pato truly just fucks around in short oval practice and the ability to correct the loosest race car on planet earth (with one hand? today?) is h*t but also stop fucking doing that?????????
commentators saying oscar’s pulling some solid strategy with energy harvesting and battery storage because he’s watched the last 2 races and took notes. they’re calling my goat a nerd.
I don't understand (but I don't complain) the bunch of F1 imagines where the female lead is a pro figure skater (or not so pro) like I don't really get why these two sports are deeply entangled in fanfiction
Again, its not a complain, just and observation bc I recently came across 3 or 4 or even more works with this setting and I started thinking about it
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author’s note: this was a request from the lovely @nebulastarr!! im so sorry it took so long for me to get something out for you <3 she requested a simple lewis x shy!reader and me and my degree in politics came up with this lmfao. slightly self-indulgent, slightly nerdy, but still gentle and soft lewis treading carefully around a reader who can barely hold his gaze for longer than 2 seconds when they first meet. hope you enjoy xx
pairing: lewis hamilton x shy!reader
wc: 6.8k!! (one-shot)
summary: lewis hamilton walks into a room full of important people and immediately fixates on the one who can barely look him in the eye. cue weeks of texts, a very polite rejection, a private studio date, him teasing her sweetly about being shy, and her finally leaning in to kiss his cheek like it’s the bravest thing she’s ever done. he’s a goner. she’s still hiding behind her mug. come for the pining, stay for the giggles.
warnings: mentions of discriminatory school systems, bullying, late dyslexia diagnosis (emotional but gentle). not much else? very very sweet lewis <3
Lewis had planned this evening down to the smallest detail.
The venue in London was lit with soft lighting, twelve large circular tables spread evenly across the room, dressed in white linen and set with understated precision.
The seating arrangement was calculated just enough to encourage conversation without forcing it. The guest list curated carefully: professionals, policy makers, people actually doing the work. People who understood why Mission 44 existed beyond his name being attached to it.
This wasn’t a spectacle or a gathering for show. It was networking built to connect the right people to the work that mattered.
Lewis stood near the front at first, glass of water in hand, listening to the low hum of voices filling the room. It was all familiar at this point. He’d done it thousands of times, between charity dinners and campaign launches, he slipped into the role easily. The natural smile. The warmth. The way he leaned in when someone spoke, like what they were saying mattered. Because it did to him, especially in a room like this.
He made his rounds once everyone was seated. Table to table. Handshake to handshake. A practiced rhythm. He introduced himself, not because they didn’t know who he was, but because it set the tone. It made the room human instead of hierarchical.
He talked about access. Representation. Systems that were never built for everyone. He listened more than he spoke. He nodded. He thanked people for their time, their work, their presence. It was good. It was important. It was grounding.
Then he reached your table. He didn’t notice you at first, not consciously. Not the way he thought noticing worked. You didn’t draw the room toward you. You didn’t sit forward, eager to be seen. You weren’t loud with your interest or expansive with your gestures.
You were just… there. Quietly attentive. Sitting with your shoulders a little too tense, hands folded in your lap. You were angled slightly toward the person speaking, listening with a kind of focus that felt rare. When you smiled, it was small and genuine. Nothing like the polite smiles people used when they were waiting their turn to talk. Nothing like the polite smiles he’d been seeing all evening.
Lewis introduced himself to the table, voice warm. “Evening, everyone. I’m Lewis. Thank you for being here tonight.”
A few people brightened immediately. A few leaned in. One man launched into praise before Lewis could stop him. He steered it back gently, redirecting the conversation toward the work of the charity.
Then, he turned to you. Your voice reached him before your eyes did, soft enough that he had to lean in slightly to catch it, though the room itself had gone quiet.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” you said, hands folding together then unfolding again, as though you’d caught yourself betraying nerves you hadn’t meant to show. “Thank you for inviting us.”
You gave him a smile that appeared and vanished quickly, like you weren’t sure how long you were meant to hold it. Your gaze dipped to the table almost immediately after as you waited for him to move the conversation along.
He fought the urge to smile at how reserved you were, Instead, he asked what you did for work. You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know, but because you seemed to be choosing the briefest version possible. The pause was long enough for him to feel the weight of it, for him to feel the way you measured how much space your answer was allowed to take up.
“I work at a think tank,” you said finally. Lewis’s eyes flickered to the way you were picking at the skin on one of your fingers, a nervous habit, perhaps. “Mostly policy research.”
You stopped there, clearly prepared to let that be enough. Lewis waited. Patient, eyes focused and gentle. When he didn’t move on, didn’t fill the space for you, your shoulders lifted almost imperceptibly with a quiet breath.
“My focus is education,” you added, softer now. “Access to it, specifically.”
Your eyes flicked up to his face, then away again, like you were checking whether he was still listening. He was. Completely.
“There’s a tendency to design solutions from the top down,” you continued, words careful. “But data doesn’t always translate cleanly into lived experience.”
You spoke like someone used to being interrupted. Each sentence was neatly finished, no loose ends. When you finished, you went still again, hands clasped, posture modest, as though you’d already said more than you were comfortable with.
The table had gone quiet. Lewis nodded slowly, genuinely engaged, a small encouraging smile on his face. The question formed before he could stop himself. He wanted you to keep talking.
His voice was quiet, almost tender when he asked, “and what do you think gets missed?”
Your eyes dropped again, not in complete retreat, but in thought. You pressed your lips together briefly, considering. When you looked up again, there was something steadier there, a quiet conviction that sharpened your softness. It caught Lewis off guard and held him there, completely captivated for a second.
“Context,” you said. “And trust.”
You blinked once, surprised by your own certainty, before your eyes slipped away from him again, settling somewhere just past his shoulder.
Lewis smiled again without meaning to. A little helpless, if he’s honest. You were shy in the way that made people lean in. In the way that invited patience. In the way every word felt deliberate, like it cost you something to give it. He found himself listening more closely than he had all evening, like the hush you carried was the only thing worth hearing.
The way you struggled to hold his gaze, not out of disinterest, but awareness, softened something in him instantly. He dipped his head slightly, ducking down just enough to catch your eyes again.
The minute your eyes met his, the corners of his mouth curved up, and his exact thoughts were: Oh. Oh, fuck. She is…adorable.
The realisation settled deep and slow. Heavier than attraction, quieter than infatuation. Entirely unwelcome in a room like this, and also completely unavoidable. You weren’t just pretty (though you were, in a gradual, quiet way that revealed itself the longer he looked). You were timid, but endearingly so. The low register of your voice even when the room stilled. The way you tilted your head when you were listening. Lewis even noticed how you seemed to apologise with your body for simply existing in the same space as everyone else.
“I’d have to agree with you there,” he replied gently. “Miss…?”
You gave him your name, barely above a murmur, and he extended his hand. Lewis was careful as he took yours, matching your grip instinctively, mindful not to overwhelm you with his presence.
“Lovely to meet you,” he said, voice even softer now. “I’d really like to hear more of your thoughts. You’re right — kids don’t trust systems that were never built with them in mind. And data doesn’t always capture what their lives actually look like.”
He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything else, then added, “I’ll come back and talk to you in a bit, if that’s alright.”
You nodded, offering him a quick shy smile.
His eyes crinkled in response as he gave you a small, sweet nod in return. Then, because he was Lewis Hamilton after all, a subtle, wink as a goodbye before he moved on. He had to. There were other tables. Other conversations. Other hands to shake. He didn’t linger, didn’t give anything away. He thanked the table and excused himself, slipping back into the rhythm of the evening. But the night no longer felt quite the same.
His attention kept snagging, pulling back toward your table like a magnet. Even as he spoke to someone else, his eyes drifted, and found you again.
You were listening. Nodding. Occasionally speaking quietly, and when you did, the people around you leaned in. You didn’t dominate the space, you anchored it.
He watched the way you reacted more than you acted. The way your eyes lit up when someone made a thoughtful point. The way you folded your hands together when you were done speaking, like you were content to recede again.
There was something unbearably attractive about how you didn’t chase attention, how you seemed perfectly at ease without it. Like you’d rather not have it, actually.
In his world, attention was currency. It was noise and spectacle, people leaning forward before he spoke, waiting to be acknowledged. Even the women he met were usually fluent in it. They were all confident, polished, unafraid to occupy space. Shyness, when it appeared at all, was often performative or strategic. Yours wasn’t.
Yours was quiet and sincere, rooted in thought rather than self-consciousness. You didn’t disappear because you lacked substance, if anything, you seemed to contain too much of it.
Lewis found himself wondering how many people missed you entirely. And, unexpectedly, how many had never bothered to slow down long enough to notice you.
He told himself it was nothing as he kept doing his rounds through the tables. He was just tired and reading far too much into a single moment. This was what happened when he spent too much time in rooms full of noise, the quiet started to feel louder than it should.
Still, when he finished at another table, his gaze found you again without his permission. He told himself not to stare. He genuinely tried really hard not to. But whatever you were speaking about now had drawn you out of yourself. Your voice was still quiet, but threaded with something warmer, more animated. He realised you must know the woman beside you; your posture had softened, shoulders no longer held quite so close, hands moving as you spoke, shaping your thoughts in the air.
It was so subtle. Easy to miss. But Lewis didn’t miss it. He watched, transfixed, as you smiled more freely. As your fingers punctuated a point before retreating back into your lap. The contrast struck him, the way you unfolded only when you felt safe. The way your passion surfaced gently, like light filtering through blinds.
By the time he became aware of it, he was already staring. The dinner after that point passed by him in a blur. He ate, he smiled, he spoke when spoken to. He laughed at the appropriate moments, nodded along to conversations he would later struggle to recall. The whole time, though, his attention kept drifting back to you, pulled by instinct rather than choice.
When the plates were finally cleared and the low hum of conversation shifted, people rising from their seats, chairs scraping softly against the floor, he didn’t hesitate. Lewis excused himself and walked straight back over to your table. You were standing now, coat draped over the back of your chair, speaking quietly with the woman beside you. Your body was angled inward, still reserved, but when you noticed him approaching, something in your posture changed.
You turned toward him fully.
“Hi,” you said, voice still soft and measured. Then, you repeated yourself like you’d said something wrong. “I mean…Hi, again.”
He smiled, slower this time, trying very hard not to let his thoughts stray to how impossibly endearing you were.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said. “I just—” He paused, recalibrating. “I wanted to hear more about what you were saying earlier. About trust.”
Your fingers curled briefly into the fabric of your sleeve, then relaxed. You nodded once.
“Of course,” you said. “Um… we were just talking about how students disengage when they feel like policies are being done to them instead of with them.”
Lewis listened like he had nowhere else to be. You spoke carefully at first, choosing your words as you always did, but as the thought took shape, your voice steadied. You gestured once, then stopped yourself, hands folding together again as if you’d gone too far.
“How do you fix that?” he asked gently.
You hesitated. Your gaze dipped, then lifted again, a little braver this time.
“You involve them early,” you said. “Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy. You’d be surprised with how well kids know other kids. They can come up with solutions to problems that we don’t even realise are problems yet.”
Lewis nodded, a warm feeling settling in his chest. “That aligns a lot with what we’re trying to do with Mission 44,” he said. “Less theory. More listening.”
Your shoulders eased slightly at that, the tension melting in a way that felt like you’d earned it.
“I’d really like to keep talking,” he added, careful not to overwhelm the moment. “If you’re comfortable.”
You glanced toward the door, then back at him. A small smile starting at the corner of your lips.
“I don’t mind,” you said. “I just don’t usually… talk this much.”
His eyes softened at your honesty.
“I won’t rush you,” he said. “I promise.”
For the first time that evening, you met his eyes and held them for a second longer than you had before, before nodding again. Something about it felt like permission to Lewis. He pulled out a chair for you without thinking, a quiet, instinctive gesture, then took the seat beside you. Close enough to feel your presence without crowding it. Close enough to listen to you properly.
What he told himself would be a short conversation stretched easily into something else entirely. You talked about your research, tentatively at first. Then with growing confidence as he asked thoughtful questions, as he listened without interrupting. You explained where the gaps were, where policy fell short, where well-meaning initiatives failed the very children they were meant to serve. You spoke about access not as a concept, but as a responsibility.
Lewis found himself leaning in, elbows resting lightly on the table, his attention unwavering. He asked how Mission 44 could support work like yours, how it could move even more beyond data and into real impact. You considered each question carefully, answering honestly, never overstating your expertise, never underselling it either.
Time slipped by unnoticed. At some point, he realised you were smiling more easily now. Your posture had softened completely, shoulders relaxed, hands no longer clenched together but resting openly on the table. When you laughed, quietly at first, it startled him.
So he did it again. He let himself be a little sillier than he usually allowed at events like this, teasing lightly, exaggerating a story just enough to coax another laugh from you. Each one came easier than the last, warmer, less guarded. Every time, his eyes lit up.
You were funny, he discovered. Wry. Dry in a way that sneaked up on people. You also came across as endlessly kind. Not performatively so, but deeply, kindness rooted in care rather than image. You spoke about children the way people spoke about things they loved fiercely but quietly. About classrooms that failed them. About teachers who tried anyway. About systems that needed to do better.
Lewis listened, completely captivated, feeling something shift inside him with every word.
He could almost feel the walls you’d built beginning to lower, brick by careful brick. Each shared thought. Each small smile. Each moment you forgot to pull back.
An hour passed. Then another half. The room around them emptied slowly, conversations tapering off, chairs being pushed back, coats collected. Lewis barely noticed. His world had narrowed to the space between the two of you, to the rhythm of your voice.
When the woman you’d been speaking to earlier returned and announced she’d ordered your shared Uber, Lewis had to force down the flicker of disappointment that crossed his face.
“Oh,” he said, glancing briefly toward the entrance. “Already?”
You nodded, fingers curling around the strap of your bag as you stood. “Yeah. It should be here in a few minutes. Early start tomorrow.”
Lewis rose with you, hands sliding into his pockets as he searched for the right way to say what he wanted without breaking the careful ease that had settled between you. The last thing he wanted was for you to retreat into yourself again.
“I—” he started, then stopped himself, huffing out a quiet breath. “I’d really like the team at Mission 44 to see your research. Properly.”
Your brows knit slightly, thoughtful rather than surprised. “Oh,” you said. “I can send it over, that’s no problem.”
He nodded quickly. “Yeah. That’d be great. And… I’d like to stay connected, if that’s alright.”
You hesitated for a second, eyes dropping away from his again as you considered it.
“Like,” you said slowly, “on LinkedIn?”
Lewis laughed before he could stop himself. Warm and genuine, eyebrows lifting in surprise. He had to cover his mouth to stifle the sound. On LinkedIn? Were you serious?
“No,” he said, still smiling. “Well— I mean, yes, sure. But I was thinking more…” He ducked his head, trying to meet your eyes again, tone gentler now. “Your number?”
You blinked once, then twice, clearly caught off guard. Your fingers tightened around your bag strap, then relaxed again. You looked like a deer in headlights and Lewis had to glance away for a second to collect himself from either chuckling or reaching out to reassure you.
“Oh,” you said quietly. “Yeah, uh- sure. Yeah, okay.”
Lewis pulled out his phone immediately, careful not to make it a bigger moment than it needed to be. You recited your number slowly, and he typed it in just as carefully, reading it back to make sure he’d gotten it right. When you nodded, confirming, his smile softened.
“I’ll text you,” he said. “About the research. And… everything else.”
Your lips curved into a shy smile, quick but genuine.
“Yeah, sounds good.” you said.
You took a step back, then paused, glancing at him once more.
“Thank you,” you added. “For tonight.”
Lewis shook his head lightly. “No, no…thank you.”
He watched as you left, the door closing softly behind you, his phone still warm in his hand.
Weeks later, Lewis was still texting you almost every day.
It usually started with work. A question about your research. A link he’d read and wanted your opinion on. A thought about how something might fit into Mission 44. Reasonable things. The kind of messages that made sense between two people who’d met at a charity dinner.
Still, he knew he didn’t need to be the one sending them. There were meetings for this. Teams. People whose job it was to handle partnerships and proposals. But, he never passed it on. He kept you to himself, as much as was possible.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like follow ups. He caught himself checking his phone more often than he needed to. Waiting for your responses. They were always so intelligent and sweet, neatly finished sentences. Every time you responded he’d see your shy smile and feel his heart melt. So he kept replying. Started to read articles that he never would have made time for before, just to find something to message you about. He kept the momentum going, even on days when there was nothing urgent to say.
He tried not to examine it too closely. He just knew he didn’t want the conversation to end. Lewis found himself enjoying the quiet consistency of it, and he didn't want to be the one who let it fade.
One Tuesday evening, London time, late enough that the city outside his window had softened into streetlights and rain-smeared glass, he sat on the edge of the hotel bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
He’d spent the day in meetings that ran together like watercolour, all impact metrics and timelines and polite handshakes, but his mind kept circling back to something you’d written in a text last week: “It’s not just access. It’s whether the door feels safe enough for the kids to walk through. Especially if they've been mistreated.”
The sentence had lodged in him like a splinter. Lewis had hated school, hated it so thoroughly that he still carried the memory like scar tissue. He deemed it to be one of the most traumatising times of his life, if he were honest. The unfair scrutiny that followed him like a shadow, the blatant discrimination dressed up as discipline, the way the whole system seemed engineered to punish anyone who didn’t fold themselves neatly into the mould. He’d learned early to keep his head down, to move fast, to prove himself elsewhere. But the ache had never quite left.
You understood it. Not as an abstract theory, not as something to be debated in seminar rooms, but as lived truth through the kids you’d worked with. You could articulate it with such gentle precision that it disarmed him every time. Even over text. Especially over text.
It seemed almost foolish, this quiet attachment forming over typed messages and shared links. Silly, even, to let someone’s careful sentences reach into places he’d long ago boarded up. But it was healing something in him he hadn’t realised was still raw. Someone like you, so soft and shy, yet so unflinchingly aware of the world’s sharper edges, saw the things he’d spent years learning to outrun. And you spoke of them without judgment, without demand. You spoke of them with such gentle care.
He was due back in London for three slightly unstructured days. A few meetings here and there. He had to see you. Had to hear your quiet voice in person, had to watch the way your eyes flicked away and then back when you found your footing.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed the call button.
You answered on the second ring.
“Lewis?” Your voice was soft, surprised, a little breathless because you’d had to check the screen twice to believe the name.
“Hi.” He laughed under his breath, sheepish. “I, uh… honestly didn’t think this far ahead. I wasn’t expecting you to pick up.”
“Oh…” The single syllable hung there, uncertain. You hadn’t had time to rehearse, to armour yourself with the right words. He could almost see your reaction in his head. He imagined your fingers tightening around your phone, gaze dropping to the floor.
“Look,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck even though you couldn’t see it. “I’m back in London soon. A couple of days, nothing heavy. I was wondering if you’d want to meet up. Coffee, maybe. Or… whatever feels easiest. Only if you’re comfortable.”
There was a small, careful silence.
Your heart dropped to your stomach at the quiet hopefulness in his voice. It wasn't that you were opposed to seeing him, but the thought of people’s lingering eyes on you with one of the most famous people in the UK? It made you want to curl yourself into a ball and stay as small as possible. As nice as Lewis was, you weren’t going to make yourself uncomfortable for anyone.
“No thank you,” you said quietly.
Lewis’s eyebrows lifted. He was grateful for the fact that you couldn’t see the way his mouth opened, then closed again. Dumbfounded didn’t begin to cover it. You’d just… declined. Politely. Kindly, even. There wasn’t even an excuse. It was just a quiet, honest no. He stared at the wall opposite him, the neutral hotel beige blurring slightly in the low light. Phone still pressed to his ear, warm against his skin, he felt the silence stretch as he blinked.
He’d been so sure. Not in an arrogant or presumptuous way. He was quietly certain that the connection you’d both been tending these past weeks would naturally lead here. Coffee. A table between you. Your voice in real air instead of typed lines. He’d pictured it a few times: how you might fold your hands in your lap the same way you did at the dinner, the small lift of your shoulders when you relaxed, the moment your eyes might hold his for longer than a second. A small, incredulous huff escaped him. It could’ve been a laugh, but it was more of an exhale of surprise at his own surprise.
“I don’t think I’d like people staring,” you continued, softer now, almost apologetic. “You’re… very recognisable, Lewis. No offence.”
Relief hit him like cool air after a long run. Of course you’d think about the eyes that would follow him anywhere public, the whispers, the photos that would circulate before the coffee even cooled. He was used to being seen, but you weren’t. You’d never asked for that spotlight. You’d barely asked for his attention at all, and yet here he was, heart thudding unevenly because you’d said no thank you in the gentlest voice imaginable.
He swallowed, throat suddenly a little dry.
“Sorry,” he said, soft as he could manage it, the word carrying more than apology. It carried understanding, belated and complete. “I didn’t… I should’ve thought of that first. I wasn’t thinking about how it would feel for you.”
The line stayed quiet, but not empty. He could hear the faint rustle of you shifting. He imagined you maybe tucking your legs under you, or pressing your free hand to your cheek the way you did when you were thinking hard. Small sounds. Human sounds. They steadied him more than any words could have.
He exhaled again, slower.
“Let me try again,” he said, voice low, careful not to sound too pushy. “What if I found a way for it to be just us? No public place. No eyes. Somewhere quiet. Private.”
You didn’t answer for a moment, processing what he was saying.
“For what, though?” Your voice was barely above a murmur. You were curious, more than anything.
He cringed a little at himself. The honest answer felt too big for the moment, too soon. So he gave you the safe one, the one that still let a little truth slip through.
“To talk more about your work,” he said softly. “And… maybe just to…talk?”
The line went still again. He waited, patient as ever.
When you spoke again, your voice was small, but there was something new in it. It sounded like a tentative opening, a door cracked just enough to let light through.
“Okay,” you said finally. “If it’s… just us. I think I could do that.”
Lewis closed his eyes for a second, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“I’ll figure it out,” he promised. “Somewhere you’ll feel safe. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”
“Okay,” you repeated. “Thank you.”
You could hear his smile over the phone. “Don’t thank me for making you more comfortable, sweetie. See you soon.”
When the call ended, he sat there in the dim room for a long minute, his heart doing something unsteady and unfamiliar.
His texts arrived the next morning, late enough that he thought it wouldn't seem too eager, despite him staying up half the night trying to think of ways to make you feel more comfortable.
He arrived twenty minutes early the following evening, not to hover, but to make sure everything was exactly as promised. The building was a converted warehouse, discreet, no signs, tucked between a quiet residential street and a road that rarely saw foot traffic after dark. He’d checked everything twice. No paparazzi hangouts nearby, no events that night, no overlooking windows from neighbouring properties. He even ordered a normal uber under a different name and offered the driver a tip to not mention that he'd just dropped him off in Notting Hill. It was a little excessive, to say the least.
The studio itself was a single large room. High ceilings, exposed brick softened by bookshelves and low lighting, a long table, two comfortable chairs, a small kitchenette in the corner. No cameras, no doorman, no one else in the building after 5 p.m. His friends would have laughed out loud at how careful he was being, calling him whipped or whatever else they usually said, but there was something about your shyness that made him feel incredibly protective over how safe you felt. There was almost a physical urge he felt to shield it. To keep it safe the way someone keeps a flame cupped against wind. He would’ve rented an entire floor of a building, cleared an entire street, booked out a private wing of the British Library after hours if that’s what it took for you to say yes without a single flicker of hesitation in your voice.
He left the door to the studio ajar, kettle already filled in case you wanted tea. Then he stepped back into the hallway, leaning against the wall opposite, hands in his pockets, breathing steady. Or as steady as he could. He was a little nervous, if he was honest with himself.
When the lift chimed at 6:03, he straightened.
You stepped out, coat still buttoned, bag held in both hands like an anchor. Your eyes found him immediately, and your posture eased just slightly.
“Hi,” you said, voice soft, a little breathless from nervousness.
“Hi.” He smiled, slow and gentle, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You found it okay?”
You nodded. “The code worked fine, yeah. Thank you for waiting out here.”
“Of course.” He gestured toward the open door without crowding the space between you. “It’s just through there. Take your time. I’m right behind you.”
You stepped inside first. He followed, closing the door softly behind him. He stayed near the entrance a moment longer, giving you room to look around, to settle. When you finally turned back to him, shoulders a little lower, he spoke quietly.
“Tea? Coffee? Water? Or we can just sit for a minute if you’d like.”
You gave him a small, real smile, still a little shy.
“Tea would be nice,” you said.
He moved to the kitchenette with easy, unhurried steps, filling the kettle, switching it on, setting out two mugs. The soft clink of ceramic and the low hum of boiling water filled the quiet, giving you something to listen to while you took in the room: exposed brick warmed by low lamps, the long oak table, the single vase of white tulips he must have brought in earlier. He was so incredibly sweet, you thought.
When the kettle clicked off, he poured slowly. Milk first into your mug the way you’d once let slip in a text, one sugar, stirred twice, then carried both to the table. He set yours down first, then took the chair opposite, leaving plenty of space so you never felt boxed in.
You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting the heat ground you. You’d been texting this man for weeks and still, somehow felt like you wanted the ground to swallow you up every time his attention came back to you. “Thanks,” you murmured.
He settled in, elbows on the table, hands loose around his own cup. “How was work?” he asked gently, voice warm and casual, like they’d done this a hundred times. “You mentioned a focus group today, right? Sounded heavy.”
You exhaled, a small relieved breath that he’d started the conversation in familiar territory. “Yeah. It was… intense. Kids who’ve been permanently excluded. Year 9 and 10. They were angry, but not in the way you’d expect. You could hear it in how they talked, like they’d already decided no one was going to change anything.”
He nodded, listening with the full attention he gave so naturally. “What did they say?”
“One boy said the school decided he was trouble before he even got a chance to prove otherwise. A girl told me she stopped raising her hand because teachers acted like her answers were wrong before she finished speaking.” You shrugged, fingers tracing the mug’s handle. “They’re smart. They see exactly how the system works against them. They just don’t have anyone who’ll actually do something about it.”
Lewis leaned forward slightly, eyes steady. “It’s awful that it's still the same as it was,” he said quietly. “I tried so hard at school. Stayed up rewriting notes until my hand cramped, read the same page over and over until the words stopped making sense. It was never enough. Teachers saw attitude instead of effort. Then the kids. Jesus Christ, I was being bullied before I knew what the word even meant. Got suspended once for something I didn’t even do, no one bothered to check my side of the story. Then at sixteen they finally said I had dyslexia. Too late to fix anything by then, though.”
You looked up, really looked at him for a second. He was expecting the pity he normally hates, but he was met with a fierce anger in your eye and the slightest furrow of your brows. “I’m sorry. That’s… awful, Lewis. It’s so unfair. You were just a kid.”
He gave a small, crooked smile and a little shrug. “It was. But look at me now, right? It shouldn’t have, but it moulded me into the person I am today. And hearing those kids through you, it feels like someone’s finally listening properly. Means a lot.”
The conversation eased from there, More about the focus group, the small things that went right, the one boy who stayed after to ask if you’d come back next month. Your voice loosened as you spoke, hands gesturing a little before settling back on the mug. You were talking freely now, sentences coming without the usual careful pauses.
Lewis watched the change: how your shoulders dropped, the quiet spark in your eyes when you got into the details. He couldn’t stop the way he'd started smiling.
When you paused to take a sip, he leaned forward just a touch, voice dropping softer. “You know…you get this little light in your face when you talk about them. It’s beautiful.”
Your gaze dropped straight to the table. Heat rushed into your cheeks. You pressed your lips together, fingers tightening on the mug.
He let out a small, boyish giggle at your reaction. He was surprised at himself, the sound was so unguarded it almost startled him. “Sorry,” he said, still smiling. “Didn’t mean to make you hide.”
You let out a quiet breath of a laugh, eyes still fixed on the tea. “It’s not… I just—if I look at you right now, I’m not going to be able to get another word out.”
Lewis’s smile widened, helpless and delighted. He ducked his head a little, trying to catch even the edge of your gaze without pushing too hard. “Hey,” he said gently, voice warm with affection. “That’s okay. I like hearing you talk anyway. And… I kind of like knowing I make you nervous. Makes me feel like I’m not the only one who’s a bit off-balance here.”
You risked a quick glance up, barely a second, then away again, but the corner of your mouth lifted.
He giggled again, softer this time, the sound boyish and bright. “See? That little look. You’re killing me. You’re so sweet.”
You covered your face with one hand, laughing into your palm completely embarrassed. “Stop.”
“I’m trying,” he said, but he wasn’t, not really. His eyes crinkled, voice dropping even lower. “But you’re making it really hard to not tease you.”
The air between you felt lighter now, warmer, threaded with something new and careful.
He leaned back a little, giving you the space to breathe. “Whenever you’re ready to look at me,” he said, teasing but tender, “I’ll be right here.”
You peeked through your fingers again, eyes meeting his for that longer second, and this time you didn’t drop your gaze quite so fast. The shyness in your eyes was still there, but your smile was steadier now, showing him that you were still nervous but not retreating.
Lewis held your gaze and smiled, looking away himself, first. He leaned back a little more, giving you the table’s full width again, and picked up his mug like he needed something to do with his hands.
“So,” he said, voice light, teasing just enough, “am I allowed to look at you now, or is that still dangerous?”
You let out a quiet laugh, and finally lowered your hand completely. “You’re making it worse.”
“Worse?” He raised an eyebrow, grin wide and unapologetic. “I’m just sitting here. You’re the one hiding like we’re playing peek-a-boo.”
You pressed your lips together, fighting another smile. “It’s not fair. You don’t even blink.”
“I’m trying very hard not to,” he admitted, and the honesty in it made you laugh again, properly this time, head tipping back just a fraction.
He watched you, transfixed by your laughter, the sound of it doing something ridiculous to his pulse. “See? That’s what I mean. You laugh like that and I forget how words work.”
You pressed your lips together again, fighting another smile, then shook your head slowly. The movement was small, almost apologetic, but your eyes stayed on his this time, soft and steady.
“Sorry,” you said, voice quiet but warm, the words coming out in a gentle rush. “I just… I don’t know. I get like this. Shy. Until I really know someone. It’s not you, I promise. I like talking to you. A lot. More than I expected to.”
The admission hung there between you, simple in its honesty. Lewis’s grin softened into something quieter, more tender. He set his mug down, elbows resting lightly on the table again, chin propped on one hand so he could look at you without crowding.
“I like talking to you too,” he said, low and easy. “A lot. More than I expected to.” He let the echo of your words settle, mirroring them back gently, then added, “And the shyness? Don’t apologise for it. It’s… nice. It’s you. Makes me want to earn every word you give me.”
You ducked your head for a second, but the smile stayed, less hidden. When you looked up again, your eyes held his properly, no flicking away. “You’re already doing that.”
He let out a small, surprised breath of a laugh at your response. Boyish still, but softer. “Good. Because I’m not planning on stopping.”
The moment stretched, comfortable now instead of tense. You both sat there, mugs forgotten, the low lamps painting warm shadows across the table. The conversation continued easily.
After a while, you glanced toward the window. The city outside was fully dark now, streetlights smearing gold across the rooftops. You sighed, reluctant to leave.
“I really should go,” you said. “Before I talk myself into staying all night.”
Lewis stood with you, slow and careful. “Can’t blame you for wanting to stay,” he teased lightly, “but I’ll behave.”
At the door, you paused, turning back to him. Your bag was still clutched in both hands, but your shoulders were loose, your posture open in a way it hadn’t been when you first arrived.
“Thank you,” you said again, softer this time. “For making this easy. For… waiting.”
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, fighting the urge to step closer. “Anytime. Seriously. Text me when you’re home?”
“I will.” You gave him one last smile. Shy still, but brighter now, more unguarded. “Night, Lewis.”
“Night.”
You stepped into the hallway. He watched you walk to the lift, press the button, wait. When the doors slid open, you glanced back, and lifted your hand in a small wave.
Then you stopped. The doors waited, open, patient. You hesitated, fingers tightening on your bag strap, then loosening again. Something flickered across your face: nerves, resolve, a quiet decision made in the space of a few seconds. You turned fully toward him again.
Lewis went still, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, not sure what was coming. You closed the short distance between you in three careful steps. He held his breath. You were close enough that he could smell the faint trace of your shampoo, feel the warmth of you in the cool hallway air.
You rose on your toes, slow and deliberate, and pressed your lips to his cheek. It was brief, the barest brush of warmth, but it hit him like a truck. He blinked, that's all he could manage.
You stepped back almost immediately, eyes wide with your own surprise. “Night,” you whispered again, voice barely there, then turned and slipped into the lift before he could find words.
The doors closed. Lewis stood frozen in the hallway, one hand rising slowly to touch the spot where your lips had been. Heat bloomed across his face, not just from the kiss, but from the sheer unexpected sweetness of it. His heart thudded hard and uneven as he stood frozen to the spot. He exhaled a shaky, disbelieving laugh, and pressed his palm fully to his cheek as if he could hold your warmth there a second longer.
You’d just kissed him. On the cheek. Just because you’d wanted to. He wasn’t expecting it, hadn’t dared hope for it, and that made him even more giddy. He walked back into the studio on legs that felt slightly unsteady, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it for a long moment, smiling like a complete and utter idiot.
Before you'd even stepped out of the lift at the bottom floor, his phone was already in his hand, thumb hovering over the send button on a simple Home safe? In his head, he was already plotting the next quiet place, the next time he could watch you beautifully unfold like that again.
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Here's an intro to Formula 1 lore. Get to know some famous rivalries, resident curses, and basic history!
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I don’t want to hear one person saying that Piastri is being whiny or ungrateful for saying he is “speechless” after pulling p2 in Qatar. He should be angry. He literally did not put a SINGLE foot wrong all weekend. Fastest in FP, sprint pole, sprint win, gp pole, perfect start & restart, was asked for a 1.24 put out a 1.22 on hards.
The win was his, he deserved it. Yeah I know “if if if” but whatever. Andrea Stella admitted that they didn’t pit under the safety car because it would disadvantage Norris. Norris could afford not to podium today and Piastri needed that win. Stella even admitted that Piastri deserved the win.
It’s ridiculous. Papaya rules has never been about fairness or equality between drivers it’s always been about playing the team game until they secure the constructors then undercutting a certain driver to favour the other who in my honest opinion??? today was NOT the better driver. Piastri proved himself today with pace and overtaking whereas Norris, sure he had a solid drive, but he lost two positions on the opening lap and had a lucky late overtake on Antonelli because Antonelli made a mistake.
This weekend was Piastri’s by a mile, and simply put? the team cost him it. All season he’s been fighting not only every other driver on the grid, but his own team too.
TLDR; fck Mclaren. Fck papaya rules. I’m rightfully pissed and Piastri should be too.
And yeah, I still believe in P1astri. Whatever happens in Abu Dhabi, he’s my WDC.
Side note: hell yes and congrats to Sainz&Williams on a podium today. Mega drive.
