.
He blushed. Begged, “Baby, not in front of the boys.”
I kissed him anyway.
Then we argued. Loud, public, hopeless.
He snapped, I shouted, we broke up.
Mission accomplished.
Until the next morning, when he turned up at my flat with flowers and said, “Couples therapy?”
Day Six: Couples Therapy.
My best friend pretended to be a licensed therapist.
He sat there, polite and patient, while I fake-cried into a tissue.
When she asked about intimacy, he said, “We were going to, but she named my—”
Session concluded with a recommendation: a “reconnection weekend.”
Somewhere quiet. Familiar.
He sighed, rubbed his temples, and said, “Fine. I’ll take her home.”
I almost felt bad. Almost.
Day Seven–Eight: The Family Weekend.
I didn’t expect to like his mum. I didn’t expect her to like me.
But she hugged me the moment I walked in, like she’d known me forever.
We played cards. I cheated. She helped.
When he caught us, he muttered, “I’m going inside to play with the kids — they’re not lying and cheating.”
Everyone laughed. So did I.
The next day, he taught me to ride his motorbike.
I nearly crashed; he nearly lost his mind watching me. But his smile was so unguarded and bright I kept going til I got it right.
That night, his mum hugged me again.
I cried in her bathroom, quietly, stupidly, because it felt too kind, too real.
He found me there, knelt down, brushed my hair from my face, and said, “No, sweetie. That’s a good thing.”
We kissed. Not for the story, not for the game. But because neither of us could not.
Day Ten: The Gala.
The plan was to end it cleanly. Do something so outrageous he would end it publicly, perhaps.
He looked devastating in a tux, all composure and quiet confidence. When he kissed the corner of my mouth for the cameras, I instantly forgot why I was there.
And then I heard it. Laughter near the bar.
“Yeah, Hamilton made a bet,” an exec said. “Ten days. Any woman. He actually did it.”
The room tilted.
He’d been playing, too.
We both played.
We both lost.
Here’s the truth I didn’t plan to write:
No matter what I did, the chaos, the calls, the absolute madness, he stayed.
He held on. He didn’t flinch.
For a bet, maybe, sure. But Lewis was far more kind, patient, gentle than any man I'd ever met before. The real him made me want to hold him close and never let him go.
Somehow, the man I was trying to lose became the only one I didn’t want to.
How to lose a guy in ten days?
You don’t.
You both walk away before you can tell him the truth.
George sat cross legged on the couch, phone in hand. “You want me to read the last part again?”
Lewis didn’t answer. He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
“She actually—” George cleared his throat, trying not to grin. “She actually wrote you into literature, mate.”
Toto leaned in the doorway, half-smiling. “It’s a good piece. Honest. Funny.”
Lewis lifted his head, eyes glassy, jaw set. “It’s about me being a dick.”
“It’s about you being human,” Toto said. “Which, for PR, is miraculous.”
George snorted. “She’s in love with you, bro. It’s literally right there.”
Lewis raked a hand through his curls, exhaling hard. “For fuck’s sake.”
George nudged him. “So what are you going to do?”
Lewis looked at the screen one more time, at the photo of you laughing at the gala, the headline bold above it.
Then he stood, grabbed his keys.
Toto raised a brow. “Lewis”
Lewis smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could ruin an empire. “Going to make sure she doesn’t lose me this time.”
The rain hadn’t stopped all day. Fine drizzle, the sort that clings to your coat and gets under your skin.
He’d parked two streets away, sat in the car for a while, staring at the wipers. Then, before he could think better of it, he got out.
When you opened the door, you looked small and tired. Eyes puffy, hoodie drowning your frame, a half-drunk mug of tea in hand. The laptop behind you was still open on the article.
“Lewis,” you said, flat, cautious.
He nodded once. “Hi.”
“Hello.”
Silence. The hallway smelled like rain and washing powder.
He held up the soggy bunch of flowers he’d grabbed from a corner shop. “For you.”
You glanced at them, then back at him. “They’re half-dead.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Bit like me, to be fair.”
You huffed a small, unwilling laugh, and that broke the silence enough for him to step inside.
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around. The cluttered desk, the jacket slung over a chair, the notes by your laptop. “You wrote it.”
You folded your arms. “You made a bet.”
He flinched. “Yeah. We were both arseholes.”
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “We were.”
He dragged a hand over his jaw, pacing once. “I read it. The article. You made me sound like some saint.”
“You weren’t,” you said quietly. “But you stayed. You didn’t have to.”
He gave a small laugh, short, sharp, nothing funny in it. “You didn’t have to write about it either.”
“I didn’t plan to.”
“Right.” He nodded, bitter smile flickering. “Because turning me into a story just happened by accident.”
You looked away. “I thought I could control it. Keep it at a distance. You were supposed to be… research.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “You were supposed to be a bet. Look how that turned out.”
The words hung there, ugly and true.
You took a breath. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“You humiliated me, actually.”
He met your eyes, voice quiet. “You did the same.”
You nodded slowly, tears threatening again. “I know.”
He stared at the floor for a long time before saying, “I didn’t mean to make you feel small. That’s the bit that kills me.”
You bit your lip. “And I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t matter outside a stupid article.”
He looked up, meeting your eyes again. “I did matter, though. To you. I could feel it.”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “You did.”
Something softened in his face then, the anger ebbing out of him. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell rain and soap. “You’ve been crying,” he said, thumb brushing just under your eye.
“That obvious?” you murmured.
He gave a faint smile. “Still beautiful.”
You laughed, wet and quiet. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But you wrote about me like I wasn’t.”
That shut you up for a moment. You looked down, breathing through the ache in your chest.
He tilted his head, voice gentler now, hand sliding down to find yours. “What do we do with all this, then? All the damage?”
You shrugged, tears spilling again. “I don’t know. Start over, maybe. Tell the truth this time.”
He smiled a little, that tired, crooked grin you’d missed. “No bets.”
“No articles.”
“Just two dickheads trying again.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at you for a long moment, searching, uncertain, then leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t a movie.
It was quiet and hesitant and a little broken. But it was real.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You really do make my life difficult,” he whispered.
You laughed softly. “Good. You deserve it.”
He smiled against your skin. “Yeah,” he said. “Probably do.”
The rain tapped against the windows, unhurried. You tucked yourself closer into him, and for the first time in ten days, you stopped thinking about how to make him leave. You were just grateful he'd chosen to stay.
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