✧*:･𝟟𝟘𝕤𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕠𝕣

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and warm. He set the phone aside immediately and rose, crossing the room in seconds. His hands cupped your face with infinite gentleness, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. His eyes flitted over your face, cataloguing how you were feeling before he even had to ask. “Breathe for me, you're okay baby.”

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, already shrugging out of your jacket. “The plane...customs...everything. We’re going to be so late, Lew. They’re probably already seating people and I still look like I’ve been dragged through a wind tunnel and I need to shower and do my hair and makeup and—”

“Shh.” He pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose. “Not your fault at all, sweetie. We’ll just be fashionably late, yeah? It’s fine. I already sent a message, we’re not the guests of honour. No one’s going to riot if we arrive after the first course.” His dark eyes held yours, steady and reassuring, always grounding you naturally. But beneath that serenity he brought to you so easily, you caught the flicker of heat, restrained but unmistakable. He wet his bottom lip with his tongue as his eyes dragged over your every feature. He hadn’t seen you in seven long days. Seven days of races, meetings, and time zones keeping you apart.

You tried to smile, but the panic still buzzed under your skin, overstimulated and frayed. “My hair is going to be impossible. And my dress is wrinkled and—”

“No no no, stop spiralling. You’re always perfect,” he said simply, helping you pull off your joggers with careful fingers. His touch lingered though, like he couldn’t help himself, the tips of his fingers gently grazing the back of your thighs, up until he gave your ass a gentle squeeze.

You opened your mouth to tell him off...but before you could he gave you a cheeky grin and let go of you with a wink. “Go shower, sweetie. I’ll sort your dress. Take as long as you need.”

You didn’t. You took eight frantic minutes. Scalding water, frantic scrubbing, a quick wash of your hair that left it dripping down your back as you wrapped yourself in the hotel’s thick white robe. When you stepped back into the bedroom, steam curling around your ankles, Lewis was exactly where he’d said he’d be: back on the bed, your evening gown draped neatly over the armchair, already steamed and ready to go. He’d dimmed the lights slightly. The city glittered beyond the windows, but his gaze was locked on you. You could feel his eyes like a gentle caress down your sides.

He looked hungry.

Not obvious. Never obvious with Lewis. But it was there in the slight parting of his lips, the way his fingers flexed against his thigh, the subtle shift in his posture as he took you in. You knew he was obsessed with you like this. Bare faced, damp-haired, smelling of your favourite shower gel. A week apart had clearly tested him more than he’d let on during your late-night calls. 

But you were late. Ridiculously late. So you turned and started sifting through your bag, ignoring how he shamelessly adjusted himself in his trousers.

“You’re staring,” you said, voice still tight with residual stress as you hunted for your makeup bag.

“Can’t help it.” His tone stayed soft, but there was a restless edge underneath. “Missed you, baby. More than you know.” He patted the space beside him on the bed. “Come here for a second. Let me help you calm down.”

You hesitated, glancing at the clock. “Lewis, we really don’t have time—”

“Oh come on, beautiful. Please…two minutes,” he coaxed, a charming smirk tugging at his mouth. You rolled your eyes at him, but that only spurred him on more. He reached out and grabbed your hand, gently tugging you towards the bed. When you sat, he pulled you gently between his spread thighs, your back to his chest. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him. His lips found the damp curve of your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses that made your pulse quicken. The heat of his tongue over your skin left you defenceless in seconds. “You’re so tense, angel. Let me take some of that weight, yeah?”

His hands smoothed up and down your arms, then slipped beneath the robe to cup your shoulders, thumbs working into the knots with practiced care. Every touch was reverent. Every breath against your skin was warm. You couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through you, or the goosebumps surfacing your skin. He wasn’t rushing anything, yet you could feel him growing hard against the small of your back, the rigid length of him pressing insistently through the fine wool of his trousers. He didn’t grind against you yet, he simply held you, breathing you in, letting the evidence of his need throb quietly between you.

“Lewis…” Your voice wavered, you were aiming for protest, but it came out more as a sigh. The panic of being late was still there, fluttering wildly, but his presence was slowly muting it, replacing it with a different kind of heat.

“I know, I know,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One hand drifted higher, palming the soft weight of your breast through the robe, thumb circling lazily over your nipple until it peaked. You melted further back against him, and you could feel his smug smile against your ear. “We’re late. You’re stressed. I’m being selfish.” He lets out a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “But fuck, angel… a whole week without touching you. Without tasting you. I’ve been thinking about this body every night. Been saving myself for you…” His other hand slid down, parting the robe just enough to expose the valley between your breasts. He groaned softly, leaning forward and pressing his face there, inhaling. “Just need a little taste. Please.”

You glanced toward the mirror across the room, your hair was still soaking wet, no makeup, robe slipping off one shoulder, and you felt the familiar spiral of overwhelm rising again. You were so embarrassingly late.  “Lew, we don’t have time—”

He shifted you effortlessly in his lap so you faced him, straddling one of his thighs. The movement made the robe fall open completely. His suit jacket was still on, the contrast between his polished elegance and your near-naked vulnerability made your stomach flip. His brown eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide with want, yet his voice remained achingly sweet. 

“Please, baby… please.” The words came out ragged, desperate. His hands cupped your breasts, lifting them, thumbs stroking reverently. “Just let me feel you. I’ll be so quick, I swear. We don’t even have to– just let me fuck your tits or something…anything….” He looked up at you with raw hunger wrapped in devotion, pressing hot, open kisses along the inner curve of one breast. “Please… please, baby, please. I’ve been so good. Missed you so fucking much.”

His hips rolled subtly beneath you, his bulge straining against his zipper. 

You were helpless and you knew it. Watching him be reduced to breathless begging because he’d been without you for seven days was enough for you to give him anything and everything he wanted. 

The panic had burned away, leaving only raw, humming need in its place. Your fingers gripped his braids, just enough to tilt his head back. His eyes fluttered, dark and glassy with want as you cupped his jaw in both hands, thumbs stroking the sharp line of it. You held him there for a few long seconds, watching as his chest heaved, as his eyebrows furrowed in desperation. And then you crashed your lips to his.

He moaned into the kiss like a man starving, the sound vibrating straight through you. His tongue met yours instantly, hot and slick and desperate, sliding deep with no hesitation. The kiss was wet, open-mouthed, breathless. He tasted like mint and longing and love. One of his hands gripped your hip, massaging the soft flesh whilst anchoring you on his thigh, while the other stayed devoted to your breast, kneading the soft weight, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you whimpered against his lips.

When you finally pulled back for air, a thin string of saliva connected you for a second before breaking. Lewis chased your mouth, panting.

“Baby…” His voice was shaky, low and rough. “Please. Please let me have you. I’ll be so quick, I swear. Just need to feel you around me. Been dreaming about you every night” His forehead pressed to yours, eyes pleading. He was fixated on your tits, one hand still playing with them as he begged. “Please, please, love. I’m aching so bad it hurts. Let me fuck them. I’ll make it up to you later, I promise. I’ll spend hours between your legs if you want. Just—please.”

You brushed your thumb over his swollen bottom lip, and he kissed it reverently. Automatic devotion. He knew how to get what he wanted.

“Lay me down, Lew.”

Relief and fresh hunger flashed across his face. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you back against the plush bedding with the same care he’d use handling something fragile. Lewis rose onto his knees between your spread thighs, still fully dressed in his sharp black suit. His hands shook slightly as he undid his belt and zipper, freeing his cock.

He was rock hard, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking just from the kisses you'd given him. You watched, mesmerised, as he wrapped a hand around himself and stroked slowly, eyes devouring every inch of your body splayed out for him.

“Fuck… look at you,” he breathed. Obsession dripped from every word. “My beautiful baby. Missed this body so much. Missed you.” He leaned forward, pressing the thick head of his cock against your lips just enough for you to taste the salt of him, then pulled back. Instead, he slid his thumb into your mouth. You sucked instinctively, tongue swirling around the digit, and Lewis’s eyes rolled back, a broken groan tearing from his throat. He kept working himself, mouth parted and panting, eyes locked on the way you were sucking his thumb.

“Shit—baby. I love it when you do that..”

He pulled his thumb free with a wet pop, then gathered spit in his mouth and let it drip down onto your breasts in a warm, obscene trail. He spread it with the head of his cock, painting your skin, before pressing your breasts together himself. The first slow slide between them dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest.

“Oh my god… yes.” His hips rolled forward, eyes fluttering. “So soft. Perfect—fuck, they’re perfect for me.”

You held yourself for him, pressing your tits tighter around his length as he began to thrust. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filled the suite. Lewis’s head tipped back, braids falling messily around his face, jaw slack with pleasure. Every few strokes the flushed head of his cock nudged up toward your collarbones, shiny and leaking.

“Talk to me, Lewis,” you whispered, desperate and aching for more. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Like heaven,” he gasped, eyes locking onto yours again. “Better than heaven. So fucking good, baby. Missed how good you make me feel. Only you, angel. You’re so pretty down there… letting me use you when we’re already late. Such a good girl for me.”

You smiled, wicked and soft, and when his next thrust brought him close enough, you leaned your head forward and dragged your tongue across the tip of his cock. Lewis’s hips stuttered hard.

“Fuck—!” His voice cracked. “Baby… oh shit, do that again. Please.”

“You taste so good, baby,” you murmured, licking him again on the next upward glide, savouring the taste of him. “Mmm… so fucking good.”

“Oh my god– thank you, baby… fuck yes, don’t stop—please.” The begging was back, raw and needy, each word punctuated by a desperate thrust between your breasts. His rhythm grew faster, more erratic, you wished you could see the muscles in his abs and thighs flexing. Sweat glistened at his temples. The polished man sat on the bed when you’d arrived was gone, only this desperately in love man remained. You loved watching him dissolve into this version of himself. 

He was getting close. You could see it in the way his eyes kept rolling back, the way his grip on your breasts tightened, the filthy stream of praise and pleas falling from his lips.

“Gonna come so hard for you,” he growled, voice dropping into the dangerous register it did when he was close. “Look at me, baby. Gonna swallow it all for me, aren’t you? Want me to cum down your throat, don’t you? Want to drink every drop while I’m still wearing this fucking suit?”

You moaned around the head of his cock on the next lick, eyes watering with how deep you took him when he pushed forward. The dirty talk sent another rush of heat through you as you nodded eagerly.

“Yes—please, baby, open your mouth,” he begged, stroking himself fast now, the wet head slapping against your tongue. “I’m so close. Please let me fill that pretty mouth. Been saving it all for you. All week. Fuck—take it, baby. Take it—”

His whole body seized. With a deep, broken groan that echoed off the walls, Lewis came hard. Thick, hot pulses spilled across your tongue and down your throat. You swallowed around him, sucking gently, milking every last drop as he shuddered and cursed beautifully above you. His hand stroked your hair through it, tender even in the middle of his orgasm, whispering shaky praises between gasps.

When he finally pulled back, spent and trembling, he collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his chest. His suit was rumpled now, tie askew, braids fallen out of his hair tie. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, completely unbothered that he could taste himself on your tongue.

“God, I love you,” he murmured, voice soft again, that angelic sweetness returning in full force. “Thank you, baby. You’re incredible. Always make me feel so good.”

You let out a breathless laugh, glancing down at the glossy mess painted across your chest and collarbones. His release and spit glistened on your skin, warm and obscene against the soft light of the suite. “I’m gonna have to shower again, Lew…”

He giggled, a low, boyish sound that melted into something almost guilty. He actually looked a little sheepish as he bit his lip and surveyed the evidence of his desperation. “Shit. Sorry, baby.” The apology was genuine, but his eyes still held a spark of satisfaction, dark and possessive. “Couldn’t help myself. You looked too good like that.”

Before you could swing your legs off the bed, Lewis caught you gently by the waist and pulled you back down, rolling you beneath him with effortless strength. The weight of his body settled over yours, the fabric of his suit whispering against your bare skin.

“You’re not showering yet,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Not until I’ve taken care of my girl.”

His lips trailed lower—slow, worshipful kisses down your throat, over your sternum. You shivered beneath him, fingers threading back into his braids as he hummed in quiet appreciation.

“Lew… we really are so late—”

“Shh. Two minutes,” he promised, though the wicked curve of his mouth suggested it might stretch longer. “Just let me taste you. I’ve missed this pussy all week. Let me make you feel good, baby. Please.”

He didn’t wait for another protest. Sliding down your body with fluid grace, Lewis settled between your thighs, pushing them wider with gentle hands. He pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then another, working his way inward until his breath ghosted over your soaked core. A low, appreciative groan rumbled from his chest.

“Already so wet for me,” he murmured, almost awed. “My perfect girl.”

Then his mouth was on you. Hot, slow, and devastatingly skilled. His tongue flattened against your clit before circling it with lazy precision, sucking gently as two fingers eased inside you, curling at the exact angle you loved so much. The wet sounds of his devotion filled the room, mingled with your soft gasps and his quiet, hungry moans. He devoured you like a man savouring his favourite meal after starving for days. Long, luxurious licks followed by focused suction that had your back arching off the bed.

One of his hands reached up to intertwine with yours, holding it tightly against your stomach as the other worked between your legs, stroking the perfect spot inside you with every thrust of his fingers. He never rushed. Even now, with the clock ticking, Lewis took his time, lavishing you with love and filthy praise between kisses and licks.

“That’s it, baby… let me hear you. Fuck, you taste so sweet. Missed making you fall apart for me.”

Your free hand tightened in his braids as the pleasure coiled tighter, hips rolling against his talented mouth. He groaned in encouragement, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. When you finally came, it crashed over you in deep, shuddering waves, his name spilling from your lips in a gasped moan. Lewis stayed with you through every pulse, licking you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive, only pulling back when you gently tugged at his braids.

He crawled back up your body, face flushed, lips shiny with your arousal, and kissed you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was slower this time, full of love, gratitude, and quiet promise.

“There,” he whispered against your mouth, smiling his soft, boyish smile again. “Now we can both shower. Quickly.” He pressed one last kiss to your forehead. “Though I wouldn’t mind being a little later if it means getting to do that again.”

You laughed, breathless and glowing, and let him pull you toward the bathroom, his hand warm and steady in yours. The gala could wait another ten minutes. Nothing mattered more to him than this.

The door clicked shut behind you with barely a sound. The suite was dim, just the city lights flickering faintly through the window and the soft ambient glow above the minibar. Somewhere far below, traffic hummed, horns distantly. You didn’t speak.

Lewis had walked in ahead of you casually. He tossed the keycard on the entry table like it was nothing, slid his sunglasses off with a calm hand, and rolled his neck slightly, just once, like shaking off the last few hours. Almost as though he wasn’t holding anything in.

You saw it all though, the way his fingers lingered too long at his collar. How his shoulders sat too still, and most of all, the way that small, forced smile curved at his mouth.

That smile always meant trouble. Not his real smile. It wasn’t the warm one you loved, that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened his whole face. 

This one was for the cameras, the sponsors, the press. The smile he wore when someone shoved a mic in his face thirty seconds after a crash and asked how he felt.

“You know, these things happen,” he’d said earlier, diplomatic as always, with that exact expression. “Racing incident. Congrats to the winner. Car felt good, until it didn’t.”

Then, he’d smiled. Just like this. Except now, no one was watching.

There was no podium, no cameras, no crowd clapping like they understood what it took to survive at that speed. Just dim lamplight and the quiet, artificial stillness of a hotel room trying too hard to be peaceful. Then there was him, standing there in the echo of it all, wearing a smile that no longer fit the shape of his face.

He exhaled slowly, a breath that dragged from the depths of his chest, as if it had to climb through broken ribs to reach the light. His hand came up to his jaw, brushing across his soft beard a rhythm that felt practiced, almost distracted, a ritual to keep from unravelling. You watched his fingers pause at the edge of his mouth, where that smile still hovered, faint, automatic, like a mask he hadn’t realised he was still wearing.

Lewis turned slightly toward you, and for a second it almost worked. The way he held himself, the warm light on his skin, the casual ease of his voice when he finally spoke, it was all a performance. One he had perfected over years of interviews and pressure, pretending he wasn’t made of nerve endings and scar tissue.

“You hungry?” he asked offhandedly, like the answer didn’t matter. “We didn’t eat after the race.”

You blinked silently, his words not quite landing in your chest. There was no edge in his tone, it was too even, too smooth, and that made your stomach clench.

“Lewis.”

Just his name, but even that was enough to change the air between you. He tilted his head, watching you with that same patient calmness he used when speaking to strangers who thought they knew him. There was warmth in his eyes, yes, there always was when he looked at you, but it felt…distant. 

“Room service maybe?” he continued, gently, as though coaxing you into normalcy. “Pasta or something. You’d love the ravi-”

“Lewis.”

You said it again, firmer this time, and you saw it happen, the tiny fracture. Small, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

His smile faltered, as if something behind his eyes had flinched. His gaze dropped away from yours, fixed somewhere near the window, and his jaw flexed once in a quiet effort to hold it all in place. When the smile returned, it wasn’t the same, it curved at the edges, too sharp, too tight, no warmth. A blade instead of a balm.

“I’m fine,” he replied, each word clipped with precision, as though he needed you to believe it more than he did.

You stepped forward carefully, taking in the subtle lines under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were held like a man bracing for impact even in stillness. “Doesn’t look like it.”

His mouth twitched with a sound between a scoff and a sigh, then he turned from you before the silence could press in too tightly. His body moved like it hurt, not visibly, but enough that you felt it in your bones. His restraint held in the buzzing beneath the surface. 

Lewis didn’t speak as you stepped closer, instead, he reached up and slowly tugged at the clasp of his watch, peeling it from his wrist and setting it down on the dresser with a soft clink. A ring followed next, sliding off his tattooed fingers, then another. He pulled them off with controlled movements, each one placed beside the watch with a kind of surgical precision.

You stood in front of him by then, watching his hands move, every movement controlled, as if he were undressing for war. The light caught his cheekbones in dim gold, softening the tension in his jaw but not easing it.

His eyes flicked up, to meet yours, and in that look, there it was. Fury buried deep under his skin, pressure humming under ribs. That smile had vanished, but the mask hadn’t yet.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you whispered, holding his gaze carefully.

He didn’t answer, so you reached for his hand. His skin was warm and rough, the pads of his fingers still stiff with tension, slightly rough from the wheel, from the gym, from years of gripping control. You could feel the quiet violence still lingering in the tendons of his palm, the way the veins stood like fine cords beneath his skin.

Still, he was holding it in, the rage, the self-loathing. The way he’d stayed silent on the team radio. The way he hadn’t said a word in the garage. It was like the crash had shaken the depths of him, and now he was trying to bury it beneath control, but it clung to him anyway, that fury and shame, too big to keep down. It was in his eyes, in the tick of his jaw, in the restraint carved into every line of his body.

You knew him well enough to recognise it. He was never the type to scream or punch a wall, but he was still burning inside.

You knew you were the one he didn’t have to perform for. The only one who could take the heat of all that pressure and still reach for him like this.

So you brought his hand to your mouth slowly, deliberately, and pressed your lips to the center of his palm, kissing the part of him that always held steady. The part of him that didn’t falter, not even when the world spun around him and he was run into a barrier at unthinkable speed. You felt the faint tremble of breath catch in his chest as you placed another kiss along his fingers.

“I know you’re angry,” you murmured against his skin knowingly. Your breath whispered across his hand, and you didn’t miss the way his jaw ticked. “I can feel it.”

He didn’t pull away from you, but his hand twitched ever so slightly. The way you held it with your fingers curled soothingly around his own, seemed to ground him. He was watching you now, gaze dark and trained on your every movement, the edges of it burning like a match being lit.

“You don’t have to hold it in with me.”

Still, he said nothing. Yet, his chest rose deeper, his shoulders back, and his muscles taut. He was coiled like wire, and you knew if you pushed too hard, it might snap, but you also knew he needed this, not permission, or your pity, he needed space to burn. He needed release. 

So you kept your voice soft, steady. You didn’t beg for anything. Instead, you offered.

“Take it out on me.”

His fingers curved slightly with a flicker of instinct. His broad palm slid to your cheek, and for a moment, he just held you there. Still not moving, still fighting himself. The hesitation was loud, louder than any words he could’ve spoken in that moment. It wasn’t doubt though, you knew that. He was hesitant to let the thread that held him so tightly together slip, not knowing how far the fall would go.

So you guided him gently, drawing his hand down the center of your chest, slow enough to make your breath shallow. Beneath his palm, your heart beat wildly with anticipation, trust, and hunger.

“Use me,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, squeezing his palm over your breast and leaning close enough to feel his breath.

His eyes snapped to yours quickly, scanning every inch of your face for hesitation. For any trace of regret, but you gave him none. You gave him everything.

“I can take it,” you assured him, the words catching slightly in your throat. “All of it.”

That did it.

His fingers flexed, and in the next breath, your back collided with the wall, the impact jolting a gasp from your lips from the sheer adrenaline, and the sudden loss of space between your bodies. His chest crushed yours, his hips pinning you with hard, urgent purpose. One hand braced beside your head, the other curled tight around your throat, pressing just tight enough to remind you who held the reins now.

The air between you buzzed with electricity. Almost violent, yet intimate.

His body caged yours in, the heat of him pouring off in waves. That perfect composure he carried all day had evaporated. What stood in front of you now was not the Lewis Hamilton who smiled at cameras. Not the one who said racing incident through clenched teeth.

This was the man who had swallowed every bitter pill the world shoved at him, and was done smiling through it.

“You really want this?” he growled, voice rougher now, like it scraped its way out of his chest.

You nodded with a soft hum in response, swallowing the slight watering of anticipation in your mouth.

Lewis leaned in, resting his forehead to yours while his hand tightened at your throat, grip holding you still against the wall. His breath ghosted across your lips as he spoke. “Say it again.”

“Use me.”

A growl rumbled low in his chest, half warning, half adoration, before his mouth found yours immediately, hard, unrelenting, his free hand tangling into your hair as his hips pinned you harder to the wall. 

He didn’t ask again, he took. There was no tenderness left in him, no warning, no slow coaxing of mouths and breath. Just heat, teeth, and hands that couldn’t find enough of you fast enough, that tugged, pressed and grabbed the fabric between you was an enemy. 

He kissed you like he was punishing you for offering yourself, as if he hated that he needed this, needed you, this badly. You felt it everywhere as you melted into him, heat pooling in your belly as you swiped your lips against his.

His necklace swung between you with every heave of his chest, the weight of it tapping against your sternum like a metronome for the chaos. His thigh shoved between yours with brutal precision, pressing exactly where you already ached. His mouth dragged over yours in bruising sweeps, open, rough, with his tongue sliding hot against yours, and catching your bottom lip between his teeth until you whimpered into him.

Your hands scrambled for purchase, his broad shoulders, his strong jaw, his flexed biceps, anything you could hold on to, but he was already everywhere.

“Is this what you want, huh?” he rasped into your mouth, voice wrecked. “Want me to forget everything but you?”

You nodded without hesitation, breath ragged, and your hips grinding down against the unrelenting pressure of his thigh like your sanity depended on it.

It wasn’t a request anymore, it was a need.

His mouth curled into something wicked, one that barely resembled a smile, dark and possessive, before his mouth moved to your jaw, to your neck, biting, sucking, marking. His beard scraped your skin in the most delicious way, and he didn’t even try to be gentle. “Then shut up and take it.”

The words hit you like a slap and your whole body tightened in response, the soft moan that escaped your throat more of a plea than a sound, and that pleased him. You felt it in the way his hips ground harder against yours, in the way he shoved your wrists above your head again with one commanding hand, pinning you to the wall as if you belonged nowhere else.

“Always so fucking good for me,” he muttered against your jaw, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating through your bones. “You knew what this would do to me.”

Your own voice trembled softly when his beard brushed down your neck, a delicious burn that lingered long after he moved on. He sucked a mark into the dip beneath your jaw without hesitation, then another lower, your pulse thudding beneath the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth.

“You wanted it.”

His hand dropped from your throat, just enough to palm your chest roughly, a thumb swiping over the swell of your breast, over your nipple through the thin stretch of fabric. You arched into him, thighs already shaking, mouth falling open with another helpless sound.

He tore the neckline down with a single tug, the fabric scraping hot across your exposed skin. His mouth followed immediately, no pause, just hunger, open-mouthed kisses and sharp little bites, his tongue laving the curve of your breast as his fingers dug into your side to keep you still.

Your head hit the wall again, eyes fluttering closed, dizzy from sensation. From everything. From him. This wasn’t his usual controlled self anymore. This was complete combustion, and you were burning for him. Every inch of your skin felt like it belonged to him, every gasp, every mark, every desperate, bruising kiss. Yet still, he wasn’t close enough. Still, you wanted more.

Lewis’ grip slid lower again, rough, commanding, fingers curling around your hips before he turned you sharply, spinning you to face the wall like it was instinct, as though he couldn’t stand the thought of you looking at him when he was this far gone.

Your palms caught yourself against the wall, and you barely had a second to breathe before you felt him crowd in behind you, all heat, muscle and fury, every inch of him caging you in like he needed to drown himself in you just to survive it. He didn’t give you time to think. He was already shoving your underwear down your thighs, the fabric catching on your skin as it fell, cool air licking over your heat.

You were already soaked, and he groaned low in your ear when his fingers found your slick core immediately.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hips grinding forward, his solid length pressing against you just enough to draw a soft cry from your lips, a broken, breathless sound as your knees nearly buckled.

“Look at you,” he snarled into your ear, his chest flush to your back, every hard line of him pressed tight against you. “All fucking mine.”

His hand slipped between your legs roughly, rubbing over your soaked folds just once, enough to make you whimper, forehead tipping forward to press to the wall as your body trembled. 

“Say it.”

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. You could only feel, only need.

“Yours,” you gasped, your voice cracking, hips rocking back into the pressure of him without shame. “I’m yours.”

He growled, deep and guttural, before his teeth were on your neck again, scraping viciously just as he freed the aching stiffness in his pants and drove into you in one brutal, claiming thrust.

Your lungs emptied, every thought scattered as your fingertips clawed against the wall to steady yourself. He was hot and solid, his length stretching you deep inside.

“That’s it, baby,” he gritted out as he started to move, punishing in rhythm, ruthless in intent. “Take it.” 

He didn’t wait or ease in like he usually did. He fucked you as though he meant to leave a mark on your soul. Like every thrust was a purge, of shame, of fury, of everything the crash had buried under his skin.

Your fingers curled against the wall, knuckles blanching, your back arching to meet each savage drive of his hips. The rhythm was relentless, and your body jolted forward with every slam of his hips, your breath stolen again and again until you were gasping against the wall, cheek brushing cool paint, every nerve ending lit like a fuse.

This wasn’t just a release, this was a reclamation. He was fucking the crash out of his bones, the bitterness out of his mouth, the rage out of his lungs, pouring it all into you, burning it clean between your legs, inside your throat, behind your ribs. You felt it all, the wreckage, the need. The way his hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself to the only thing that hadn’t failed him.

Your palms scrambled for purchase, slick with sweat, your thighs trembling as the wall rattled faintly with the sheer power of him. The slap of skin, the rasp of his breath, the low curses spilling into your ear, it was all too much, and still not enough.

He chased ruin like it was salvation, and you gave it to him willingly.

Every thrust hit deeper, harder, as though he was trying to bury the day inside you, to grind the wreckage of it into the dirt and start again, as though this was the only way he knew how to come back to himself, through you, inside you.

His breath washed against your skin unevenly, sweat building along the baby hairs clinging to his temples as he bit down on your shoulder, teeth scraping just shy of pain. Your mind melted at every stroke of him through your slickness, your back arching into each brutal snap of his hips, his name spilling from your lips like it hurt and healed you at once.

His hand tangled in your hair from behind possessively, pulling your head back until your throat was bared for him to claim. You gasped at the burn of it, at the sudden, dizzying stretch, but the sound died when his mouth found your skin again, pressing kisses and dragging his tongue, hot and slow, along the delicate column of your neck.

“You take me so fucking well,” he breathed, praise threaded with hunger. “Always do.”

The words scorched you, and your body reacted instantly, clenching around him so tight it stole his breath. He groaned at the sensation, a guttural, broken sound that lit a dangerous blaze in your belly, nearing your peak.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” he growled, punctuating it with a slap to your ass that made you cry out, your cheek brushing the wall, tears pricking from the sheer intensity.

“Then stop fucking me like you want me to,” you gasped, voice cracking on the edge of pleasure and desperation.

Lewis laughed in response, the sound vibrating against your back darkly. You could feel it in your bones, that rough edge of hunger in his breath as he leaned in close. His chest pressed fully to your back now, his necklace cold against the sweat-damp fabric of your clothes, dragging lightly across your skin with each shift of his hips. His mouth brushed your ear, teeth grazing the shell of it like a warning you never wanted to heed.

“Oh, baby,” he muttered, and the way he said it, so rough, so utterly wrecked, made your racing heart flutter, knees threatening to give out again. “I do want you to.”

You barely had time to breathe before he thrust into you again slowly, cruel in the way it lingered. He wanted you to feel every inch, every second, every searing mark he left inside you. One hand remained tangled in your hair, the other sliding around your waist, fingers spreading wide across your stomach to hold you still against him. 

You were trembling, straining, your palms splayed helplessly against the wall for leverage, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough, not when he was speaking to you like that. Not when your body felt like it belonged to him. Only him.

“Want you begging,” he murmured into the crook of your neck, before placing a kiss just behind your ear. “Want you so fucking wrecked you forget everything but my name.”

He drove into you again, fingers finding their way to your swollen clit, and your body jolted with the force of it, breath knocked from your lungs, tears slipping down your cheeks unchecked now from the overload of sensation. Your skin was hot and slick, the wall cool beneath your fingertips, his breath warm in your ear. You whimpered in response, your mind a blur of unfinished thoughts and pleasure.

You didn’t just want to come, you wanted to completely unravel for him. You wanted to be split wide open and rebuilt in his hands.

“Lewis-” you gasped, his name fragile, shivering on your tongue.

But, he didn’t let you speak. His grip in your hair tightened, tugging you back into him again. You couldn’t see him, but you felt him, in the way his wet mouth found your skin, making its way to claim your lips with his own.

Then, just when the burn became unbearable, when your body started to shake from the precipice he was holding you on, he pulled out.

The sudden emptiness made you sob out a protest, your walls clenching instinctively around nothing. He didn’t give you time to mourn the loss though. He spun you in his arms before your knees could buckle, catching you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, your arms flinging around his neck, and the breath hitched in your chest when you finally met his eyes.

They were dark and wild. Still burning with that same rage, but now threaded with need. Even then, especially then, he was so devastatingly beautiful. The kind of beauty that burned, with his long eyelashes framing his glistening eyes, sweat glinting at his brow, jaw tight with restraint. His expression was carved with a raw ache, but fuck, he wore it like a crown. Rage had never looked so fucking good.

You weren’t scared though, you never had been, never with Lewis.

Even like this, fire in his blood and restraint hanging by a thread, you trusted him. Especially like this, because you were the only one who ever got to see him like this. The only one who knew he’d never break you, no matter how rough, how desperate, how lost in it he became. The only one who didn’t flinch when he unraveled.

He needed this. The heat of your body, the knowing, the understanding, the space to fall apart in someone’s hands and still be held. His grip on your thighs was bruising as he carried you toward the bed, his gaze locked to yours like he didn’t trust himself to look away. As though if he blinked, you might disappear.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice hushed now, hoarse at the edges, his breath ghosting your lips with every step.

You nodded, heart beating against your ribs like a drum. “Always.”

The word barely left your mouth before his lips crushed yours again, desperate, searing, as if he was drowning and you were the very air he needed. He devoured you in that kiss, tongue brushing with yours and mapping your mouth, lips pressing hard enough to bruise. 

Your back hit the mattress in the next heartbeat, the air punched from your lungs with the force of it. However, he didn’t follow you down right away. His hands were on you instantly, dragging your dress up and over your head, peeling it away like he couldn’t stand another second of fabric between you. You helped, barely, dazed with want, tugging at the sweat-slick hem of his shirt. He shrugged it off in one swift pull, his necklace clinking softly against his chest as it caught the moonlight spilling in from the window.

His pants were next, followed by your underwear which was already bunched around your thighs from when he’d had you against the wall. He made quick work of the rest, urgency in every movement, in every breath.

By the time he was above you again, skin to skin, heat to heat, he was panting, chest heaving, shoulders trembling from restraint. His sweat-damp baby hairs clung to his temples, his necklace swaying between you ever so slightly, catching on the swell of your breasts as he hovered there like he was trying to immortalise the way you looked underneath him. 

Your cheeks were flushed, eyes glistening with the tears that had escaped you earlier, lips swollen from his kisses, and your hair a messy splay where you laid. Your body ached for him, sticky and soaked between your legs, adrenaline buzzing through every nerve.

You reached for him, needing to feel him against your skin, but he caught both your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head, his grip unrelenting as he pressed them into the mattress. The other hand slid down your thigh, gripping hard and forcing it higher, baring you completely to him.

“No,” he commanded, his breath hot against your jaw. “You said use you. That’s what I’m doing.”

Then, he slammed back into you, hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs. It felt like coming home and being struck by lightning all at once. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth falling open in a silent cry as he filled you to the hilt, your body stretching to take all of him. A low, raw groan left him as forehead dropping to yours, the sound fractured and full of feeling, as if it hurt to feel this much.

You cried out, legs locking around his waist as he fucked into you with no rhythm at first, just raw, punishing thrusts that shoved the mattress back against the headboard, and made the chain around his neck swing against your skin.

He kept your wrists caged above you, body braced like a man on the edge, and your eyes watered with the sheer overwhelming heat of it. Every inch of him was blazing fury, carved from want and lit up with wreckage.

“This what you wanted?” he spat, breath hot at your ear, his teeth scraping down the column of your neck. “Wanted me to fuck the rage out? Wanted me to lose my fucking mind in you?”

You choked out a moan, breathless and incoherent, unable to form a single thought as the waves of pleasure shot through your veins with every roll of his hips, his hard length sliding through your soaked tightness.

“Yeah?” he snapped, his voice edged with fire. “Say it.”

“Yes, yes. Fuck-” Was all you could manage as he released your pinned wrists, gripping onto the pillow above you.

His mouth dropped to your chest, biting at the curve of your breast, his teeth grazing your nipple as he pulled it between his lips, until your whole body twisted beneath him, gasping. He loved it, so he growled again, and bit harder.

“Every fucking day I hold this shit in,” he snarled, hand sliding down your thigh and gripping your ass, forcing you up to meet every thrust. “Every time someone pushes me, talks shit, expects me to smile, I fucking do, like I’m not ready to fucking lose it.”

“So do it,” you gasped, nails clawing at the sheets, desperate. “Lose it. I can take it, baby. Please-”

“You will,” he grunted, cutting you off. “You’re mine. Fucking made for me.”

The filth spilling from his mouth only drove him harder, faster. His hand slid up and wrapped lightly around your throat again, grounding you, owning you. Your head tipped back as the pressure sent heat spiraling through you, and he groaned at the sight of you, flushed, fucked-out, still begging for more.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he hissed, the words trembling with restraint. “So tight around me, like your pussy wants this. Wants me angry. You like it when I’m like this?”

You nodded frantically, your whole body shaking, the fire in your belly building towards a feral unravelling, ready to spill all over his throbbing length. “Yes…more. Don’t stop, please.”

“You want more?” he asked, dragging his lips up your jaw and curling against your cheek. “You want it fucking rougher?”

You didn’t even have time to answer before he flipped you over.

One second you were beneath him, the next your face was in the sheets, his palm at the back of your neck, shoving you down firmly, your hips lifted, ass in the air, legs already trembling. You cried out when he shoved back into you from behind, deeper now, the angle filthy, obscene.

Lewis didn’t let up. He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him sane, as though the only way to stay upright was to drive himself so deep inside you there was nowhere else to go. His hand came down on your ass once, hard, making you jolt and moan his name, and he smirked through a breathless snarl.

Your fingers twisted uselessly in the sheets, your body arching, hips throwing back against him, seeking more, and still more. The air burned in your lungs, thick with sweat, heat and him. Your vision blurred at the edges as the pressure built, unbearable, unrelenting, dragging you toward the edge like a wave about to crash.

“Lewis…Fuck, I-” you gasped, your voice muffled by the sheets beneath you, words barely coherent, and broken by a sob of sensation.

His hand was already tangled in your hair again, tugging your head back just enough to bare your throat, and remind you, rather than hurt you. His dominance didn’t come with cruelty, it came with purpose.

“No. You don’t come ’til I say,” he snapped, voice pitched right at your ear, dark and raw. “Not yet.”

The sound you made in response was helpless, completely ruined, a desperate, keening whimper that melted on your tongue. Every nerve in your body was screaming, tight as a drawn bowstring, your legs trembling with the effort of holding on from completely unravelling.

“I said not yet,” he commanded again, each word sharp as a lash. “You want to make me feel better? Then take every fucking drop of this first. Don’t tap out on me now.”

He slammed into you again, harder this time, relentless, punishing strokes that had your thighs shaking, your breath catching, and your body quaking under the weight of it. The bed rocked under you, the headboard thudding in time with every thrust, and still, he didn’t stop. The angle caressed your clit, heightening the blaze between your legs and pushing you further over the edge.

Lewis bent over you, his chest slick with sweat against your back, mouth brushing your ear in a hot whisper, ragged and strained.

“You feel that?” he hissed against your skin, his hand sliding up your torso, and cupping your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple until you cried out. “Feel how much I need this? You’re the only thing keeping me together, baby. The only one.” 

That did it. 

Your body shattered around him, every ounce of control snapping like overstretched wire. You sobbed his name, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm tore through you, all-consuming, your entire body fluttering, clenching, shaking. You couldn’t even hold yourself up anymore, so you collapsed into the mattress as he drove into you through it, chasing his own release with the kind of fury that sounded like salvation.

“Fuck…fuck, baby-” his voice was barely there now, more a sound torn from somewhere deep, and primal within him. 

He spilled into you with a final thrust, hips locked to yours, his whole body pressed down as though he needed every inch of skin to ground him in the moment. You felt the full-body shudder against your back, his breath breaking in your ear, a low groan dragged from his throat like it hurt to hold in.

His weight blanketed you, the full length of his body pressing flush against your back, skin damp and glistening with sweat, every inch of him still hot with the afterglow. The room had gone quiet now, no more curses, no more ragged growls of your name. Only the sound of your breathing, ragged, uneven, syncopated with his own. 

Lewis’ chest heaved against you, heartbeat loud and unsteady where it thudded against your spine. His forehead dipped to your shoulder blade, lips barely parted as he caught his breath, mouth warm against your skin. One hand still rested at your hip, fingers twitching faintly from the fraying edge of release. From letting go, from handing over everything he’d buried deep.

You’d taken every last piece, but this wasn’t the end. 

The air between you pulsed with heat still unspent, need still lingering, and when he shifted, pulling out with a strangled breath, muscles slackening as he rolled to the side, you moved with him. You felt the loss of him for a moment, that emptiness, that ache, but then you turned, legs sore and shaky, yet still burning, still hungry. Before he could even register what was happening, you straddled his hips in one fluid motion, palms flat against his chest, where his breath caught.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice rough with exhaustion, lips parted as though he was about to say more, something soft, maybe, or startled.

You didn’t let him though, you didn’t need the words. Instead, you leaned forward, and your eyes drank in every inch of him.

His tattooed chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pants, muscles twitching under your touch. Sweat glistened in the dips of his collarbones, sliding down the groove between his abs, and pooling just beneath the necklace that clung to his throat. His arms sprawled wide above his head, hands slack, the powerful lines of his biceps still trembling faintly, as though his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that he could relax now.

And his face…fuck. His long eyelashes fanned dark over flushed cheeks, his defined, heart shaped lips parted, his jaw sharp, beard glistening faintly. His curls had begun to loosen from his hair tie, a few strands fallen at his brow, damp with sweat. There was a pulse hammering at his neck, the vein there still taut, thrumming with life.

He looked beautiful like this, undone and unguarded. Undeniably yours.

Your fingers found the chain at his throat, where you toyed with it slowly for a second, then tugged, just enough to make his eyes flash open again where they’d fallen closed, mouth parting with a sharp inhale through his teeth.

Still trembling. Still burning. Still so fucking obsessed with you.

Your hands dragged slowly up the hard plane of his chest, savoring the slick heat of him, every ridge of muscle tense beneath your touch, twitching in response. You traced the curve of his pecs, your thumbs brushing the thrum of his heartbeat before sliding up, higher, until your palms met the strong column of his neck.

Then you reached into his curls. They were damp, unruly, already slipping from their tie as you pulled it off to free them. You slid your hand into the thick mess of curls, fingers tangling deep until you felt him tense again, a low warning sound barely forming in his throat.

“That all you’ve got?” you murmured, voice quiet, but edged with challenge.

Your fingers tightened, then you tugged, and his breath caught audibly. His pupils dilated on contact, eyes going near black as they dragged up to meet yours. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but only one word escaped roughly.

“Don’t.”

It was a threadbare warning rather than anger, as if he knew exactly what you were doing, and that it would unravel him all over again.

“Don’t start.”

It was too late though, you were already leaning in. Your lips skimmed the line of his jaw, lingering just beneath the sharp cut of bone, before brushing the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. You felt the tremble that ran through him, the way his breath stuttered in his throat.

“You’re still angry, aren’t you, baby?” you whispered, voice featherlight, laced with sin.

He didn’t respond. Instead, his jaw locked tight, teeth grinding, the only reply he had left.

“Didn’t get it all out, did you?” you continued, trailing your mouth down his neck, grazing the salt of his skin with your tongue. “I can still feel it on you.”

Then you rolled your hips down deliberately. The friction made him twitch beneath you, the sound that left his chest more a growl than a breath, and you felt it. He was already hardening again, thick and heavy against your heat, like his body had never known how to stop wanting you.

“You’re not done,” you breathed against his throat, your hand sliding up to grip his hair again, not gentle this time. You tugged, hard enough to tip his head back just slightly, and then you pressed your mouth to his.

It was nothing like before, this kiss was slow, devouring. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, your tongue swept into his mouth like it belonged there, and the groan that ripped from his chest was feral. The sound of a man completely undone.

“Let me remind you who the fuck you are,” you breathed against his mouth.

Then, you moved.

Your thighs clenched tight around his hips, using your full weight and intent to press him down, to pin him there. He was already beneath you, but now you owned the position, rising up slightly, spine curving, your hands braced firm against his chest. You watched the realisation flicker in his eyes, the shift of power, the heat of it, as you rolled your hips once more grinding down until he groaned.

He hadn’t expected it, not after everything he’d just poured into you.

“You think I’m finished?” he asked, his voice low, the danger back in his tone now, edges sharpening again.

You smirked down at him, your fingers dragging down the sweat-slick line of his sternum.

“Not even close.”

It was all Lewis needed.

He sat up fast, with a strength that made your breath catch, muscles coiled tight, arms hooking beneath your thighs as he lifted you like you were nothing. His grip was sure, bruising, and your world tilted in a blur of sensation and movement. A gasp punched out of you as your back landed against the mattress, your balance lost, your head tipping backward until it nearly slipped over the edge of the bed.

You scrambled for something to hold on to, hands flailing until they found the comforter, your fingers digging deep into the fabric like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

But he had you. His palms cradled the swell of your ass, elbows braced under your thighs, legs hooked over his shoulders as he adjusted, his knees sinking into the bed for balance. His biceps bulged, locked and burning beneath you, holding you up like an offering.

You were open wide for him now, entirely exposed.

Your body trembled under the vulnerability, the power shift, the rawness. The air kissed your skin in places it rarely touched, and the muscles in your abdomen fluttered as you tried to sit up again, panic-blind for a second, but he didn’t let you move.

One strong hand pressed flat to your belly, anchoring you in place, thumb spreading across your skin. The weight of it grounded you instantly, a command more than a gesture.

“Stay still,” he ordered, gripping you tightly towards him.

Then, his mouth dropped, and he devoured you. There was no warning, no gentle tease, no soft build, just tongue swiping against your wet core, and his lips sealing over your clit with greedy, devastating intent. You cried out incoherently, a rush of air ripped from your lungs, spine bowing, and toes curling.

He didn’t give you a second to adjust as his tongue moved with precision, wide licks over your slit, then sharp flicks against your clit, again and again, until your whole body shuddered. Your hands flew to his hair, clutching onto him, but he groaned at the pressure and pushed in deeper, as if he wanted it to hurt, to taste the fight in you.

He tasted you like victory, like absolution, as though he could undo every harsh word, every loss, every bruise with the flat of his tongue, and the way he moaned against you. He sucked your clit intermittently, licking and grinding his face into you, the sounds obscene, wet and messy, his breath catching in rhythm with yours. He curled his hands tighter under your thighs, thumbs dragging along the crease where legs met your hips, holding you against him while your body tried to twist, jerk, escape.

You weren’t going anywhere though, you were trapped. His mouth was locked onto your core and his eyes were closed as though he was in bliss, as if he was feeding on something sacred.

“Lewis…fuck, I can’t-” you gasped, voice cracking like glass as you tangled your fingers into his curls, your head falling back over the edge of the mattress.

“Yes, you can,” he growled against your soaked folds, the vibration shooting straight through your spine. “You will.”

He flattened his tongue and shook his head just once punishingly, dragging friction across your clit that made your vision tunnel.

Your whole body bucked in response. The light above blurred, and your lungs seized. The air felt thick, humid, charged with static, as though you were breathing lightning, and your nerves were lined with wildfire. Every muscle in your thighs trembled, twitching around the firm hold of his shoulders.

You could barely see or speak, couldn’t beg even if you tried. You could only feel, and fuck, you felt everything. Every twist of his tongue, every press of his lips, every greedy moan that vibrated against your skin like thunder rolling through your core.

He sucked your clit again roughly, in a rhythmic motion, and your body shattered. Pleasure ricocheted up your spine, curling your toes, drawing a high, broken cry from your throat that didn’t even sound like you anymore.

Still, he didn’t stop. He licked, sucked and groaned like he couldn’t get enough, as though he was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy the ache.

You’d never felt anything like it, no matter how many times he’d gone down on you before. You were unraveling for him completely, hips twitching, back bowed, heart crashing against your ribs, and he stayed buried in you, relentless, as if he wouldn’t let up until you broke completely.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered, dragging his tongue up the center of you with a slow, devastating stripe. The sound of it was wet, filthy, unabashed, sending a shiver through your entire frame. 

You whimpered something incoherent, nothing but broken syllables and high, helpless sounds, as your fingers clutched at the sheets, your spine curling inward with the force of the sensations wrecking you.

He grinned against you, mouth slick, jaw glistening, eyes dark with feral hunger. Then, without mercy, he plunged his tongue inside you.

Your body convulsed in response.

It wasn’t just pleasure, it was shock, a full-body, nerve-ending overload that detonated through your core like a blaze. You cried out again, the sound torn from your chest like a sob, legs locking instinctively around his head as you arched off the bed. Your shoulders lifted clear from the mattress, mouth wide in a silent scream as your vision blurred and whitened at the edges.

He groaned at the way you clenched, the sound reverberating deep inside you like he was tasting your soul, and he didn’t let go. He held you there, completely at his mercy, his arms wrapped tight around your hips, locking you in place as you shattered.

You mewled his name, voice ragged, throat raw, the syllables ripped desperately from your chest. You could barely breathe, you couldn’t even process the way your body convulsed against his mouth, still twitching with aftershocks that left you boneless and drenched.

But, he wouldn’t stop. He didn’t stop.

Your body was limp, shaky from the inside out, and he was already moving, shifting beneath you, relentless in his hunger. One arm snaked tighter around your waist, laying you back down against the mattress. The other dragged downward between your bodies, fingers curling around the thick, hard line of his length.

He was rock hard again, unbelievably so. Thick, flushed, slick at the tip, the proof of his arousal glistening as he gripped himself at the base. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he stroked once, slow and tight, just to prepare himself. His brown eyes didn’t leave you, not even for a second. They were wild, ravenous, darkened with heat that bordered on feral.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he smirked, his voice roughened with lust and reverberating low in his chest. His breath hit the sensitive skin of your neck in hot, broken waves. “I’m not fucking done.”

You barely had time to brace yourself before you felt the blunt pressure of him pressing between your legs, dragging the swollen head through your soaked folds with slow, deliberate strokes. He moved with purpose, teasingly, but it wasn’t tender. There was nothing soft in the way he gripped your hips, nothing hesitant in the way he aligned himself. Every movement screamed possession, a reminder that this was his. You were his.

Your body quivered beneath him, still fluttering from the last orgasm, still dizzy with overstimulation, but that didn’t stop the way your hips lifted instinctively, seeking him out. Needing him again.

He eased in slowly at first, just the tip, stretching you around him in a way that made your breath hitch and your eyelashes flutter shut.

“Lewis-” you gasped, unable to do anything but feel him, feel this.

His head lifted, gaze locking on yours with such intensity it made your heart seize. “Say it again,” he growled, his voice a low threat and a plea all at once.

You could barely manage it, but you whispered his name, dazed and breathless.

“Louder,” he demanded, his tone cracking like a whip as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until the stretch became unbearable.

You moaned it this time, sobbed it, as he slammed into you fully, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, final thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs. Your back arched into him. Your fingers flew to his broad shoulders, digging your nails in, leaving crescent marks on sweat-slick skin.

He moved slow at first, impossibly deep, rocking into you with a rhythm that left no space for a single thought.. The pressure, the stretch, the heat, everything collided in one maddening storm as he took you apart from the inside out. Every thrust was deliberate, punishing, as though he wanted you to feel the full weight of him with every single inch. Like he wanted to make sure you never forgot.

There was no room for anything else. Only this. Only him.

He reached for your jaw, thumb dragging across your chin, and over your parted lips. He leaned down to capture your mouth with his, his lips moving in rough, wet sweeps over yours, and you tasted yourself on him.

When he released your mouth, he slipped two fingers through your lips without warning, and you obeyed instantly, hollowing your cheeks around it with a soft, wanton moan, and that was all it took.

His breath caught in his throat, and the last thread of restraint snapped.

“Fuck-” he snapped, and suddenly he was moving faster. 

His hips were slamming into yours with brutal, merciless rhythm. Deep, hard, and repeating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, lewd and wet. 

Saliva slicked your chin from your lips around his fingers, as your eyes rolled back. His pace didn’t slow, if anything, it got harder, rougher, as if he was chasing the sound of your whimpers. It was as if the messier you got, the deeper he needed to go.

“That’s it,” he muttered, fingers curling inside your mouth as he fucked into you like he owned you. “That’s my girl.”

Your whole body trembled, hands fisting the sheets, thighs tightening around his waist, and still, he didn’t let up. Didn’t give you time to catch your breath. He just kept going, dragging you toward another breaking point, dragging himself right there with you.

His pace didn’t falter, every thrust angled with precision. Then, his fingers slipped from your mouth with a wet pop, trailing from your jaw down to your throat. His palm pressed flat at first, then tightened slowly, just enough to make your breath hitch and remind you exactly who was in control.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You tried, blinking through tears, lips parted, body shaking, but it was too hard to focus, your vision blurred from the overwhelming heat, the pressure, the fucking stretch of him inside you.

He squeezed just a little harder, just enough to pull you back from the edge of delirium. “I said look at me.”

Your gaze snapped to him, pupils blown out and wild. Fuck…the look on his face. His mouth was parted, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. That dark, furious fire was back in his eyes, but now it burned for you. Only you.

He reached down and grabbed your thigh, hauling it up with one hand, bending your leg over his shoulder. The shift shoved him deeper, so deep your breath punched out, your fingers clawed at his back, your whole body locking around him as you sobbed.

He drove into you again, his body folding over yours with every thrust, the sweat on his chest glistening over the lines of his tattoos, smearing against your skin, his necklace dragging across your collarbone. His grip stayed firm at your throat, thumb stroking once beneath your jaw, commanding, and possessive.

“Don’t look away,” he ordered. “I want to see you come.”

You whimpered, so close, every nerve drawn so tight you thought you might snap. He angled his hips again, grinding just right, and your back arched as your vision blurred again.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growled, eyes locked to yours, hips slamming harder, deeper, relentless. “Fucking come for me.”

And you did. It ripped through you like fire, your body bowed, mouth dropped open in a silent cry, everything clenching so tight around him he groaned loud and broken.

Lewis watched the whole thing, never looking away once. His hand on your throat tightened once more, holding you there like a flame in his palm, and then he dropped his forehead to yours, panting, fucking you through every wave, every shake, every goddamn heartbeat.

Then, he finished off, hard and all at once, his hips jerking uncontrollably as a ragged moan tore from his throat, your name breaking apart on his tongue like it hurt to say it. His whole body trembled against yours, muscles straining, pulse hammering, as though he’d been holding it back for too long, and you were the only thing in the world that could bring him back to himself.

He didn’t let go. One hand locked around your thigh, keeping your legs splayed and wrapped around him; the other still pressed gently at your throat, not tight or rough anymore, just there, anchoring himself as though if he let go, he might float away.

You felt him spill deep inside you, hot and thick. Your body clenched instinctively, holding him there, milking every last wave of it until he was gasping, shuddering, forehead pressed to yours like he couldn’t bear a single inch of space.

Neither of you moved for a long, breathless stretch. Only the sound of your bodies filled the room, your panting, his groaning, the soft warmth of skin against sweat-soaked skin.

Eventually, he softened his grip, sliding his hand from your throat. He let your thigh drop from his shoulder slowly, and guided your legs gently back down, one hand smoothing over your hip like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Then he rested his forehead to yours again, his chest still rising and falling as if he’d just run ten rounds. His arms caged you in, but his touch had shifted, no longer rough or demanding, now protective, and tender.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes softening as his palm cupped your cheek, wiping the leftover trail of tears with his thumb.

You nodded with a soft hum, eyes fluttering closed, your hands sliding slowly into his curls, and along his jaw. “You?”

He paused for a moment with a small nod, before lowering himself to touch his lips to yours, slowly, with all the fire stripped away. He kissed you carefully, a gentle aching in the sweep of his soft, wet lips, as though it was an apology, and a thank you, all at once. You felt him smile against your mouth, that real, familiar smile you adored.

Lewis moved down when your lips separated, laying his head into the comfort of your body.  His head rested just beneath your collarbone, the soft weight of his curls damp with sweat, clinging faintly to your chest. His breath hit your skin in slow, even waves, warm and steady now, a sharp contrast to the way it had thundered out of him moments before. His arm was slung tightly around your waist, locking you against him, while one heavy thigh draped over yours, pinning you down in the best possible way. The kind that made you feel safe, and loved.

The room was quiet again. It settled as though the air itself had softened, folded in on you both and drawn the curtains on the storm that had passed. There was only the muted sounds of traffic far below, the distant pulse of the city’s nightlife drifting through the half-open window. The sheets beneath you rustled faintly as the mattress adjusted to your weight, or maybe to the way Lewis had melted into you, every inch of him pressed against your skin like he was trying to become part of you.

Your fingers found his scalp again, brushing through his curls with that same slow, absent rhythm you knew he loved. Every stroke gentled him further, his jaw slack now, no tension left in his shoulders, his entire body soft and pliant against yours like he’d finally given in to the exhaustion he never let anyone else see.

You traced your fingers toward the curve of his ear, found the familiar shape of his earring, a little cool to the touch now, glinting softly in the low light, and toyed with it absentmindedly. He let out a deeper breath at that, as though your touch loosened everything in him, and you could feel the way he tucked in closer, like your chest had become the only place he could fully exhale.

It was such a quiet, intimate weight, having all of him wrapped around you. Not just his limbs, not just his body, but everything that came with it. His need, his weariness, the vulnerability he refused to name. All of it was pressed to your skin, poured into the space between your heartbeats.

You kissed the side of his head. Once. Then again, slowly.

He didn’t speak, but his fingers flexed at your hip, a little involuntary grip, as if he was thanking you again without words. As though, if he said it out loud, it might shatter whatever peace he’d finally found here in the cradle of your arms.

So you gave him something else.

“You know,” you murmured gently against his temple, “I watched half the grid piss themselves when they saw your helmet in their mirrors today.”

He didn’t lift his head, but you felt the ghost of a smirk pull at his cheek where it pressed into your sternum, the smallest twitch, barely there, like he was fighting it but couldn’t help himself.

You smiled to yourself.

“I love watching you toy with them out there,” you continued, brushing a curl behind his ear. 

He shifted slightly, nothing big, just a tightening of his hold on your waist. A subtle inhale through his nose, like he was breathing you in deeper. As if your words sank in, settling somewhere he didn’t want to look too closely at just yet.

“They’re not on your level,” you added softly, your voice steady now, stronger. You meant ever word. “You’re still the greatest there has ever been, that hasn’t changed.”

Still, he didn’t speak, but that silence said more than enough. It said he heard you, that he needed to hear you. Maybe no one else had reminded him of that lately. Not the team, not the media, not even himself.

Your hand smoothed down the line of his back, fingers tracing the sweat-cooled ridges of muscle. His skin was still warm, still alive with the echo of everything you’d just shared, but the tension had bled out of him completely now, as if you’d wrung it all from his body and replaced it with something gentler.

You kissed the top of his head again, your lips lingering there while his arm pulled you closer, his nose tucking further into your chest, pressing his mouth to your skin with a soft peck. 

He heard you, he believed you, and for now, Lewis let himself feel it. He let himself believe he could rest here. Let himself be held by someone who knew the weight he carried and chose to carry it with him.

So you stayed just like that for a while.

You thought maybe he’d fallen asleep like that, sprawled across you, limbs tangled and chest rising slow, heart beating steady where it pressed against yours. He was so still, so quiet. Your hand stayed in his hair, curling gently at the nape of his neck, and for a moment you just watched the ceiling, eyes soft, blinking slow, wrapped in that strange calm that always came after something that nearly broke you open.

Until, you felt it.

The faintest brush of his voice against your skin, warm, barely there, more breath than sound, more confession than sentence.

“Love you.”

Your heart skipped, a light flush dusting across your cheeks. The ache of it spread through you like a sunrise breaking over the water, slow, golden, impossible to hold in your hands.

“Love you too,” you whispered with a soft smile, your fingers tracing a slow path across his shoulders, as though you were sealing a promise into his skin.

Nothing more needed to be said after that.

You hadn’t expected anything tonight.

Not anymore.

The Uber ride home blurred past with streaks of colourful city lights painting the tinted windows. One of your high heels had already been kicked off, resting sideways on the leather seat beside your thigh, and your perfume still clung faintly to your skin, mixing with the warm vanilla of your body lotion. The hem of your dress stuck stubbornly to your thighs, where sweat and glitter mingled in the shallow hollows of your skin, and your phone buzzed twice in your hand. You didn’t look though, there was no point.

Lewis wasn’t coming.

You’d known the moment his voice crackled through the phone two nights ago, across continents and time zones, worn thin by guilt. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I tried everything.”

You were curled under the covers then, face pressed to the pillow he always used when he was home, bare legs warmed in sheets that still smelled like him. You could picture him too clearly, with his hoodie tugged over his head, palm pressed to his mouth as he paced the hotel room floor, the crease between his brows deepening with every word.

“I just wanted to be there to celebrate you. I hate that I can’t be there.”

“I know,” you whispered back, brushing a thumb along the stitched seam of the pillowcase like it might hold you together. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, but you said it anyway. You knew what his life was like, you always had. You knew what you’d signed up for the moment you’d said yes to the first date.

“I was gonna bring those chocolates you like,” he added, his smooth voice dipping lower. “And that cake. The one with the little strawberries on top, remember?”

Your breath caught, blinking away the sting in your eyes, the softest smile pulling at your lips. He’d remembered it.

“It’s fine, baby. I understand,” you replied, keeping your voice light. “I’ll be out with the girls anyway. They’ve got something ridiculous planned.”

He smiled at that, you could hear it in the gentle lift in his tone. “Good, let them spoil you. Have a few drinks or something, you can use my card for the whole tab. Then, when I'm home, I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

He meant it, and so did you when you’d said it was okay, but the truth was, you would’ve traded every bar, every bottle pop, every shout of “birthday girl!” just to have him barefoot in your kitchen, icing cake with those stupidly expensive rings still on his fingers.

You tried not to dwell on it though. You tried to lose yourself in the chaos of blasting music, perfume in the air, and lip liners passed between clutch bags. You’d been halfway into a drink when your best friend leaned halfway out the car window, hair flying, voice tearing through the air as she screamed.

“IT’S MY BEST FRIEND’S BIRTHDAY, BITCHES!”

You’d squealed, curling in on yourself, laughing so hard you’d nearly cried as strangers on the footpath turned to stare. For a moment, it felt like enough, as though the ache in your chest might stay quiet for the night.

Now though…

It was late, quiet. A silence that only exists in the hour after the night has died, but before the morning begins. You tiptoed barefoot down the hallway of your apartment building, your heels swinging from one hand, your bag loose in the other.

Your dress, once crisp and perfect, was now creased at the hips, askew at the shoulders. Your throat felt dry, your makeup still clung to your cheekbones, but your eyelashes felt heavy, as if they were also tired of pretending tonight.

There was a hollowness to your steps, a strange, numb feeling, as though the day had happened, but you had hardly touched it. It had passed through you without leaving anything behind.

You paused at your door, fumbling in your bag for your keys. They clinked gently, your knuckles brushing the paint of the doorframe as you leaned in. You were tired, ready to wash away the night and let it melt into the dark.

You slid the key into the lock, still not expecting anything.

You stepped inside slowly, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft thud, and the quiet swallowed you whole. There were no shoes by the mat, no TV playing in the background, no keys in the tray. The emptiness you’d been expecting to return home to.

Except…not quite. There was a familiar scent in the air.

It was sweet and familiar, like candle wax, vanilla, maybe a trace of woodsmoke. The air felt warm, as though the space had been waiting for you. You took one slow step forward, then another, your fingers still wrapped around the strap of your bag like you needed something to ground you.

Your bare feet brushed the edge of the rug as you walked through the apartment. Then, your eyes landed on it, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Your apartment had been transformed. Every surface glowed, bathed in the amber flicker of candlelight. Tea lights lined the kitchen counter and danced along the edge of the dining table. Tall pillar candles flickered gently on the window ledge, their golden glow spilling onto the glass like moonlight melting across the surface. Shadows stretched and swayed with each flame, wrapping the space in a warmth that felt beautiful and cozy.

Music played softly from the speaker in the corner, a soft tune with warm vocals flowing around the room. Your heart ached with a sweetness you hadn’t been prepared for.

There was a cake on the table, perfectly iced, with piped cream swirls and sugared strawberries nestled along the top. It was a cake you’d mentioned once, offhandedly, in a memory about childhood birthdays. It looked just like the one you’d described. Small, round, and beautiful.

Next to it were wrapped boxes, stacked like steps on a staircase, each one perfectly tied with silk ribbon. Some big, some tiny, the paper smooth and pearlescent under the candlelight. They weren’t arranged for show, they’d been placed with intention, as if someone had taken their time to choose them, to think about what each one meant. You didn’t know what was inside, but your heart was already fluttering in your chest.

At the very top of the stack sat an envelope with your name inked across the front in his handwriting. Your fingers hovered above the envelope, trembling slightly. The edge of your nail caught the corner of the paper, but you didn’t lift it yet. Your throat was too tight, your breath coming in shallow, fluttering pulls, like your body couldn’t keep up with the moment. You felt full to the brim and hollow all at once, as if you were about to spill open.

However, before you could touch the card, before you could even exhale properly, you heard him.

“Baby.”

The voice behind you was low and warm, as if he hadn’t just arrived, but had been standing there for a while, waiting for you to see him.

You froze at the sound. Your breath caught in your throat, and the air around you shifted. The ribbon on the gift pile fluttered faintly in the draft. Tears sprang to your eyes before you could stop them as you turned slowly.

There he was. Home.

Lewis stood in the doorway to the hallway, dressed in soft grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the thick fabric clinging in all the right places. A fitted white shirt hugged his chest, the short sleeves sitting high enough to reveal the curve of his biceps, tattoos inked into golden skin that caught the candlelight like a work of art. His braids were tied back in a loose bun, a couple of them spilling down around his temples like they’d slipped free just to soften him.

It was his eyes though that made your heart race. Those deep brown eyes, lit with that quiet, disarming softness that only ever appeared when he looked at you like this, as though everything he’d been chasing, everything he’d missed, was standing right here in front of him.

Your lips parted on a shaky breath, but your body was faster than your voice. You rushed to him with no hesitation, with only the sound of your heart pounding in your ears and the rustle of your dress as you moved.

He caught you effortlessly like he always did, arms locking around your waist, pulling you tightly against him. You crashed into the solid heat of his chest, your face burying in the familiar scent of him, that woody spice in the faint trace of his cologne still lingering on his shirt. Your hands grasped into the cotton as if you were trying to prove to yourself that this was real.

His grip didn’t falter as he pressed his lips to your temple, and you trembled in his arms.

“I thought…” you breathed, the words catching as the tears slipped silently down your cheeks, “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmured, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles along your spine. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You pulled back to look at him, your eyes glassy, and your cheeks wet, your lips parted as if your heart was still searching for the words.

He looked at you as though you were made of starlight, like he was afraid to blink and miss the way your eyelashes sparkled with unshed emotion. 

Your lips wobbled into a small, shaky smile, before you leaned forward and pressed your mouth to his, overwhelmed and grateful. As though every minute without him had been building to this one moment of weightless, perfect quiet. Your fingers gripped his shirt, needing to be closer to him and keep him right there with you so he could never leave again. 

His hands slid up, cupping your face delicately, thumbs brushing tenderly beneath your eyes as his lips melted onto yours, moving in slow, needy sweeps and breathing you in.

Lewis kissed you like he’d crossed oceans just for this, and in a way, he had. Everything about him, the way he smelled, the familiar way he held you, the warmth of his skin and the solid press of his body, it all felt like home. Love in its purest form. A love that waits, a love that stays.

When you finally broke apart, breaths mingling, you whispered, “I missed you.”

His forehead pressed to yours, his voice was barely a murmur. “Happy birthday, my love.”

His hands stayed on you, one arm low around your waist, while the other still cupped your face as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go too soon. His thumb brushed your cheekbone in a gentle sweep.

You sniffed once, smiling up at him, your fingers reaching for the back of his wrist and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Thank you, baby,” you replied, your voice soft as you leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time.

When you moved back slightly to look at him, his lips were curved into that tender smile that always made your ribcage feel too small for the way your heart swelled at the sight of him, the dimple on his cheek revealing itself.

“I know you just got home.” He tapped his thumb lightly against your jaw, eyes tracing every line of your face like you were a work of art. “But…are you hungry?”

You breathed a tiny laugh, still pressed so close you could feel each word against your skin.

“A little, yeah.”

“Good.” He grinned, relief and affection threading through every syllable. “Because I’m starving.”

You blinked up at him, stomach flipping at the way he said it, as though he meant more than just food, like he’d been hungry for you too.

His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“I’ve got something ready for us, so why don’t you go put that dress on for me?” His voice dipped, almost playful, almost shy. 

Your breath caught at his words. That dress. The one hanging in the garment bag at the back of your closet, a dress you’d bought specifically for tonight, imagining his reaction, imagining his hands on your waist, imagining the way he’d look at you.

The dress you thought you wouldn’t get to wear because he wasn’t coming home. Your chest squeezed tight, a soft ache of sweetness spreading behind your ribs.

“You remembered,” you said quietly, your eyes warm.

“Of course I did.” He smoothed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, fingers tracing the shell of it delicately. “You bought it for your special day.”

“Okay,” you whispered, the word barely forming before you leaned in and pressed a final, slow, loving kiss to his mouth, your palm cradling his jaw, your thumb brushing the soft hairs of his beard.

He hummed against your lips, a low, content little sound that made everything inside you melt. 

Then you pulled away, still smiling like your heart was spilling over. “I’ll be right back.”

His eyes lingered on you as you stepped backwards, and you felt his gaze on your skin all the way down the hallway.

The bedroom lights were dimmed, a faint colourful pour of the city streetlights slipping through the curtains. The dress hung where you’d left it, the fabric catching a subtle flash of reflected light as you ran your fingers over the shape.

Your pulse was already fluttering in excitement, but your eyes drifted lower to the shopping bag tucked beside the dresser. In the bag, folded carefully, was a delicate, silky lingerie set that you’d bought impulsively, secretly, because you wanted tonight to feel special. You wanted yourself to feel extra pretty for him, especially when you knew he was going to make you feel like the only woman in the world tonight, as he often did. You hadn’t expected to wear it though, you thought it would sit in the drawer until next year.

But now, he was here, and your heart was racing in your chest like it had just remembered what hope felt like.

You slipped the garment bag from its hanger, laying the dress across the bed with a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the bag, pulling aside the tissue paper until the lingerie revealed itself. Soft lace, tiny satin bows, sheer in places that made your breath hitch.

Your reflection in the mirror looked almost shy, yet giddy inside. You stepped out of your clothes slowly, letting the moment feel real, letting the anticipation stir in your belly. The first brush of lace against your skin made your knees soften. The fabric hugged your hips perfectly, delicate, yet sexy at the same time. The bra lifted you just right, framing your chest in a way that made your lips part softly as you adjusted the straps.

You smoothed your hands down your sides, inhaling a shaky breath as you saw the full picture in the mirror, the lingerie, the glow of candles lingering from the hallway, the soft glow in your cheeks.

Lewis would lose his mind, and the thought of it sent a shiver straight through your spine. With your heart pounding, you slipped the dress over your head, the satin whispering down your body like a secret only you and the fabric shared.

It skimmed your curves, and hugged your waist, settling over your hips perfectly to enhance the curve of your backside. You touched the mirror once more, fingertips against your reflection as if you were preparing yourself, then reached for your perfume, misting your neck and wrists.

Your pulse fluttered beneath the scent. You weren’t just getting ready, you were walking back to your love. To your birthday surprise, and to the man who’d somehow turned one disappointing night into something magical already.

You took one last breath, then turned toward the hallway, ready to show him.

The hallway lights were low enough to guide your steps, while the rest of the apartment glowed, lit by scattered candles and the dim shimmer of dusk melting against the windows. Warmth spilled out from the open balcony doors ahead, a flicker of lantern light brushing the floors like the moonlight had come to greet you.

You smoothed your palms down the fabric of your dress, your heart thudding in your ears as you stepped into the glow of the living room.

You felt the air shift the second Lewis laid his eyes on you, as though an invisible thread had tugged tightly between you. His eyes sparkled as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was real.

His full lips parted, breath catching faintly as his gaze dragged down the length of your figure, from the delicate straps on your shoulders, to the way the fabric kissed your waist, clinging just right over the curve of your hips.

You watched the muscles in his jaw flex, saw the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch you already.

“Damn…” His voice was rough and a little breathless, scraping the edge of awe. His mouth curved into a grin, before his teeth pulled at his lower lip. “Are we sure it’s not my birthday?”

His words pulled a breath of laughter from you, light and a little shaky as you moved toward him, drawn in like a tide. One hand found your waist as soon as you were close enough, the other sliding down your arm to catch your own hand. 

Lewis lifted your hand above your head, his fingers tightening as he moved it. “Turn for me.”

You twirled, slowly, letting him guide you, the hem of your dress whispering around your thighs. You felt the breeze kiss your legs as you turned, the coolness of the fabric brushing your skin, the secret of your lingerie hugging close beneath it all.

When you faced him again, he was shaking his head, his eyes drinking in every inch as though he was trying to burn you into his memory.

“You’re…so beautiful,” he exhaled, almost like it hurt, his throat working as he swallowed.

Your cheeks warmed at the way he was looking at you, and you reached for him without thinking, letting your hands settle over his chest. His heart was beating rapidly under your palms. You leaned forward and met your lips to his, and he responded immediately, pressing back against your mouth, then slower, deeper, until the world around you blurred away.

His hand found your jaw, thumb stroking gently along your cheek. You leaned into the touch instinctively, mouth still brushing his, your whole body warm with love.

“Come on,” he murmured against your lips. “Let’s celebrate first, before I take this dress off you.”

You let him lead you barefoot across the wood of the living room floor, past the flickering candles that lined the hallway, their golden flames swaying gently in the cross-breeze. The curtains at the far end of the room danced like they knew a secret, the evening air curled soft and cool against your skin as he pulled the balcony doors open.

Your breath left you in one slow, quiet exhale when you saw it. 

The balcony was glowing, tiny lights strung with gold wire and low-hanging promises shimmered above your heads like suspended fireflies. They flickered against the darkening sky, casting a warm, buttery glow over everything. At the center was a small round table, draped in pale linen, candlelight flickering low in a golden glass. Two chairs were placed at the table, one pulled out slightly, for you, and the other draped in the jacket you’d been stealing lately.

The scent of garlic and basil, along with a sweet, rich, spice floated through the air like it had been waiting for you to notice it. You stepped forward slowly, as if in a dream, and let your eyes trace the scene.

The spread was like something out of a dream. The pasta from your favorite trattoria in Rome, the one you’d raved about for weeks after your trip, plated in delicate ceramic. A fresh salad with jewel-colored tomatoes, cucumber ribbons, and that exact vinaigrette you used to order every Thursday from the café tucked behind your old apartment. Fresh beignets with a dusting of powdered sugar clinging to their paper wrap like snow, along with your favorite drink, chilled to perfection, condensation gliding slowly down the glass like it had been poured just before you walked in.

There were little handwritten labels tucked beside each plate, tiny hearts drawn next to the ones he knew were your favorites. Some of the letters tilted sideways, charmingly uneven, a familiar sign of his handwriting, and the effort in every stroke made your heart swell.

You blinked hard, trying to speak, to thank him, to comment on the perfection of the setup, but your throat burned with the effort.

Lewis stepped in behind you, arms sliding around your waist and tugging you back into his strong chest. He buried his face into your neck and pressed a light kiss to your skin, breathing in quietly as though you were the one who steadied him.

“I didn’t know if I’d make it in time, but I had to try,” he spoke softly against your skin, the low rasp of his voice running right down your spine.

You turned in his arms slowly to look at him. There was a softness in his face that made your knees weakened, all tender and boyish, as if he wasn’t just proud of what he’d done, but hopeful that you’d feel his love through his actions.

You reached up and touched his face gently, your thumbs brushing down his cheeks and around the shape of his neatly trimmed facial hair. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, like he needed the contact, the tension in his shoulders relaxing at your touch.

You couldn’t help yourself, so you kissed him again, grateful and trembling with how much you loved him. It tasted like every emotion you hadn’t spoken out loud.

“It’s perfect, baby,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady as you pressed your mouth to his once more, where you felt his lips stretch into a proud smile.

Then, he placed a kiss on your forehead, lingering there quietly, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Only the sound of distant traffic below, the soft rustle of leaves, and the glow of a birthday built by someone who knew you better than anyone ever had.

Soon after, you’d taken your seat and began enjoying your meal. You hadn’t even realised how hungry you were until the first bite.

The pasta was warm and rich, clinging to the fork as you spun it through, the flavor so familiar it tugged at the sweet memories in your chest. You moaned quietly around it, a sound that made Lewis glance over with the faintest smirk, as though he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

He reached for his own plate, twirling the pasta slowly, eyes still on you even as he took a bite,  like watching you enjoy it fed him just as much. The candle between you danced with the breeze, throwing golden light across his jaw, and all you could do was look at him. He was so soft in this moment, so handsome it made your chest ache at the sight of him.

You slipped a piece of garlic bread toward his mouth without thinking, and he leaned in to take it, lips brushing your fingers as he hummed in approval. The casual intimacy of it made your skin flush, your pulse skipping with the warmth under your skin.

He asked gently about your day, about the girls, the lunch you’d gone to, your best friend who had leaned out the window and screamed at a row of confused tourists about how good they looked. You laughed telling him about it, cheeks still warm from the memory, and he smiled through sips of his drink, head tilted as he listened intently, the look in his eyes making you feel as though you were the only person in the world.

He told you about the flight, how he barely made the takeoff, how his team had tried to convince him to postpone, but the second he saw your birthday marked on his calendar again, he knew. There was never any question, he had to be here.

The conversation drifted like a slow current, from memories of the past year to dreams for the one ahead. You spoke of things you wanted to do, places you’d like to go. He nodded along, absorbing every word, taking mental notes of which destinations to research for your next anniversary, eyes never straying far from yours.

At one point, he reached across the table to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing a little too slow along your jaw. You leaned into his touch, leaving a light kiss on his palm.

The food disappeared between you, bite by bite, passed back and forth with affection. The beignets followed, pulled apart with sugar-coated fingers and soft, sticky laughter, a powdered smudge at the corner of your lip that he leaned forward to kiss away. You melted into him then, your heart tight with how full you felt, not just from the food, but from his love.

At one point, without quite realising when, you rose from your seat and eased yourself onto his lap like you belonged there, which you did, you always had. You laid your arm long his broad shoulders, thumbing along the ends of his braids, while the other rested on his chest, occasionally rubbing up to his neck.

Lewis welcomed you instantly. One arm curved around your waist, the other resting across your thigh, his hand brushing over the bare skin where your dress had ridden up. You kissed him slowly between words, tasting the leftover sugar on his lips.

The conversation eventually dwindled to soft touches and shared glances.

His thumb traced small shapes against your hip through the fabric of your dress, your fingers threading into his braids above the nape of his neck. You rested your forehead against his and breathed him in, your entire body melting into the quiet joy of the moment. Of him, of all the ways he kept showing up for you, with intention, with love, with more thoughtfulness than your heart sometimes knew what to do with.

He whispered soft words about how beautiful you looked, how much he’d missed you, how lucky he felt, how every birthday with you made him believe more in the timing of things. You blinked away the glassiness in your eyes, a small lump forming in your throat from the adoration in his words.

Eventually, the plates were cleared, your glasses half-full, and your body warm and relaxed with love.

You didn’t want to move, you didn’t want to break the spell of being tucked into his lap, cheek resting on his shoulder while the night settled around you, but then his hand slid beneath your thighs, and you raised your head again to look at him.

"Time for your cake," he announced with a little smile, his thumb brushing the inside of your knee. "Let’s do it properly, yeah?"

Before you could rise, he slipped one arm beneath your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly into the air. You let out a tiny squeak of surprise, fingers clutching at his shirt as he carried you back inside bridal style, like something out of a movie. You felt the soft cotton of his hoodie under your palms, the low thud of his heart close to your own, and smiled into the curve of his neck.

The apartment was still warm and golden, every candle still flickering where he’d placed them, the soft scent of vanilla and spice lingering in the air. He set you down carefully near the kitchen nook, where the cake was waiting.

It was beautiful up close. Round, frosted in soft swirls of cream and delicate blush pink, with sugared strawberries nestled gently around the edges, some whole, others sliced enough to show their jewel-toned insides. Candles, with the exact number of your age, were perched delicately on top, unlit for now, their little wicks waiting patiently.

You reached out to touch Lewis’ back gently as he leaned forward and picked up the lighter. He struck the flame with care, shielding it from the air as he moved from the first candle to the second, a slow glow catching on each one until the cake shimmered in warm light.

When he turned, setting the lighter aside, his hand found your cheek without hesitation. He cradled your face like he always did when words fell short, as though he wanted to make sure you felt everything, even the things he couldn’t say.

His lips met yours again delicately, lingering long enough to slow time and suspend you in this moment for just a bit longer. When he pulled back, his sparkling brown eyes searched yours, and he began to sing softly.

His voice was smooth and quiet in the candlelight, brushing over the words like a lullaby. His gaze didn’t waver once. Every line was for you, every note wrapped around your heart and pressed under your skin with affection. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he sang the last notes of the birthday song.

"Make a wish, baby," he whispered once he’d finished, gesturing towards your lit candles that had begun to melt.

The candles flickered between you, glowing and flickering softly, but the real light was in front of you. In his eyes, the way he watched you, like you were the moon and the stars themselves.

You didn’t need to wish. He was the wish. The love of your life, the man who knew your heart better than anyone, the one who always showed up. Who chose you, again and again, across time zones and any distance in the world. He was right here, loving you, on your birthday.

Your pulse stuttered, chest too full of love to speak, so you just smiled through it, cheeks damp with a couple of stray tears, and closed your eyes.

Then, you blew the candles out, and smoke floated into the air, disappearing lightly into the breeze coming from the window, and Lewis leaned in to kiss your temple, his hand still resting tenderly at your waist.

You cut the first slice carefully, just like you were told to, the knife he handed you gliding through soft sponge and thick swirls of cream, the ripe strawberries on top shifting slightly as the slice tilted onto the plate. You could feel Lewis’s gaze on you the whole time, buzzing with pride.

“Fuck, you’re so cute,” he grinned, lifting his phone. “Wait, hold it like that for me.”

You glanced over your shoulder, laughing as he snapped a picture of you mid-slice, still barefoot in your birthday dress, the golden candlelight catching the shine of your lips and the crinkle of joy in your eyes.

“I’m saving this. That’s all mine,” he added, lowering his phone, beaming at the photo.

You shook your head fondly and plated the slice with careful hands, then turned and held it out toward him, fork in hand, eyes twinkling. “Open up, babe.”

Lewis stepped in close, mouth already opening as he leaned in. You fed him slowly, letting the bite linger on the fork just a moment longer than necessary.

“Mmm,” he groaned softly, letting the cream melt in his mouth. “Damn, that’s good.”

“Yeah?” You asked, unable to contain your smile despite the ache in your cheeks.

He nodded and reached for the fork, loading it with a bite that was slightly too generous, a layer of sponge cake, icing and a chunk of strawberry seated precariously on the edge. “Your turn.”

You gave him a narrow look, eyeing the messy forkful. “That’s huge.”

He raised a brow, mischief laced in his tone while his lips tugged into a small smirk. “You can take it, birthday girl.”

Your breath caught, whether from the words or the look in his eyes, you weren’t sure, but you leaned in anyway, lips parting obediently as you tried to take the whole bite…and failed.

A smear of icing kissed the corner of your mouth, while a crumb flaked free and dusted your chin. You blinked, slightly cross-eyed from the effort, before slowly chewing the rest while Lewis stood there, grinning as though this had been his plan all along.

“Oh,” he chuckled teasingly, stepping closer, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Messy girl.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but didn’t get the chance.

He leaned in, a hand reaching around your waist as his mouth brushed against yours. His tongue caught the cream at the corner, soft and slow, a kiss disguised as clean-up. You melted instantly as his lips pressed to yours lingering, as if he could taste the sugar and your smile all at once, like this was the part he’d really been waiting for.

You pulled back with a soft breath, dizzy from how gently he loved you.

“Your fault,” you whispered, barely able to speak with how full your chest felt.

Without thinking, you reached for the fork, swiped it across the edge of the cake, and smeared the icing across his lower lip.

His eyes lit up playfully, but you didn’t give him a chance to gloat, you leaned in and kissed it off slowly, tongue brushing his bottom lip as your hand found the back of his neck. He made a soft sound in his throat, that low, pleased hum you loved, and kissed you back with heat that stirred in your lower abdomen.

You were still catching your breath from the kiss, when he dipped the fork again.

“Alright, one more,” he announced, scooping a generous bite from the cake.

You opened your mouth, lips parting for him with trust. He leaned in with that same teasing gleam in his eye, a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and fed it to you with care.

However, it wasn’t quite enough care, as when the fork nudged against your bottom lip, cream and sponge brushing your tongue, you felt the soft weight of the cake slipping. A piece of strawberry, slick with icing, dropped straight down.

You gasped as it landed just above your neckline, sticky and cool against your skin. Lewis paused, eyes following the trail of icing down your chest to where the strawberry had landed, and slowly setting the fork down.

“Oops.” His voice was low, velvet-dipped, full of mock-innocence.

You glanced down, heart thudding, the mess glistening pink and white against the warm swell of your chest.

His fingertips brushed over your sternum, feather light as he traced the line where your skin met the fabric of your dress. Then his mouth followed, wet and unbearably slow. He kissed the spot, making your breath catch, tongue flicking over the sugar-stained dip of your skin, and your fingers flew to the back of his neck like a reflex.

“Lewis,” you sighed, a little shaky at the tickle of his breath along your breast.

His hands found your hips, holding you in place as his lips moved higher. He kissed his way up to the hollow of your throat and lingered there, as though he could feel your pulse beneath his mouth, before moving up to press along your neck and under your ear. It wasn’t about the cake anymore, it hadn’t been since the moment you walked through the door and saw him standing there in sweatpants and love in his eyes.

You tilted his face back up to yours, your cheeks hot at the sensation of his mouth on your skin. A playful grin spread across his handsome face, making you giggle softly when he nudged his nose against yours, your skin still tingling from his touch.

“Alright, baby,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling with affection. “Before we get carried away, I’ve got something for you.”

Your eyebrows lifted as he stepped away over to the other side of the table, barefoot and cozy in those damn sweatpants that made your heart skip. He stopped in front of the stack of gifts, each box wrapped in delicate paper and ribbons, every edge neatly folded with care. 

You hadn’t really counted them before, you’d been too overwhelmed by the sight of it all. Yet now, as Lewis turned slightly to glance at the pile, a smile playing at his mouth, your eyes swept slowly across the stack, and counted without meaning to.

The number was exact, one gift for every year of your life, just like last year. You remembered that soft moment in your old apartment, where he’d done the same thing and, with a boyish grin, said it casually as he nudged the first box toward you:

"One for every year you’ve made this world better just by being in it, baby. That’s the rule now."

He’d said it like it wasn’t even a question, it was simply the truth, and clearly, he’d kept the tradition.

Lewis leaned forward and picked up the envelope with your name on it, the parchment smooth in the candlelight. He turned it over in his hand briefly, thumb brushing the edge as though he was debating whether to give it to you first or not, before placing it carefully on the table beside the cake.

Then, he reached for one of the boxes, the smallest one near the front, wrapped in pearlescent cream paper with a gold satin ribbon tied in a neat bow. “Let’s start with this one.”

He handed it to you with both hands, eyes lingering on yours, wanting to watch your reaction from the very first second. The box was cool beneath your fingers, the ribbon soft and slippery as you tugged it loose. The paper crinkled delicately when you peeled it away, heart skipping when you saw the familiar embossing of the Cartier logo pressed into the box.

You lifted the lid slowly, your breath catching in a gasp as the necklace revealed itself.

A single, brilliant diamond set into a fine white gold chain, glittering as if it had caught a star. Sleek, dainty, perfectly elegant. It looked strikingly similar to the one Lewis wore tucked beneath his shirt some days, the one you’d borrowed once on a sleepy morning after breakfast, letting it dangle over your collarbones as he kissed your bare shoulder from behind.

“Lewis…” you whispered, overwhelmed and in awe of the beautiful piece.

His gaze softened, hand brushing your arm while he watched you fondly. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how good mine looked on you, so I wanted to get you one of your own.”

You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes. Lewis had always been kind and thoughtful, but his generosity was always amplified when it came to you. He loved to spoil you shamelessly, and in moments like this, when he’d take note of the little things like this, you never felt more seen, more loved.

He took the box back carefully, then stepped behind you as he picked the necklace out of the box. You gathered your hair with one hand, your skin tingling with anticipation as his fingers brushed the back of your neck.

The cool kiss of the chain made you shiver, and his touch lingered an extra moment before the clasp clicked shut. You felt his warm lips meet the skin of your shoulder, while his hands found your waist, turning you gently towards him.

Lewis’ eyes dropped to the diamond resting above the neckline of your dress, his lips parting just slightly, as though he couldn’t believe how perfect it looked. His fingertips adjusted it slightly along your throat, tracing down towards your neckline. His gaze swept back up to yours, filled with tenderness and swimming with love. “You wear it even better than me.”

Your breath wobbled out in a shaky laugh, fingers brushing the necklace where it lay warm now against your skin. Still, your gaze drifted back curiously to the envelope on the table, your name inked in that familiar, slightly slanted handwriting.

“Can I read it?” you asked softly, almost shy yourself now, as if peeling back the last layer of the night might reveal too much, make you feel too much. “Before I open the rest?”

Lewis’s expression flickered ever so slightly, but you caught in the faint lift of his eyebrow, and the bashful tug of a smile at one corner of his mouth as if he’d braced for you to ask but still wasn’t fully ready. He looked suddenly younger in the candlelight, boyishly nervous almost.

“Yeah,” he murmured, scratching lightly at the back of his neck, voice a little quieter than before. “Yeah, of course. Just…go easy on me, yeah?”

You smiled at that, your belly fluttering in anticipation as he stepped back to give you space. You reached for the envelope with care, your fingers brushing the edge like the paper softly. It felt thick beneath your fingertips, high-quality, smooth, like it was worth holding onto. You turned it over gently, sliding your finger beneath the sealed edge, and opened it with slow, steady movements.

Inside was a single folded sheet of cream-coloured paper, warm from the room’s heat, faintly textured beneath your fingertips. You unfolded it carefully to reveal his handwriting. You could’ve picked it out in a heartbeat.

Neat, slanted letters, mostly the same size, with the occasional gentle loop on some letters, but it was the uppercase letters that always gave him away, swirled with a little extra flair, like they were signing off on something. There were a couple of tiny spelling errors, things your eyes caught but your heart ignored, because they only made it more him. Because you knew he always second-guessed himself when it came to writing, but he’d still done this. For you.

Your thumb traced the edge of the page once, breathing in slowly as your eyes dropped to the first line, and you began to read.

‘To the love of my life,

Happy Birthday baby.

This is your day. I hope you feel just how deeply loved you are, not just by me, but by every soul lucky enough to know you.

You are the most beautiful soul I’ve ever known. You’ve changed my life in more ways than I could ever count.

You’ve given me a kind of love I didn’t know I needed. You’ve made space for me to be myself, and that’s something I’ll never take for granted.

You’ve taught me what it really means to love someone unconditionally.

You’ve shown me how to slow down, how to breathe, how to sit back and let someone take care of me for once.

You’ve given me peace and meaning. You’ve made every part of life better, the best days, and the hardest ones. The endless flights and long nights we’ve spent halfway across the world from each other.

I’m endlessly grateful for the day you were born.

I love everything about you. The way you always show up for the people around you. The way you hold the people you love. The way you carry so much in that beautiful heart of yours.

I love your laugh. I love the way you kiss me when I’m half asleep. I love the way you always remember everything I somehow forget. I love being held by you, and I love holding you even more.

I love every day we’ve spent together. Every joke, every fight we worked through, every quiet moment. Every adventure.

I can’t wait for all the ones still to come.

This year, I hope you feel celebrated and apprecaited.

I hope you know just how lucky I feel to wake up next to you.

You deserve the world, baby, and I promise to spend every day of my life trying to give it to you.

Happy birthday, my beautiful girl.

I love you more than you’ll ever know.

Yours always,

Lewis’

As you finished reading, a warm tear slid from your cheek down to your lip  salt mingling with the faint sweetness of cake still clinging there. The paper wavered in your hands, the candlelight blurring into soft gold halos across the page as your breath caught on a quiet, trembling inhale.

Your heart felt too full for your chest, swelling with emotion.

You pressed the letter gently to your chest, holding it there as if it could steady you, as if the physical weight of his words might somehow help you make sense of the tidal wave rising inside your ribcage. Your fingers curled over the edges lightly, your pulse fluttering beneath them.

You sensed Lewis move towards you in the way the air shifted slightly behind you, carrying his warmth, his faint cologne, that familiar woody scent lingering in his sweatpants and shirt, as his arms slid around you. One wrapped low across your waist, palm flattening over your stomach; the other came up slowly to cover your hand where it clutched the letter to your chest.

His strong chest pressed to your back, his breath warm as it exhaled into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. He tucked his chin lightly against you, holding you gently, protectively.

Your eyes squeezed shut, and another tear slipped free, gliding hot and slow down your cheek. You carefully placed the letter on the table in front of you, and turned in his arms before the emotion could swallow you entirely. Your hands reached for him immediately, one sliding up the side of his neck, the other clutching into his shirt.

Lewis’s brows pulled together when he saw your face, the wet lashes, the tremble in your mouth. Concern flickered across his expression, tenderness softening it just as quickly.

“Too much?” he asked quietly, searching your eyes, his thumb brushing the streak of a tear from your cheek.

“No,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you shook your head and leaned closer, your breath catching on his lips. “No, baby…it’s perfect.”

Then, you tugged him towards you and met his mouth with your own.

You kissed him as though you were pouring every beat of your heart into him, like the only way your lungs could work again was through him. Your lips pressed to his with a shaky urgency, wet from tears, yet soft with emotion. He responded instantly, hands moving up to cradle your face, his thumbs sweeping your cheeks gently as he kissed you back with a slow tenderness that melted you from the inside out.

Your tears smeared lightly against his skin, and Lewis didn’t pull back. Instead, he kissed them away, kissed the corner of your mouth, kissed the path a tear had taken down to your jawline, kissed you like the emotion spilling out of you was louder than any words that could be spoken.

“I love you,” you breathed against his lips, barely forming the words.

Lewis exhaled sharply, the sound low and full of feeling as he kissed you again harder and deeper, pulling you into him until your body met every inch of his. “I love you so much, sweetheart.”

His hands slid down to your waist, gripping softly, and guiding you closer. You felt the warmth of him everywhere, radiating from his chest through your dress, the soft friction of his sweatpants brushing your thighs, the faint tickle of his braids slipping loose near his cheek as he tilted his head to drag his tongue along yours. He kissed you with hunger, with devotion, with a deep love that made your knees soften and your breath tremble in your throat.

At one point he broke away just slightly, breathing hard, his lips still brushing yours.

“Baby…” he murmured, thumb tracing your damp cheekbone, “You’ve got more gifts. We should-”

“No,” you replied immediately, your fingers sliding into the back of his hair to pull him back into another kiss. “Later.”

He blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, kissing him again, slower, deeper. “You’re my gift.”

A low sound left him, almost a groan, maybe a laugh, warm and full of affection. His hands tightened at your waist, his lips pressing to yours again, needier this time. The kiss stole your breath and gave you something else in return, heat, sparks, that familiar ache blooming low in your belly.

Your dress was soft under his palms as he slid his hands down, fingers bunching the fabric lightly as he lifted you effortlessly by the hips. You let out a soft gasp as your bottom hit the cool edge of the dining table, still cluttered with candlelight, cake crumbs, and the ribbon from your gift. The slight shift of a plate rattled next to you, a small candle flame bending with the movement.

Lewis stepped between your parted knees immediately, his hands spreading warm across your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, teasing lines up toward the hem of your dress. His mouth trailed along your jawline, kissing the hollow beneath your ear, his breath warm and tinged with sugar from the cake.

You tilted your head back in response, fingers gripping the back of his neck to keep yourself upright. The table felt cool beneath your thighs; his palms sliding higher towards the lace underneath.

His mouth dragged lower down your throat, brushing the swell of your chest with his soft lips, the tickle of his breath chasing goosebumps across your skin. Your back arched and you didn’t even realise you’d shifted back until your thigh bumped the edge of the plate with the faintest clink, just a whisper of contact, but it was enough.

The plate tilted, and the slice of cake slid across the porcelain, a thick ribbon of pale icing meeting your bare skin with a cold, unexpected kiss.

You gasped at the sensation, the contrast making you jolt. Chilled frosting smeared across the outer curve of your thigh. Cool sugar clung to your warmth, softening instantly from the heat of your skin, and the feeling was dizzying. 

Before you could blink, Lewis’ gaze dropped, as if yanked there by gravity itself. His eyes traced the mess along your leg, and there was a primal shift in his expression. Then, he sank to his knees like a man being offered his last meal. 

“I’ve got it.” The sound of his voice was deeper now, roughened with hunger, and it made your thighs tense beneath his touch.

He leaned forward, and his mouth met your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. His tongue swept through the icing in one long stroke, hot and unbearably slow. He licked through the cream as though he wanted to taste every inch of you. He didn’t stop there, either,  he followed it with a kiss, then another, just beside it. His lips sank into your skin like he was memorising the taste, moving towards your inner thighs.

By the time he looked up at you, your heart was in your throat. Your hands trembled at your sides, heat pulsing low and deep, spreading through you in waves. You felt it in your chest, your spine, your belly, and especially between your legs.

He didn’t have to say anything, not with the way his pupils had grown wide, the way his jaw flexed, the way his hand tightened slightly at your hip like he was trying not to lose control.

You reached for the plate without a second thought when you saw the look on his face. A dollop of cream clung thick to your fingertips as you dipped into the edge of the slice again, before you brought it low between your thighs. You smeared it softly on the inside of your other leg, just above the knee at first, then higher, a curved streak of sugar against your skin.

The cold made you shiver again, but it was nothing compared to the burn of his gaze as he watched your fingers trail up, icing melting beneath your touch.

Lewis lifted his head slowly, as though he needed a breath before he completely unravelled. His palms slid further up your thighs, warming the places the icing had cooled, his thumbs tracing slow circles against your skin.

Then, he leaned in again. His mouth found the smeared streak on your inner thigh with a hunger that made your heart stutter. His tongue flattened against your skin, dragging through the sweetness in a long, intoxicating sweep that left nothing behind. You felt the vibration of a low groan spill from him as he tasted you, the sound rumbling against your leg and deep into your core.

He kissed higher, soft, and open‑mouthed just above the tender inside of your knee, tasting the last hint of sugar there.

Then, higher still, the warm pull of his lips smoothing over the curve of your thigh, his breath growing heavier as he moved closer to where you were already throbbing for him. Your fingers tangled into his braids almost without thought, your hips tilting forward, silently begging for him to keep going.

You felt every inhale he took, and every warm exhale blooming against your inner thigh as he leaned in again. His tongue traced up through the last thin streak of icing you’d smeared purposefully, until his mouth was kissing just shy of the place your lingerie hid everything.

Your thighs tightened instinctively, and his hands slid firm beneath them, holding you open, keeping you right where he wanted you. The heat building in your belly sharpened at the touch, at the way he handled you like you were precious, and you only wanted more.

Your hand drifted back toward the plate, and Lewis noticed instantly. He stilled as he watched you, his chest rising with deep, hungry breaths. You slipped your fingers into the thick icing again, gathering it slowly. His eyes grew darker as he watched the movement, tracking every inch of your hand until your fingertips lifted, glistening.

You parted your legs just a little further, and spread it along the delicate inner curve right at the edge of your core, where the lace of your lingerie kissed your body. The cold made you gasp and the anticipation made your pulse stumble even more.

Lewis’s hand clamped around your thigh, a reflex he didn’t bother to hide.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice so low it barely existed. “Come here. Come here, baby…”

He didn’t wait for permission, his hands slid beneath your thighs, pulling you to the very edge of the table with one smooth motion. Your breath punched out of you as your hips shifted, your dress hiking up around your waist, lace stretching tight over the slick heat gathering beneath it.

He exhaled as if he’d just been handed the thing he’d been craving all night. His thumbs hooked beneath the edges of your thighs, spreading you open gently but firmly, as though he needed to see every inch you were willing to offer him.

He leaned in slowly, his nose brushing the soft lace between your legs first, inhaling you, and the sound he made was almost pained.

Then his tongue pressed to the inside of your thigh, right at the edge of the icing you’d smeared. He licked upward agonisingly slow, tracing the sugary trail with a careful, hungry precision that had your fingers twisting tighter in his braids.

He kissed the last of the icing clean, lips sinking into your skin like he wanted to mark the spot. Then he looked up at you from between your legs, his voice a low, shaky rasp. “Open wider for me.”

You did instantly, your breath catching as your knees eased even further apart, your dress slipping higher, your heartbeat thundering in every limb.

Lewis’ warm hands slid along the inside of your thighs again, guiding you open until the lace framed everything he wanted. His thumbs stroked once at the edges of your lingerie, before he pushed the delicate fabric aside. The air hit you first, cool against your heat, then his breath followed.

“Look at you,” he whispered, as though he was looking at the one thing he’d dreamt about on every flight, on every lonely night away from you. 

You barely had time to take another breath, before he leaned forward and sealed his mouth to you. His lips closed around your slick core like he’d been starved, his tongue sweeping through your folds with a deep, perfect stroke that made your entire body jolt. A whimper slipped from your throat, and Lewis groaned into you like the sound was his reward.

His hands gripped your thighs firmly, keeping you exactly where he needed you. He licked again, slower this time, dragging the broad flat of his tongue up through your slick, tasting where the sugar ended and you began.

You trembled, fingers clutching at his braids, pulling him deeper, and he went willingly, eagerly humming deep in his chest as his mouth worked you open. Each kiss, each lick was purposeful, slow enough to undo you, deep enough to imprint itself into your bones, hungry enough to leave no question of what he wanted most tonight.

You, only you.

His tongue circled your clit in a slow, perfect drag that made your head drop back, a soft moan catching on your breath. He felt the way your thighs tightened around his head and answered with a sound that vibrated right through your core.

“Lewis-” you gasped, your voice trembling, hips lifting toward his mouth.

He didn’t pull back or slow down. Instead, he pushed the lace further aside, opening you completely to him, and lowered his mouth again, deeper and hungrier, tongue stroking, lips sealing, consuming you like your taste was the sweetest thing he’d had all night. He held you there, devouring you like this was the real birthday gift. The one he’d been waiting to give you since the moment he stepped off the plane.

His tongue pressed deeper, parting you with precision. He tasted you as though he’d missed you more than sleep, more than sanity, like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment, and now that he had you, spread open on the table with sugar on your skin and your legs shaking in his hands, he wasn’t letting go.

“Fuck…” His voice was muffled, buried between your thighs, his mouth still working you open. “You taste so good, baby. Always so good.”

You hummed in bliss, hips tilting into his face, and he groaned into you like he needed more. His grip tightened around your thighs, fingers digging in gently to keep you there as he dragged his tongue up again, teasing, circling your clit in the lightest, most maddening way. He followed with a sudden barrage of quick flicks that made you cry out.

“Baby, f-fuck…” the words tore from your throat weakly like a warning that you couldn’t hold yourself together much longer.

He groaned in response, the vibration of it shooting through your core like lightning. Then his mouth sealed over your clit. The suction was deep, steady, perfect, pulling everything inside you tightly, coiling, the kind that made your hands fist in his braids and your thighs clamp helplessly around his head. His tongue moved in slow, devastating circles while his fingers slid lower, gently teasing your entrance, slick and ready.

When he pushed a finger inside, you moaned instantly, the sound caught between pleasure and disbelief. He added a second a moment later, his fingers curling as he dipped them inside you, your head dropping back, mouth parting as he worked you up, the squelch of your slick loud in the silence

“Oh my-fuck…Lewis-”

“I know, baby. I know. You’re so close, my love,” he panted, lips still moving against you, eyes dark and wild as he looked up at you. 

The orgasm crested fast at his movements, stealing the breath from your lungs as your thighs trembled around his shoulders and your hips rocked against his mouth. You cried out, loud and desperate, as the wave of it surged through your entire body, through every nerve. Your hand tugged his braids, your back arched, and all you could feel was him, the heat of his mouth, the strong hold of his hands, the safe stretch of his body between your legs as he worshipped you through every pulse, every tremble, every raw, beautiful aftershock.

Lewis didn’t stop until your thighs were twitching and your hand gently pushed at his shoulder. Even then, he kissed the inside of your leg one more time, then another. A final one right over your fluttering pulse.

When he stood, his lips were glistening, his breath heavy, and his eyes drunk on you. You were floating, still catching your breath, still trembling from the strength of it. You smiled, dazed, warm, in love, and your eyes sparkled when they met his.

“My turn,” you breathed, licking your lips slowly and guiding him backwards with a little shove to the chest.

Lewis stumbled back into the chair behind him, stunned but laughing, his grin wide as he watched you slide off the table and onto his lap.

You straddled his lap slowly, knees pressing into either side of his thighs as your dress shifted, the fabric catching against his sweatpants in delicate rustles. Your thighs still trembled faintly, tingling from the aftershock of his mouth, but your hands were steady as they found his face.

You cupped his jaw with your palms, your thumbs sweeping the dampness from the corners of his mouth as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, tasting the remnants of yourself on his tongue.

Lewis groaned against your mouth, the sound swallowed by your kiss, his hands instinctively grasping at your hips. His tongue flicked against yours, filthier, hungrier. Then, without warning, he caught your bottom lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp.

A light laugh spilled from you, the sound breathy and giddy, your nose brushing his as you pulled back slightly. "Cheeky.”

"You started it," he smirked, running his teeth over his lower lip, his hands smoothing over your thighs.

You reached for the hem of his shirt without breaking eye contact, fingers coiling into the fabric before tugging it slowly upward. Lewis lifted his arms wordlessly, his gaze dark and steady as you pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.

The candlelight kissed every ridge of him, his chest, broad and golden, tattoos etched across his skin, glinting as he breathed. You let your palms glide over him slowly, fingertips tracing the line of ink along his collarbone, then down the center of his chest. He was so warm beneath your touch, solid and perfect, all yours.

Your lips twitched into a smile as you reached for the cake plate again. You plucked a single strawberry from the edge of the slice, its skin glistening with icing and soft juice. You brought it to your own mouth first, teeth sinking into the ripe flesh with a soft pop. Juice spilled onto your tongue, sweet and tangy.

Then, you leaned forward, holding the rest of the berry between your lips as you hovered just inches from his, where he met you halfway. He opened his mouth against yours, his teeth brushing the other end of the strawberry as the two of you bit down at the same time. The fruit split between your mouths, juice spilling onto his chin, all sticky and red. You grinned at the sight of it, licking the corner of your lips before leaning in again.

Your tongue traced the sweet, slow trickle down his chin, licking it off with agonising care along the line of his beard, then kissing your way from his jaw to his throat, your tongue flicking against the hollow where his pulse thudded.

He exhaled sharply, head tilting back as your kisses drifted lower, your lips finding the edge of his collarbone, then trailing down the center of his chest.

Your fingers dipped into the cake again, collecting a generous smear of icing. Without hesitation, you spread it across his chest in a slow, curved stroke, the white contrasting starkly against his skin.

His breath shuddered slightly at the coolness, but didn’t move, just watched you through heavy-lidded eyes, his jaw tense, his breath shallow. 

You met his gaze as you leaned in again and licked it off in a single, slow drag of your tongue across the icing on his chest, savoring the mix of sugar and him. You pressed a kiss to the spot after, then another, before licking the rest clean, like he had done to you.

You kissed lower sliding off his lap and following the faint trail of sweetness down the line of his abs, licking slowly between each ridge, tasting him like a second dessert. His skin was hot beneath your mouth, chest rising and falling faster now, his hands flexing in the air, where he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or just hold on.

Smearing more cream down the grooves of his abdomen, you followed with your tongue flicking just above his navel, then moved your lips along the deepest dip between his abs, and that’s when his hips twitched involuntarily. You followed with another streak of icing across the deep V of his hip, watching goosebumps ripple in your wake.

He swore under his breath, muscles flexing beneath you. “Fuck…that mouth.”

You leaned in and licked a stripe straight up the center of his abs, tongue dragging through the sweetness, warm and wet along his skin. His breath caught like it punched from his lungs.

You kissed lower, tracing the icing with your tongue, one stripe at a time, licking him clean until all that was left was heat and the faintest stickiness against your lips Your palm landed just below, right where the thick tension in his sweats made itself known, so stiff and hard for you, straining upward against the soft fabric. The moment your hand pressed down, his breath caught with a small gasp of your name.

His hands reached for you then, one finding your waist, the other tangling in your hair, fingers tightening enough to ground himself as you kissed lower, your thumb stroking along the waistband of his sweats.

You palmed him again, feeling how solid he was through the soft grey fabric. He groaned low, his grip in your hair tightening to keep himself from unraveling. You let him guide you back up, crawling over him slowly, breath hot as you kissed your way back up his torso, your thighs tightening around his hips as you straddled him once more. Your chest pressed against his, heat melting between you.

The second your lips found his again, it was like a blaze. He kissed you like he’d lost his mind, as though he couldn’t believe he was still allowed to have you like this, draped across his lap, sugar still clinging to your skin, and all of your love pouring out through every breath, every press of your mouth against his.

You kissed him until you couldn’t breathe, then, you sat back slightly, hands dropping low again, fingers toying with the waistband of his sweats.

You hooked your fingers into the fabric and slowly dragged the pants down, easing them over his hips, down his thighs, and all the way off, until he was bare beneath you, his length thick and heavy against his stomach, already leaking at the tip with a pearly bead.

Lewis leaned forward, catching your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing over your parted lips. “See what you do to me, baby? This is all for you.”

“All mine?” you whispered in reply, pressing a kiss to the pad of his thumb.

He nodded slowly, his brown eyes sparkling in the candlelight, the barest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Every fucking inch, sweetheart.”

That was all you needed to hear.

You rose up on his lap, the hem of your dress slipping higher, the satin bunching at your hips. One of the delicate straps had already fallen down your shoulder, and the other followed now, slipping low as you moved, revealing a teasing glimpse of the lace underneath, sheer and soft, enough to make his lips part with disbelief at such a beautiful vision.

Your fingers reached between your bodies, finding him easily, hot and solid against your palm, slick at the tip from how much he’d been holding back. You stroked him once, just to hear his breath catch again, and watch his jaw tighten.

The moment the head of his dick pressed to your entrance, you paused to watch him, to feel every stutter in his breath, every twitch in his thighs, every ounce of restraint that was ready to snap.

Your eyes met his as you sank down slowly, inch by aching inch. Slick and tight, your walls stretched perfectly around him, easing him in until you were seated fully in his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, his length buried deep inside you.

He swore quietly, his hands flying back to your hips like he couldn’t help himself. His lips brushed yours as he held you close, pressing to the corner of your mouth as you adjusted slightly for your perfect angle.

You rocked your hips just once, testing the fit, the fullness, and it made both of you gasp, the sound tangled between your mouths.

“Gonna let me ride you, baby?” you asked with a whisper, pressing your palms to his chest to still him from moving.

He nodded, completely undone beneath you. “Anything you want, birthday girl.”

You started slowly, grinding your hips in slow, deep circles, feeling every drag of his dick through your folds, every pulse of him inside you. He filled you just right, stretching you in a way that made your whole body sing. You moaned softly, letting your head fall towards his, your hands finding his shoulders for balance as you rode him steadily, letting the friction build.

The straps of your dress had fallen completely now, your chest rising and falling with each bounce, the lace of your bra just barely holding in the curve of your breasts as you moved. The sight of you made him groan, his hands sliding up from your hips, then one rising to gently cup your breast through the lace.

You gasped when his thumb brushed your nipple, and his other hand grasped at your hip tighter. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he grunted out, his tongue circling around your nipple as he sucked gently. “What did I do to deserve you?”

You tugged at his braids lightly to pull him back, then leaned forward again, capturing his mouth with yours, your hips never breaking rhythm as you slammed down onto him over and over, the repeated sound of skin slapping filling the room. Your mouths moved together messily, your lips slightly fuller from how many times he’d claimed them tonight. Your breath stuttered as you bounced a little faster now, the angle hitting deeper while your clit rubbed against him, pressing right where you needed it most.

“Gonna come again for me?” he asked, breath warm in your ear as his hips rocked up in his seat, catching your rhythm.

You nodded, unable to form words, your movements growing more frantic now, chasing that high, using him to get there as you squeezed him tight. The sensation bloomed stronger from the friction, building higher and higher with every grind.

Lewis leaned in, his mouth finding your neck, trailing hot kisses up to the shell of your ear. “You’re doing so good, my love. I want to feel you come all over my dick.”

Shaky moans escaped your lips, the heat building impossibly fast now, your nails digging into his shoulders as your hips stuttered. “Lew…fuck, I-”

“Look at me, want to see your pretty face,” he commanded gently, and when your eyes met his again, when you saw the way he was looking at you, like you were everything he’d dreamed of and more, it tipped you straight over the edge.

Your body seized with pleasure, your hips grinding deep against him as bliss tingled through every nerve ending. Your thighs trembled, breath catching, mouth falling open in a moan that he kissed away, swallowing your cries as your walls clenched hard around him, soaking his length down to his balls.

He held you through it, letting you ride it out, every wave, every twitch. Your whole body trembled for a moment, and he was still rock hard inside you when you finished. You weren’t done yet though.

You leaned back, both hands reaching behind you to brace yourself on the edge of the dinner table, fingertips clutching around polished surfaces as your body arched, offering yourself up without shame. Your spine lengthened, head tilted back, your hair slightly tousled. Your chest rose and fell as you caught your breath, your bra loosened around your breasts, the candlelight casting a soft glow against the swell and glittering on the surface of your new necklace. Your lips were kiss-bitten, fuller from his kisses, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy from pleasure. A view no man deserved.

“Fuck,” Lewis breathed in disbelief, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your pulse fluttered at the sincerity in his voice, filled with awe. His hands roamed up your waist, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needed to feel every inch of you. 

“You don’t even know what you do to me.” He shook his head, eyes trailing from your parted lips down to where your hips slowly began to rock against him again. “I’m so in love with you.”

You felt his adoration in every part of you, his need, the way his breath stuttered as you rolled your hips with intent, grinding down until he groaned low in his throat. The table beneath your palms trembled slightly with each movement, and still, you held his eyes like you were daring him not to fall apart for you.

He broke your gaze though, glancing down between you to watch the way he slipped in and out of you, your panties pushed further aside with each movement, a low growl in his throat as he swallowed. You followed, the sight of his thick length drawing a whimper from you, biting down on your lower lip when his thumb found your clit. 

Your body arched perfectly with each roll of your hips now, your moans breathier, needier, and all for him. His name spilled from your lips in broken, pretty little gasps, until your fingers scrambled for the edge of the table just to keep you upright.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, one hand bracing your back, the other circling slow and firm around the bundle of nerves at your core as you moved on him. “That’s it, baby. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

All you could think, through the warmth building again between your thighs and the dizzy sweetness in your chest, was how deeply, wholly, fiercely he loved you, and how good it felt to be worshipped like this. 

It wasn’t long before the friction from his thumb, and the deep grind of him inside you pushed you to your peak, your head tipping back as a soft cry of pleasure left your lips. 

He caught you just as your body slackened in the aftershock, tugging you back to his chest, and your arms looped instinctively around his shoulders as he rose to full height, holding you carefully. Your legs wrapped around his waist with ease, bare thighs still trembling slightly, the heat between you still pulsing. The soft drag of his fingertips along your spine grounded you as he carried you from the dining chair, past the half-melted candles and forgotten cake, straight toward the bedroom.

There was no rush now, just the heavy air of desire, thick with emotion. He laid you down slowly, gently, like the world might stop if he let go too soon. The sheets were cool beneath your warmed skin, a soft contrast to the fever that still throbbed low in your belly. His gaze roamed over you, devouring and delicate all at once, like he couldn’t believe you were real, and his.

He stood between your parted knees, leaning down and brushing your hair back with both hands, his eyes sweeping over you with awe. 

“Stay just like that,” he murmured, hands gliding up along your thighs. “Want to look at you.”

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress, and tugged it off your body like he was unwrapping a gift of his own. His eyes darkened with desire when he saw what you wore underneath in full view, the soft lace you’d chosen only for him.

“Fuck, I wish I could frame this,” he groaned, fingertips gliding along the inside of your thigh, then to the dip of your waist, up to your chest. “The way you look right now is just…unreal.”

You sat up slightly on your elbows as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the curve of your hip, another to the center of your stomach, then lower, until his mouth ghosted just over the delicate lace. He pulled your panties down with painstaking care and tossed them to the side like he couldn’t wait to forget they existed. Then, he crawled over you slowly, not between your legs this time, but alongside you, his body aligned beside yours as he drew you to lie back.

Instead of the usual rhythm, him over you, you beneath, he curled behind you, pulling your back to his chest in a warm cocoon of his strong arms. His mouth grazed the curve of your neck as one hand slid down your stomach, slow and deliberate, while the other cradled your jaw and turned your face toward him. 

His lips found yours again, exploring like you were a secret he was still discovering, and he had all night to map you.

“I missed having you in my arms,” he whispered into your mouth.

His fingers began to move, gentle, soft swirls through your folds, while he whispered how proud he was of you, how beautiful you looked all night, how this year was going to be everything you wanted and more.

“You deserve it all, baby.” He brushed your hair back as his fingers circled deeper. “Everything. The world, the stars. My whole fucking heart.”

Your head fell back against him, a soft cry breaking from your throat as he kissed your shoulder and pressed his hips flush to yours. When you reached back to touch him, his breath hitched, and he nuzzled closer.

He kissed you like he’d missed you for months instead of days, mouth hungry but sweet, tasting of sugar and the faintest echo of you. His tongue slid against yours, and you whimpered into his mouth, the kiss messy, greedy, filled with a desperate want only built from years of knowing every inch of each other, and still not getting enough.

You felt him twitch against your thigh, but he didn’t push for anything yet. Not until you finished again. His fingers continued to slip between your folds with a tantalising rhythm that made your hips roll into his hand. You broke the kiss with a gasp, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other clutching his wrist as he worked you toward another release.

“That’s right, birthday girl. One more for me, you deserve it,” he murmured against your skin.

You were already unraveling, heat gathering again with dizzying speed. The way he looked at you, kissed your cheek between words, whispered your name, it was almost too much. Your nails dug into his arm as the wave hit you, stealing the breath from your lungs and arching your back. He swallowed your moan with his mouth, catching every trembling sound like a secret he’d keep forever.

Once your frantic breathing slowed, he eased out of the intimate tangle of limbs, lifting himself above you to look at you again. His gaze swept over your face, your chest, the straps of your lacy bra barely hanging on.

Lewis kissed his way down your sternum, fingers fiddling with the hooks of your bra at your back, tugging it off and baring you completely. 

He paused when he reached your navel, resting his cheek there for a second, wrapping both arms around your waist. “Just wanna hold you like this forever.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he shifted again, lips trailing lower, then back up as he aligned himself with you, settling between your legs. You opened easily for him, still slick and pulsing from the last climax.

When he slid in again, filling you with every inch, it felt like a sigh across your soul. Two halves of a heart, the deepest love you had ever experienced, all threading together to form this moment. 

He rolled his hips in slow strokes, pulling soft, shaky breaths from you with every movement. His arms cradled your body like you were the most precious thing he had ever held, his mouth never far from your skin, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, the slope of your neck.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him close to you. One arm draped over his back, nails digging into his muscles, while the other carded through his braids. He began to pick up pace, still gentle, still focused entirely on you. You were completely soaked between your legs, the slick squelch of every drag of his dick through you only adding fuel to the fire in your belly.

You pulled him closer, lips brushing against his cheek, your mouth right by his ear when you felt the familiar twitch inside you, his breath shaky with moans. “I love you so much, Lew…please come inside me.”

A soft groan tore from his throat, his hips faltering for just a moment before he steadied again, still deep, still smooth. His forehead dropped to yours, and he kissed you as you clenched around him again, ready to milk every bit of him. 

That was his undoing.

With a final few thrusts, Lewis buried himself as deep as he could, groaning your name against your lips as he filled you up with thick, creamy ropes, trembling above you, arms shaking, eyes shut tight like the moment would never end. His breath shuddered against your neck, hips twitching with every pulse of release as your slick core milked him.

Still, he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside, wrapped around you, breathing you in. His hands never left your skin, while his lips pressed kisses to your temple.

You stroked his back with slow, dreamy sweeps of your hand, the room thick with the scent of strawberries and love.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Lewis whispered again, his mouth mapping its way back to yours.

You smiled against his lips, your legs still curled around his hips. Neither of you moved to break the spell for a while. The candles still flickered in the other room, casting a golden glow across the hallway, and the world outside felt miles away.

“Thank you for everything, Lew. This might be the best one yet,” you replied softly, still slightly dazed as you traced your thumb along his facial hair.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot just below your ear. “It’s not over yet though.”

Your eyebrows lifted in amusement as you giggled when his breath tickled your skin. “Yeah?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes warm, and his heart shaped lips curved in that smile that always made your heart swell with love. “You’ve still got more gifts to open.”

You bit your lip, grinning now. “You mean the ones on the table, or…”

He dipped his head, kissed your neck again purposefully. “All of them, but maybe we can start with the smallest box. I don’t think you’ve seen that one yet.”

Your heart kicked harder in your chest, and he felt it as he smiled against your collarbone. 

When he finally pulled back to meet your gaze, still inside you, still tangled together, you could see in his eyes, that this night, this love, wasn’t done giving.

There would be more gifts to open, and more love to share, but one thing you knew for certain, was that he was the best gift of all.

Your arms came around him instantly. “Hey, champ,” you murmured, lips brushing his temple. He answered with a low hum, kissed the pulse point under your jaw, then lower, lazy and greedy along your collarbone. “Baby…I missed you.”

His hands slid under the hem of your pyjama shirt, palms flat against the soft skin of your back, pulling you flush against him. You arched just enough to let him know you were game, but then… his breathing changed. It slowed and deepened, the surrender that happens when a body finally gives up the fight to stay awake. He kissed you once more, open-mouthed and sleepy, then he simply… stopped. Head tucked under your chin, one arm slung heavy across your waist, he was gone. Out cold before you could even tease him about it.

You hadn’t minded. You’d kissed the top of his head, whispered “sleep, baby,” and let him anchor himself to you until morning. He’d just been on an 8 hour flight, he needed the rest.

Now the winter light filters pale through the curtains of the house. But Lewis wakes alone. The sheets on your side are cool, but your scent lingers: warm vanilla, a hint of amber from your perfume, the clean cotton of your skin. He rolls into your pillow without thinking, buries his face deep, and breathes.

Fuck.

His dick twitches hard, thickening against the mattress in one lazy, insistent pulse. He groans low into the cotton, hips rocking once before he catches himself. Two weeks apart: races, travel, media, the endless churn of his life. And now this, he was waking up without you. He fights the urge to whine like a child. Your smell alone is enough to ruin him. He presses his forehead to the pillow for a second, wills his body to behave, then shoves himself upright. Grey joggers do nothing to hide the situation. He has to tuck himself down, adjust, curse under his breath. A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s late morning, later than he ever sleeps, and he hears you downstairs. The soft clack of keys, the ceramic tap of a spoon against a bowl, your quiet hum along to whatever playlist you have on low.

You have a meeting day, Lewis remembers. Important. Client call. Something creative, something you’ve been nervous-excited about for days. He isn’t about to be the reason you’re distracted or off your game. He drags himself to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, brushes his teeth with mechanical speed, and pads down the stairs.

You’re at the kitchen island, backlit by the wide windows, hair pulled up from your face, wearing one of his old hoodies that swallows your frame. Sleeves rolled to your elbows, legs bare beneath the hem. Laptop open, notebook beside it, a bowl of yoghurt and berries in front of you. You look up when his shadow crosses the floor, and your whole face softens.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Your smile is slow, warm, a little teasing. “Thought you were going to hibernate all day.”

He doesn’t answer with words. He crosses the room in three strides, slides his hands around your waist from behind, and pulls you back against his chest. You laugh softly as he drops his mouth to the side of your neck, the exact same spot he fell asleep against last night. The kiss is deeper this time, slower, tongue tracing the salt of your skin. You tilt your head to give him room, fingers curling around his inked forearm.

“Lewis,” you breathe, laugh again but with a hint of loving warning. “I’ve got the call in—” You glance at the clock. “Ninety minutes. Be good.”

He hums against your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “I’m always good.”

“Bullshit.” You turn in his arms, rise on your toes, and kiss him properly. Soft, lingering, tasting faintly of mint and the coffee you’ve already had. Then you push gently at his chest. “Coffee’s fresh. Go. I need to focus.”

He lets you go, but not before stealing one more kiss, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he can’t help it.

He moves to the espresso machine, more for something to do with his hands than because he needs caffeine. The machine hisses and gurgles while he watches you settle back onto the stool, spoon dipping into the yoghurt. Thick, creamy, swirled with honey and a few crushed berries bleeding purple. You scoop a bite, bring it to your lips.

That’s when it starts.

Your mouth parts around the spoon. Your soft, plush lower lip dragging along the edge to catch every last trace. You close your lips, pull the spoon free with a quiet, wet sound, then…God…your tongue slips out, sweeping across the bow of your upper lip where a tiny smear of yoghurt clings. The motion is absent, automatic even. You’re focused entirely on the screen in front of you as you type one-handed.

Lewis freezes. Mug halfway to his mouth. Pulse slamming in his throat.

You do it again. Another spoonful. This time a berry bursts against your tongue; a faint purple stain blooms on your lower lip. You purse them, drag the flat of your tongue over the fullness of it, slow, thorough, leaving them glossy and swollen-looking. Oblivious. You must be completely fucking oblivious, he thinks. 

He sets the mug down too hard. The clink echoes.

You glance up. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means. “Just… tired still. Sorry.”

You smile, soft and sympathetic. “Poor baby. Jet lag’s brutal.” Then you turn back to your laptop, lick the spoon clean with one long, languid drag from base to tip.

His grip on the counter edge tightens and he stifles a groan.

He can’t look away. Can’t breathe properly. Every time you bring the spoon back to your mouth, his brain completely shuts down. The way your lips wrap around it, the soft suck as you pull it free, the quick flick of your tongue to catch a stray drop that threatens to slide down your chin. His brain is already imagining things, vivid and unbidden. Those same lips stretched around him instead, glossy with spit and precum, eyes locked on him while you take him deeper. The thought stirs the familiar flames low in his stomach. His dick jerks hard against the soft cotton of his joggers, already leaking again.

He shifts his stance, tries to ease the ache. It doesn’t help.

You hum at something on your screen, pleased. Lick the corner of your mouth again. It’s almost obscene in its innocence. A tiny bead of yoghurt clings stubbornly to the centre of your bottom lip; you catch it with the tip of your tongue, then bite down gently on the plush flesh, worrying it for a second before releasing. The lip plumps back, darker, wetter.

Lewis’s jaw clenches so tight it aches. He can feel the heat crawling up his neck, the way his breathing has turned shallow, ragged. Every muscle in his body is coiled, ready to vault the island, flip your laptop shut, drag you to the nearest flat surface and kiss you until your mouth is bruised and you’re whimpering his name. He wants to taste the yoghurt off your tongue, suck that swollen lower lip between his teeth, fuck into your mouth until tears prick your eyes and you’re begging for more– But you asked him to behave. So he stands there, rooted, watching you eat like it’s the most normal thing in the world, while inside he is coming apart at the seams.

You scoop your last bite, lick the spoon clean one final time, long, slow, deliberate without meaning to be. You set the bowl aside. Then you look up at him, all bright eyes and easy smile.

“Want some?” You tilt the bowl toward him, offering the remnants with an innocent little shrug.

His throat works twice. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. His gaze drops to your lips and back to your eyes.

He swallows harder this time. The bowl hovers between you, completely innocent. You’re still smiling that beautiful smile, like you haven’t just spent the last ten minutes systematically dismantling him with your mouth.

He forces the words out, voice low and rough. “Nah, baby. I’m not hungry.”  He gives himself a second to take a shaky breath. “Gonna… go take a shower. Good luck with the call, yeah? You’ve got it in the bag already.”

You tilt your head, soft concern flickering in your eyes. “You sure? You said you barely ate on the flight.”

“I’m good.” It’s a complete lie. He’s anything but. “Promise.”

You nod, set the bowl down, and turn back to your screen. He takes one last, lingering look at the faint gloss still shining on your lower lip, at the way your tongue darts out to wet it absentmindedly as you reread a line. He rounds the island slow, like he’s moving through water. Stops behind you again. “One more,” he murmurs, bending to press his mouth to the crown of your head. “For luck.”

You laugh quietly, tipping your chin up. He takes the invitation.

The kiss starts gentle, his lips brushing yours. Then deeper. His hand cups the side of your face, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth where the yoghurt had been. His tongue slides in slow, tasting the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and he can’t help the low sound that escapes his throat. He presses closer, hips slotting against the small of your back, and the contact sends a jolt straight through him. His cock, still achingly hard, still leaking, nudges against you through the thin cotton of his joggers, and he nearly whimpers into your mouth. The sound is raw, involuntary, muffled against your lips.

You make a soft, surprised noise. He pulls back just enough to spin you round and rest his forehead against yours, breathing uneven.

“I missed you so much, beautiful,” he mumbles, lips brushing yours with every word. “Fuck, I really missed you.”

Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. “I missed you too.”

He kisses you again—quick, desperate, like he’s stealing it—then forces himself to step back. Hands flex at his sides. “Shower,” he says, more to himself than you. “I’ll be quick.”

You smile, already turning back to your laptop. “Don’t drown in there, champ.”

He doesn’t answer, he turns on his heel before he does something stupid like drop to his knees right there on the kitchen floor. He forces himself, stiff and aching, up the stairs and into the bathroom.

The cold water hits like a slap. He stands under it, head bowed, palms braced on the tile, letting the icy spray pound against his shoulders, his back, his aching length. He can wait. He can fucking wait. Forty five minutes. Maybe an hour or two if the call runs long. He’s disciplined. He’s Lewis Hamilton, for Christ’s sake, he’s disciplined. He’s got through worse. Shit strategy in the wet at Spa, fuel saving laps, entire seasons where the car was dogshit and he still kept his head.

He can wait for you.

Except he can’t.

The water does nothing. His mind keeps replaying it: your tongue sweeping slow over your lip, the soft suck around the spoon, the way your mouth looked bruised and wet after he kissed you. He’s so hard it hurts. He wraps a fist around himself just once, groans low enough that the water drowns it, then yanks his hand away like he’s been burned. No. Not without you. Not like this. Not after two weeks apart.

He shuts the water off. Dries roughly. Pulls on fresh joggers that are black this time, looser, hoping it’ll hide the evidence. He checks the mirror. His eyes are dark, pupils blown with lust. Jaw locked. He looks like a man on the edge of something violent. He fucking feels it too.

Forty five minutes have passed. Maybe a little more. He walks back downstairs. You’ve changed.

The oversized hoodie is gone. In its place is the crisp, light blue Ralph Lauren shirt he loves on you. Tailored just enough to skim your curves, top three buttons undone so the delicate gold necklace he bought you last birthday glints against your collarbone. Black suit trousers that cling to your thighs but flow at your ankles. You’re sitting straighter now, serious, focused, every inch the professional goddess who’s about to own that call. Makeup light but perfect. Your lips are glossy again from whatever balm you smoothed on while he was upstairs.

And you’re eating a fucking banana.

You’ve peeled it halfway, brought it to your mouth, taken a slow bite. Your lips close around the soft flesh, cheeks hollow just slightly as you chew, then pull back. You don’t even look up from the screen. You’re still reading notes, still prepping, still completely unaware that you’ve just dropped him to his knees without laying a finger on him.

His legs nearly give out.

He stops dead in the doorway, hand braced on the frame, breath punched out of him in a quiet, broken exhale. Every filthy thought he tried to freeze under the cold water comes roaring back. Your mouth stretched wide, glossy, taking him slow and deep while you look up at him with those same beautiful, focused eyes. The way you’d hum around him, the vibration shooting straight to his spine. The way you’d lick him clean after, tongue dragging lazy and thorough. He’s shaking. Actually shaking.

You glance up then, mid-bite, and your brows lift in soft surprise. “Hey. Shower help?”

He can’t speak. He can only stare. At your mouth, at the necklace rising and falling with your breath, at the undone buttons framing the soft swell of your chest.

You set the banana down, tilt your head with a little concern. “Lewis?”

He swallows. Forces some words past the dryness of his mouth.

“Sorry…you–you just look so beautiful.”

The words come out low, completely wrecked, like they’ve been dragged through every mile of distance and deprivation he’s carried for the last two weeks. You pause, eyes softening, and then the smile that always undoes him spreads slow across your face. You push back from the island just enough to open your arms.

“C’mere.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance in seconds, steps right into the cradle of your body, and lets you pull him in. Your arms wrap around his neck; his slide around your waist again like they’ve been waiting for the exact shape of you since the second he left the paddock. He buries his face against the side of your throat for a second, breathing you in. Vanilla, amber, the faint crispness of the shirt you ironed this morning, and then he exhales shakily.

“How long ’til the call, baby?” he murmurs against your skin, trying for normalcy, trying to sound like a man who can still form coherent sentences. His voice is a little shaky anyway.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. “Twenty-five minutes. Maybe twenty if they’re early.”

He hums, the sound vibrating through your collarbone. “Plenty of time.”

His hands start slow, respectful, almost. Palms flat against the small of your back, tracing the line of your spine through the crisp cotton. But restraint has never been his strongest suit when it comes to you, not after weeks apart, not when you’re wearing his necklace and that shirt with the buttons undone. His fingers drift lower until they settle over the curve of your ass. He squeezes once, gentle and testing, then pulls you closer.

Your breath hitches. His hips press forward despite every ounce of willpower he’s clinging to. The hard line of him nudges against your lower belly through the thin layers of fabric, insistent, aching. He doesn’t grind, but the pressure is constant, helpless little rocks he can’t quite stop.

“Missed you so much,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. The words are sweet, reverent, almost tender, but his body is telling a different story. His hands knead your ass slowly and possessive, thumbs tracing the crease where your thigh meets cheek. Another forward press from him, deeper this time. A quiet, involuntary roll of his hips that drags a low groan from the back of his throat. “Fuck, beautiful. Missed touching you. Missed this.”

You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, pupils blown wide, the brown almost swallowed whole. He looks like he’s been starving. 

“Lewis…” Your voice is soft, and you can’t tell if it’s a warning or an invitation.

“I know.” He swallows hard and tries to pull back an inch, but he fails. His hips chase yours instead, pressing again, firmer. “I know, the call. I’m trying, baby. Swear I’m trying.” Another squeeze of your ass, another slow grind that makes his breath hitch. “Just… let me hold you. Just for a minute.”

His mouth finds your jaw, then the corner of your lips. He leaves soft, open-mouthed kisses, not quite claiming but so close. Every time he exhales, it’s ragged. Every time his hips cant forward, it’s a little more desperate, a little less controlled. He’s trembling now. You can feel the fine shivers running through his arms, his back, the thighs bracketing yours.

One hand slides up to cup the nape of your neck, thumb stroking the line of your throat where the necklace sits warm against your skin. The other stays low, kneading, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you. He rocks again, filthy in its restraint, and this time the sound he makes is almost a whimper, muffled against your mouth.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathes. “Can’t think straight when you’re like this. All dressed up and serious and still letting me touch you.” Another press, harder, his cock throbbing against your stomach. “Tell me to stop, yeah? Tell me and I’ll go sit on the couch like a good boy and wait.”

But even as he says it, his hips don’t stop moving. Small, needy thrusts he can’t quite swallow down. Hands roaming, greedy, worshipping. Mouth hovering over yours, waiting for permission, for mercy, for anything.

You smile against his mouth, soft, knowing, a little wicked, and pull back just enough to look at him properly. His eyes are glassy, dark, pupils swallowing the hazel until there’s almost nothing left but want. You cup his face with both hands, thumbs stroking the sharp line of his jaw.

“Poor baby,” you murmur, voice low and fond, like you’re soothing something wild and wounded. Then you lean in and peck his lips once. Then again, and again, quick little kisses that barely let him chase them. Each one lands softer than the last, until he’s leaning forward on instinct, mouth parted, trying to catch more.

He groans, quiet and broken, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

“No, I’m so serious,” he whispers, words tumbling out in a rush, raw and unfiltered. “I woke up and got hard just from the smell of you on the sheets, baby. Your pillow—fuck, it was like you were still there wrapped around me. I wanted to fuck you last night so bad. Wanted to wake you up slow, slide inside you while you were still half-asleep and warm and moaning my name… but I fell asleep. Just passed out like some dickhead who can’t handle jet lag. And now you’re busy, and you look like this—” His hands flex on your ass again, helpless, pulling you tighter against the hard ridge of him. “—all dressed up and perfect and serious, wearing my necklace, eating that fucking banana like it’s nothing, and I’m losing my mind. I can’t— I need you so bad it hurts. Please, beautiful, I’m dying here.”

The ramble spills out pouty, desperate, his voice cracking on every other word. His hips keep rocking in tiny, needy thrusts. Shallow, involuntary, like his body’s forgotten how to stop. He’s trembling against you, breath hot and uneven on your lips, every word laced with that sweet, wrecked edge he only lets out when he’s completely unravelled for you.

One hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into the base of your updo, careful not to mess it before the call but greedy all the same. He kisses you again, then your cheek, then down to the hinge of your jaw, like he’s trying to taste every inch he’s been missing.

“I’m trying to be good,” he mumbles into your skin, pout deepening, voice small and pleading. “I swear I’m trying. But you’re killing me. Just… tell me what to do, yeah? Tell me how to wait. Or don’t. Fuck, don’t. Just—please.”

He pulls back enough to meet your eyes again, lower lip caught between his teeth, breathing so quick you could mistake him for having a panic attack. It takes everything in you to not laugh at the absolute state he’s worked himself into. 

“Lewis…” you start, holding back a laugh

“Don’t laugh at me, woman! This is your fault! I—I… five minutes. Need you for five minutes. Hands, mouth, baby I don’t care.” The clock on your laptop ticks forward. Nineteen minutes.

You chuckle softly against his mouth, the sound warm and forgiving, as you meet his wild, pleading eyes. “You fell asleep last night, baby,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, lips brushing his as you speak. “I was ready for you… wide awake, waiting, all worked up and wet, thinking my baby was finally going to come home and take what he wanted. But you just—” You kiss him once, “—crashed and fell straight to sleep.”

Lewis makes a broken, embarrassed noise, and his forehead drops to yours again. His cheeks are faintly flushed. He’s shaking, hips still giving those tiny, involuntary rocks against you, so hard it must hurt, and yet he looks almost shy under all that desperation.

“I know,” he whispers.. “I know, I fucked up. I’m sorry, beautiful. I was so tired and you smelled so good and I just… wanted to hold you. And then I was gone.” His hands flex on your hips, needy, possessive. “But I’m awake now. I’m right here. And I’ve been dying for you for two weeks. Two fucking weeks of hotel beds and team meetings and thinking about this mouth—” He kisses you quick, messy, desperate. “—and these hands and the way you sound when I’m inside you. Please.”

You giggle into the kiss, light and happy, and he thinks his heart might actually burst. He chases your lips, smiling even as he’s falling apart. “I can be quick,” he promises, words tumbling out between kisses, frantic and sweet. “I swear. You have no idea how much I’ve needed you. I think if you just touch me—fuck, if you just look at me too long—I’ll finish in seconds. I’m that gone, baby. Seconds.”

Another giggle bubbles up from you, delighted, and he laughs too—shaky, breathless, the sound muffled against your mouth as you both dissolve into it. Happy. Stupidly, perfectly happy in the middle of his meltdown. Your arms wind tighter around his neck; his slide down to grip your ass again, pulling you close so there’s no space left for anything but heat and want and the two of you laughing into each other’s mouths like teenagers who just discovered how good kissing feels.

The clock ticks. Eighteen minutes.

You pull again to look at him, to really look. At the way his pupils are still blown wide, lashes dark, lips swollen from your teeth and tongue, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s beautiful like this: unravelled, yours, pleading without shame.

“Five minutes,” you say quietly, thumb tracing his bottom lip. “That’s all I can give you. And you’re going to be so good for me.”

His breath catches. “Anything.”

You sink to your knees.

The tile is cold, but the heat rolling off him is enough to make you forget it. You drag his joggers down just far enough; he springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking steadily. He hisses through his teeth when the cool air hits him, one hand slamming down on the island edge to steady himself.

You wrap your fingers around the base slowly and he jolts like you’ve electrocuted him. A low, wrecked “fuck” spills out before he bites it back, remembering your rules. You look up at him through your lashes; his eyes are locked on your face, wide and dark and helpless.

You lean in, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of precum. His knees buckle; he catches himself on a choked gasp. You take your time giving him slow licks along the underside, tracing every vein, then swirling around the head until he’s whimpering, hips twitching forward in tiny, aborted thrusts he can’t control.

“Baby—please—”

You take him into your mouth properly then, your lips stretching around him, tongue flat and pressing. You slide down slow. He groans, long and low, head tipping back, throat working. You hollow your cheeks, pull back almost all the way, then sink again. Deeper this time, until he hits the back of your throat.

He’s shaking. Full body tremors. His free hand finds your hair, holding on like he's going to collapse. You set a rhythm: slow, deliberate drags, then faster, wetter, letting him feel every slide of your tongue, every soft suck at the tip. You edge him mercilessly, bringing him right to the brink until his thighs lock, his breath stutters into short, panicked pants, and then you pull off completely, hand stroking him slow and loose while he whines.

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need to—”

You hum, amused, and take him deep again. This time you don’t let up. You bob faster, throat relaxing around him, swallowing deliberately when he’s buried to the hilt. His sounds turn desperate, loud and ruined as he tries to muffle them against his own fist. His hips jerk forward once, twice, and then he’s trembling so hard you swear the island creaks under his grip.

“Gonna—baby, I’m—fuck, I can’t—”

You take him all the way down one last time, nose pressed to his pelvis, throat working around him, and hold. He can’t hold it back anymore.

A raw, guttural moan rips out of him, muffled against his arm, but still loud enough to echo in the quiet kitchen. His whole body locks up: thighs quaking, abs clenching, head thrown back so the tendons in his neck stand out sharp. Hot, thick pulses spill down your throat. You swallow around him, again and again, milking every shuddering wave until he’s gasping, hips twitching in aftershocks, voice cracking on your name. It’s the most gorgeous sound you will never tire of hearing.

When he finally stills, he’s boneless, knees threatening to give out completely. You pull off slow, tongue dragging one last teasing stripe along the sensitive head, and he whimpers again, oversensitive and ruined.

You rise, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and step into him. He’s glowing with sweat, eyes glassy, lips parted on ragged breaths. You cup his face and kiss him softly, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He melts into it, arms wrapping around you like he’ll never let go.

“Five minutes,” you whisper against his lips, smiling. “You did so good.”

He laughs shakily, almost delirious, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “So fucking much.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek. “I love you too.”

The laptop clock shows you have fourteen minutes.

You smooth your shirt, adjust the necklace, fix your hair.

He sinks onto the nearest stool like his legs have forgotten how to work, still infatuated, still watching you like you’re the only thing in the universe that matters.

“Call’s soon,” you remind him gently.

He nods, dazed. “Wanna stay here. I’ll be good.”

You smile at him, shaking your head. “Later… we’ll take our time. Properly. I promise”

His eyes darken again, already hungry. Despite that though, he rests his elbow on the island, resting his cheek on his palm and smiles. 

Fourteen minutes til the call. He’d wait the next ninety on that stool if it meant having you again. He’s going to suffer beautifully through every single one.

The Ferrari hospitality suite buzzes with energy, and you're trying your absolute best to act normal. Normal. As if this is something you do every day. As if your boyfriend isn't Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, now driving for the most iconic team in Formula 1 history. As if you haven't spent the last eight months keeping this relationship deliciously secret, stolen moments in hidden corners of the world, late-night FaceTimes when he's halfway across the globe, and the constant thrill of knowing something the rest of the world doesn't.

But today? Today is different.

Today, you're here. In the paddock. At Monza, no less—the Temple of Speed, where the Tifosi worship in red and the air itself seems to vibrate with racing history.

Lewis had been so gentle when he asked you, his fingers intertwined with yours in the quiet of his Monaco apartment three weeks ago. "I want you there," he'd said, those warm brown eyes searching yours. "I know we've been keeping things private, and we can still be careful, but... I want you in my world. Properly. Even if it's just in the garage, even if we're discreet. I want to look over and see you there."

How could you say no to that?

So here you are, wearing a Ferrari pass around your neck that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, trying not to gawk at everything like the fan you absolutely are. Because here's the thing Lewis doesn't quite understand: you've been a Formula 1 fan since before you met him. You've watched every race since you were sixteen. You have favorite drivers, favorite teams, favorite moments burned into your memory.

And one of those favorite drivers is currently walking toward the hospitality area in his race suit tied at the waist, fireproofs on display, hair perfectly tousled, and oh God—

"Is that—" you breathe, grabbing Lewis's arm without thinking.

Lewis follows your gaze and immediately—immediately—you see the change in his expression. That little tightening around his eyes. The way his jaw sets just slightly.

"Charles," he says, and there's something in his voice you can't quite place.

Charles Leclerc, Ferrari's golden boy, the Prince of Monaco, the driver you've been watching since his Sauber days, is heading straight toward you both. Well, toward Lewis, obviously, but still.

"Lewis! There you are," Charles calls out, his accent wrapping around the words in that way that's made him a fan favorite. "We need to discuss the strategy meeting—" He stops when he notices you, and his entire face lights up with that boyish smile that's graced a million Instagram posts. "Oh! Hello! You must be the mysterious guest Fred mentioned."

You're starstruck. You're actually starstruck, and you can feel Lewis noticing, and you should say something, but Charles Leclerc is extending his hand to you and—

"Hi," you manage, shaking his hand. "Yes, hi. I'm—wow, it's so amazing to meet you. I've been watching you race for years."

Charles's smile widens. "Years? So you're a fan, then?"

"The biggest," you blurt out before you can stop yourself. "I mean, I've watched every race since your Alfa Romeo days—well, when it was Sauber—and that drive in Baku in 2019 was insane, and obviously Monza 2019, and don't even get me started on your pole laps because they're just—" You cut yourself off, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. "Sorry. I'm rambling. I just really admire your driving."

You don't notice the way Lewis's hand has dropped from the small of your back. You don't notice the way he's shifted his weight, creating just an inch more distance between you.

But Charles notices. Charles notices everything, and there's a mischievous glint in his eyes now.

"Well," Charles says, drawing out the word, clearly delighted. "It's not often I meet such a dedicated fan. Especially not in our own hospitality." He leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think my pole lap in Singapore last year was better than Baku 2019, but I appreciate the loyalty to the classics."

"Singapore was incredible," you agree enthusiastically, "but there was something about Baku—the way you handled that castle section with the damaged car—"

"You remember that?" Charles looks genuinely touched.

"Remember it? I've watched the onboard like fifty times."

Lewis clears his throat beside you. You glance at him, and there's something in his expression you've never quite seen before. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"We should probably let Charles get to his meeting," Lewis says, his hand finding your waist again, but there's a possessiveness to it now.

"Right, yes," Charles says, but he's still grinning at you. "But first—you've been watching since 2018, you said? So you must have opinions. Who's your favorite Ferrari driver of all time?"

It's a trap. You can feel it's a trap. But you're too excited to care.

"Of all time? Probably Schumacher, but that feels like a default answer. In terms of pure talent and what they meant to the team... maybe Lauda? Or Villeneuve for the sheer audacity—"

"Good answers," Charles nods approvingly. "And current drivers?"

You freeze. You can feel Lewis's eyes on you.

"Um," you say intelligently.

Charles is enjoying this far too much. "Come on, you must have a favorite. Someone whose races you never miss, whose radio messages you know by heart..."

The thing is, you do. You absolutely do, and it's the man currently standing beside you with his hand on your waist and tension radiating from every line of his body. But you've also been a Charles fan for years, long before you ever met Lewis at that charity gala in London eight months ago, long before everything changed.

"I think," you say carefully, "that I'm incredibly lucky to be here with Ferrari right now, watching two of the most talented drivers on the grid."

"Diplomatic," Charles laughs. "I like it. Well, I should go before Fred sends a search party. But it was lovely meeting you—I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

You tell him, and he repeats it, committing it to memory in that way that makes people feel seen.

"I'm sure I'll see you around this weekend," Charles says. "Maybe you can tell me more about your favorite races. I always love meeting real fans." He claps Lewis on the shoulder. "Lucky man, Lewis. She knows her racing."

And then he's gone, swept up in the controlled chaos of race weekend, leaving you and Lewis standing there.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

"That was Charles Leclerc," you finally say, a little breathlessly.

"I'm aware," Lewis replies, his voice tight.

You turn to look at him properly, and that's when you see it clearly—the tension in his shoulders, the way he's not quite meeting your eyes, the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Lewis," you say slowly. "Are you... are you okay?"

"Fine," he says, too quickly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem—"

"I'm fine." He starts walking toward his side of the garage, and you have to hurry to keep up.

The Ferrari garage is a marvel of organized chaos. Engineers huddle around screens, mechanics make minute adjustments to the cars, and everything is bathed in that iconic red. Lewis's side is slightly separated from Charles's, and he leads you to a quiet corner where there are a few chairs set up for guests.

"You can watch from here," he says, still not quite looking at you. "You'll have a good view of everything. I need to get ready for FP3."

"Lewis, wait—" You catch his hand. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Don't do that. Don't shut me out. We've been together eight months—I know when something's bothering you."

He finally looks at you, really looks at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that makes your heart squeeze.

"It's stupid," he mutters.

"If it's bothering you, it's not stupid."

He's quiet for a long moment, and you can see him wrestling with whether to say it. Finally, he sighs, running a hand over his braids.

"You were really excited to meet Charles," he says quietly.

You blink. "Well... yeah. I've been a fan of his for years. You know I love F1."

"I know. I just..." He trails off, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "You've never been that excited around me."

"Lewis, I met you at a gala. I was trying to be cool and sophisticated, not a fangirl."

"And just now? With Charles?"

"I was being myself. I thought—" You stop, understanding dawning. "Oh my God. Lewis Hamilton, are you jealous?"

"No," he says immediately, then, "Maybe. A little. Is that—" He looks almost embarrassed. "You like me more than you like them, right? Right?"

Your heart absolutely melts.

This man—this incredible, accomplished, legendary man—is standing in front of you looking uncertain because you got excited about meeting his teammate. Lewis Hamilton, who has conquered the racing world, who carries himself with such confidence and grace, is jealous of your enthusiasm for Charles Leclerc.

You step closer, reaching up to cup his face in your hands.

"Lewis," you say softly. "Look at me."

He does, those beautiful eyes searching yours.

"I've been a Formula 1 fan for over a decade," you tell him. "I've watched hundreds of races. I've had favorite drivers, favorite moments, favorite teams. Charles is an incredible driver, and yes, I've admired his racing for years."

You see something flicker in his expression, and you rush on.

"But then I met you. And Lewis, you have to understand—meeting you changed everything. You're not just some driver I admire from a distance. You're the person who texts me good morning from different time zones. You're the one who remembers that I like my coffee with oat milk and way too much sugar. You're the one who listens to me talk about my day, who makes me laugh, who holds me when I can't sleep."

Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, and you can feel him leaning into your touch.

"Charles is a driver I admire," you continue. "But you? You're the person I'm in love with. There's no comparison. There's no competition. You're my number one, Lewis. Always."

Something in his expression softens completely, and suddenly he's smiling—that real smile, the one that crinkles his eyes and lights up his whole face.

"Yeah?" he asks, and he sounds almost shy.

"Yeah," you confirm. "I mean, yes, I freaked out a little meeting Charles. But do you want to know a secret?"

"Always."

You lean in closer, dropping your voice to a whisper. "I'm still not over the fact that Lewis Hamilton is my boyfriend. Like, sometimes I wake up and look at you and think, 'How is this my life?' You're my favorite driver, Lewis. You've been my favorite since the moment I actually got to know you. Not because of the championships or the records or any of that—though those are incredible—but because of who you are."

He's fully smiling now, and his hands come up to cover yours, still cupping his face.

"I love you," he says simply. "And I'm sorry for being weird about the Charles thing. You're right—it was stupid."

"It wasn't stupid. It was actually kind of adorable."

He groans. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Your secret's safe with me. I'm very good at keeping secrets, remember?" You grin. "Eight months and counting."

"About that," Lewis says, pulling you closer. "Maybe we don't have to be quite so secret anymore. I mean, we can still be private, but... I like having you here. I want you here more often. And if people figure it out, maybe that's okay."

Your heart skips. "Really?"

"Really. I'm tired of hiding how I feel about you. I'm tired of pretending you're just a friend when you're so much more than that."

You're about to respond when someone clears their throat behind you. You both turn to find Charles standing there, looking thoroughly amused.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "But Lewis, they need you for the engineering briefing in five minutes."

"Right," Lewis says. "Thanks."

Charles nods, but before he leaves, he looks at you with that mischievous smile again. "By the way, I heard what you said. About Lewis being your number one."

You feel your face heat up. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." He grins at Lewis. "You really are a lucky man, mate. She's a keeper."

"Don't I know it," Lewis replies, and there's no tension in his voice now, just warmth.

Charles leaves, and Lewis turns back to you.

"I really do have to go," he says reluctantly. "But after practice, we're getting lunch, and you're going to tell me all about why you think my pole lap in Saudi last year was better than any of Charles's."

"I never said that."

"You're about to, though. Because I'm your number one, remember?"

You laugh, pushing him gently toward where his engineers are waiting. "Go. Be brilliant. I'll be right here watching."

"You better be." He steals a quick kiss, not caring who might see. "And later, you're going to explain to me exactly which of my races you've watched fifty times."

"All of them," you admit. "I've watched all of them multiple times. Even the bad ones."

The smile he gives you is absolutely radiant. "I love you so much."

"I love you too. Now go, before Fred comes looking for you."

You watch him jog toward the engineering room, and you can see the spring in his step, the confidence back in his stride.

As you settle into the chair he indicated, pulling out your phone to text your best friend (because you just met Charles Leclerc and you're in the Ferrari garage and you need to tell someone), you feel a presence beside you.

It's one of Lewis's engineers, a friendly woman named Angela who you've met briefly before.

"He's been nervous all morning," she says quietly, nodding toward where Lewis disappeared. "About you being here. Wanted everything to be perfect."

"Really?"

"Really. Kept asking if we'd set up the chairs right, if you'd have a good view, if you'd be comfortable." Angela smiles. "I've worked with Lewis for years, and I've never seen him like this about anyone. You're special."

Your heart feels too big for your chest. "He's pretty special too."

"We know. And we're glad he has you. He's been happier these last few months than I've seen him in a long time."

Practice starts, and you watch Lewis work with a new appreciation. You've watched him drive for years, but this is different. This is intimate. You can see him in the garage between runs, talking with his engineers, making adjustments. You can see the focus, the dedication, the absolute mastery of his craft.

And every so often, between sessions, he looks over at you. Just a glance, just a moment, but it's enough. It's a check-in, a connection, a reminder that you're there and he knows it and it matters.

Charles, who letting one of the reserves drive his car for practice catches you watching Lewis during one of these moments and sidles over.

"So," he says casually. "How long have you two been together?"

You consider playing dumb, but something about Charles's expression tells you he's already figured it out.

"Eight months," you admit quietly.

"And you've been keeping it secret?"

"We wanted to keep it private. Just for us, you know?"

Charles nods thoughtfully. "I get that. It's hard, having relationships in this world. Everyone wants a piece of you." He glances at Lewis, who's deep in conversation with his race engineer. "He's different with you here. Calmer. More centered."

"Really?"

"Really. Usually before practice, he's all business. But today he keeps looking over here, and every time he does, he smiles." Charles grins at you. "It's actually kind of disgusting how cute it is."

You laugh. "Don't tell him that. His ego's big enough."

"Oh, I'm definitely telling him that."

"Charles—"

"Relax. Your secret's safe with me. Though I have to say, the way he was looking at me earlier when you were fangirling? I thought he might actually run me off track in the race."

You cover your face with your hands. "I'm so sorry about that. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize. It was hilarious. And kind of sweet, actually. Lewis Hamilton, jealous over his girlfriend being excited about meeting me. That's going in my memory bank forever."

"You're terrible."

"I'm Ferrari's number one driver, actually," he says with mock seriousness, then winks. "But don't worry—I know I'm not your number one. That's pretty clear."

The rest of practice goes smoothly. Lewis puts in some strong laps, and you find yourself analyzing his driving with a new perspective. You've always admired his skill, but now you can see the tiny details—the way he manages his tires, the precision of his braking points, the intelligence in his race craft.

When the session ends, Lewis comes straight to you, helmet hair and all, still in his race suit.

"So?" he asks, slightly breathless. "What did you think?"

"I think," you say, standing up to meet him, "that you're absolutely incredible. That turn eight line you were taking? Genius."

His face lights up. "You noticed that?"

"Of course I noticed. I told you—I've been watching you for years. I know your driving style."

"Tell me more," he says, and he's looking at you like you're the only person in the world.

So you do. You talk about his approach to turn one, about his tire management, about the way he's adapted to the Ferrari. And Lewis listens, really listens, asking questions and discussing strategy, and it's perfect.

This is what you wanted. Not just to be Lewis Hamilton's girlfriend, but to be his partner. Someone who understands his world, who can talk about racing with him, who gets why this matters so much.

Later, over lunch in the Ferrari motorhome (where you're introduced to more team members and try very hard to act normal), Charles joins you.

"So," he says, sitting down with his plate. "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. About Baku 2019."

"Oh no," Lewis mutters.

"And I have to know—what about Monaco 2017? That was my first Ferrari pole."

You're about to answer when you catch Lewis's expression. He's trying to look annoyed, but there's amusement in his eyes.

"You know what?" you say, reaching over to take Lewis's hand. "Monaco 2017 was great. But you want to know my favorite Monaco pole lap?"

"Whose?" Charles asks.

"Lewis's, 2019. That lap was perfection."

Lewis squeezes your hand, and the smile he gives you is worth everything.

Charles laughs. "Okay, okay. I can see when I'm beat. You two are disgustingly cute together, by the way."

"Thank you," you and Lewis say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity. You watch qualifying from the garage, your heart in your throat every time Lewis goes out on track. When he secures P2, right behind Charles, you want to scream with excitement but settle for a huge smile and a thumbs up when he looks your way.

That evening, back in the privacy of the hotel room, Lewis pulls you into his arms.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"For what?"

"For being here. For being you. For making me your number one."

You wrap your arms around his neck. "Always. Even when I'm fangirling over your teammates."

He groans. "Are you ever going to let me live that down?"

"Absolutely not. Lewis Hamilton, jealous. It's too good."

"I wasn't jealous," he protests weakly.

"You asked me if I liked you more than I liked them. That's literally the definition of jealous."

"Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little jealous. Can you blame me? You were looking at Charles like he hung the moon."

"I was excited to meet a driver I admire. But Lewis?" You pull back to look at him properly. "You're the one I'm going home with. You're the one I want to wake up next to. You're the one who has my whole heart. Charles is great, but he's not you."

Lewis kisses you then, soft and sweet and full of promise.

"I love you," he murmurs against your lips.

"I love you too. My number one."

"Always?"

"Always."

Outside, Monza prepares for race day. The Tifosi are gathering, the excitement is building, and tomorrow Lewis will pull on his race suit and helmet and do what he does best.

But tonight, he's just yours. Just Lewis. The man who gets jealous when you fangirl over his teammate, who wants you in his world, who looks at you like you're everything.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

"Hey Lewis?" you say as you're getting ready for bed.

"Yeah?"

"For the record? That thing you do in turn eight? Way better than anything Charles does."

The smile he gives you lights up the whole room.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're my favorite, remember? In every way."

And as he pulls you close, you think about how eight months ago, you never could have imagined this. That the driver you'd admired from afar would become the person you love. That you'd find yourself in the Ferrari garage, part of his world, his partner in every sense of the word.

Tomorrow, you'll watch him race. You'll cheer for him, worry for him, celebrate with him. You'll be there in his corner, his number one fan and so much more.

But tonight, you're just two people in love, and that's more than enough.

"You know," Lewis says sleepily, "I'm never going to hear the end of this from Charles."

"Probably not."

"Worth it, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Because you're here. And you're mine. And I'm yours."

"Always," you whisper.

"Always," he echoes.

And in the morning, when you wake up tangled together, the Monza sun streaming through the windows, you know that this—this is what matters. Not the fame or the championships or the glory. Just this. Just him. Just love.

Your number one.

When you got back to his apartment he let you shower first, the way he always did. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lips lingering for a second, then murmured, “Gonna get an evening workout in, yeah? Won’t be long, baby.” You nodded, already heading for the bathroom, loving how easy it all felt.

You took your time under the hot water, letting it wash the day away. Your body wash sat right there next to his on the shelf. Your body scrub too. Seeing them side by side still made your stomach do a little happy flip. It felt like proof that this was real, that you belonged here. By the time you were done you’d slipped into your favourite pyjamas. Tiny sleep shorts and one of Lewis’s old black t-shirts, softened from a hundred washes, hanging just right on you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.

You were still drying your hair when you heard the front door open. Lewis walked in looking like he’d just finished a proper session. He was sweaty, flushed, a running vest sticking to his chest and stomach, backwards cap over his head. He looked good. Too good. So good that it made you want to forget about the shower you’d just had.

“There she is,” he grinned, voice still a bit breathless. He peeled the vest off in one smooth pull, tossing it towards the laundry basket without looking, and started walking over to you.

He stopped just close enough to lean in and kiss the very corner of your mouth, careful not to get any of his sweat on your clean skin. “You smell so good, baby.”

“That makes one of us,” you snorted, taking a small step back even though you didn’t really want to.

“You don’t like my natural musk?” he teased, that big stupid grin spreading across his face.

“Musk? I bet you just ran 10k. You’re sticky and gross!”

He laughed, eyebrows raised. “Sticky and gross? Excuse you! Why’re you being mean?”

“I’m not being mean!” you laughed. “Go and shower, stinky.”

“Say please,” Lewis said, raising one eyebrow and stepping closer again, crowding you just enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

“I am not saying please—”

He kept looking at you, a playful challenge in his eyes, waiting. When you remained silent he tilted his head, a beautifully annoying smirk on his perfect lips.

“Oh my god—Lewis! Please go and shower,” you finally giggled, gently shoving at his bare chest.

He rolled his eyes all fond and dramatic, already turning towards the bathroom. “I’m going, I’m going… sorry for wanting a kiss and a cuddle after a hard run.”

“You’ll get plenty when you’re not covered in sweat!” 

“You think it’s sexy!” he shouted back from the doorway, voice echoing a little before the bathroom door clicked shut and the shower started running.

You stood there for a second, still smiling like an idiot, heart doing that warm, stupid flutter it always did around him. God, you really loved him. More than you’d ever thought possible.

You settled on his sofa, pulling the soft throw up to your chin. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of the shower and the sounds of Lewis’s movements. You grabbed your phone to scroll on Instagram, something mindless while you waited for him to finish.

Except the second you opened the app, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

Over 8,000 notifications. Eight thousand.

Your thumb froze for a second. What the fuck?

You tapped through a few, trying to figure out where the sudden flood had come from. Stories, tags, comments piling up like an avalanche. Then you found the post that started everything. A blurry photo from tonight’s dinner, taken from behind. Lewis leaning in close, his hand cupping your cheek, his soft smile you knew so well just visible in the low light. You were smiling too, one hand resting on his bicep like you’d done it a thousand times before, because you had. The tattoos on his arm, the exact vest he’d worn, the way his braids fell…it was unmistakably him. Somehow, impossibly, they’d found you too.

The caption made your heart drop to your stomach.

F1Gossip: Lewis Hamilton spotted cozying up in Monaco. Who’s the mystery woman?

Your pulse spiked so hard you felt it in your throat. Suddenly, the room felt unreal.

You scrolled the comments, stomach twisting tighter with every one. Sweet ones got buried fast under the vicious stuff:

user1: another fling he’ll deny in two weeks lol user2: Distraction for Ferrari, watch him drop her before testing user3: is she not embarrassed lmao user4: at least he wasn’t caught running away from this one when the cameras caught them 😭 user5: she looks like she’s trying too hard lol he’s never posting her user6: another one bites the dust before Bahrain user7: yikes thats not even his type lmfao

One even said something about how he always keeps them hidden until he’s bored and moves on, that he won’t ever claim a woman publicly.

You’d always been private. This felt like someone had ripped the door off your life and let the whole world stare in.

The shower shut off in the bathroom. You heard Lewis humming something low under his breath as he padded out, towel around his hips, skin still damp and warm from the steam. He looked over, grin starting to form like nothing had changed since you’d teased him about being stinky ten minutes ago.

But then he saw your face. The phone in your hand. The way they were shaking.

“Baby?” His voice dropped, playfulness gone in an instant. He crossed the room in three steps, crouching in front of the sofa so he was eye-level with you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You turned the screen toward him without a word. Let him see the post. The numbers. The comments still rolling in.

Lewis frowned the second he really saw the screen. He took the phone from your hand gently, like he was handling something fragile, and stayed crouched there in front of you. He said nothing at first. You watched his eyes moving down the comments, scrolling slowly.

That was his first mistake. The silence.

You watched his jaw lock tight, the muscle flexing under his skin. His eyebrows drew together, deep furrows carving between them as he kept reading. One after another. You could almost hear the storm building behind his teeth. But still, he stayed silent. He bit the inside of his cheek, a habit he always did when something had unsettled him deeply. You were aching for some kind of reassurance, something to soothe the way those comments had already dug underneath your skin, slicing through the peace that the relationship had been.

After what felt like forever, he let out a quiet breath. “It’ll blow over, you know,” he mumbled, voice low and rough. “It always does.”

You blinked at him. Hard. Was he looking at the same fucking thing as you?

Your throat burned. Something cold settled in your chest. Blow over. Like you were a phase, something temporary enough to wait out.

He stood up slowly, your phone still in his hand, and started pacing. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet, towel slipping a little lower with each turn. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, opening and closing like he didn’t know what to do with all the anger sitting under his skin.

You pulled the throw tighter around yourself, knees drawn up. Waiting. Hoping he’d say something real.

He stopped at the window, back to you for a second, shoulders rising and falling. Then he turned back to you, his eyes softer now. But you knew him. He was still guarded, like he was holding most of himself back.

“Baby…” He came back over, dropped to one knee again so he could look right at you. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing slow, the way he always did when he was trying to calm you down. “I hate this. I hate that they got to you like this. That they’re in your head now.” His voice cracked just a little on the last word. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed the reminder that you were still here, still real. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve… I don’t know. Done something sooner.”

You wanted to believe the softness in his eyes. Wanted to melt into the way his fingers curled around the back of your neck, warm and steady. But the comments were still there, loud in your head, and his “it’ll blow over” was still echoing too.

He opened his mouth to say more—something gentler, maybe—but then his phone buzzed on the coffee table. Sharp and insistent.

He glanced at it. Face changed again, tighter. He reached over, picked it up, thumb hovering over the screen.

The name on the caller ID made your stomach twist even harder. He answered anyway.

“Hello,” he said, voice flat. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”

He walked towards his bedroom and closed the door. He closed the door. All you could hear was muffled sounds of his voice, low, but unmistakably furious. 

Lewis stayed on the call for what felt like forever. You sat there on the sofa, throw still clutched tight, staring at the closed bedroom door like it had personally betrayed you. The muffled rumble of his voice came through in bursts. It was low, clipped, angry in the controlled way he got when he was really pissed but trying not to explode. You caught fragments: “...not doing that again,” and “she’s not—” and then something sharper that made your stomach flip.

When the door finally opened, he looked exhausted. Not just physically, but something deeper, like the weight of old scars had settled heavier on his shoulders in the last ten minutes.

He came back to the living room but didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms crossed loose over his bare chest, towel still low on his hips.

“That was some higher ups,” he said quietly. “And the PR team. They’ve seen the post. The comments. Everything.”

You waited. Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“They’re suggesting we put out a vague no-comment statement,” he continued, eyes on the floor for a second before lifting to meet yours. “Something short. ‘Lewis is focused on the upcoming season and asks for privacy.’ Nothing about you. Nothing confirming. Just… enough to make it die down faster. They think if we don’t feed it, it’ll burn out in a day or two.”

The words splashed over you like ice water. You stared at him. He just stared back. 

Then the fury hit instantly.

“You’re kidding.” Your voice came out small at first, almost disbelieving. Then you were shouting before you caught yourself. “You just read what they’re saying about me! You saw the comments. The ones calling me a fling. A distraction. A nobody he’ll drop before testing even starts. And your solution is… no comment? Like I’m just another girl in the rotation? Like I don’t even deserve a real response?”

He flinched at the shouting, but he didn’t back down.

“Baby, listen—”

“No.” You stood up, throw falling to the floor. “Don’t ‘baby’ me right now. You read every single one of those. You saw them digging into my life, my face, my body—like I’m public property because I dared to sit next to you at dinner. And instead of saying ‘yeah, she’s with me, back off,’ your team wants to act like I don’t exist? Like I’m the problem to be managed?”

His jaw worked again, the same tight muscle jumping. “It’s not about you being a problem. It’s about keeping them from tearing into you worse. If I say anything, if I confirm, they’ll double down. They’ll go harder. Dig deeper. I’ve seen it happen. I've lived it. I’m not letting that happen to you.”

“So you’d rather let them think I’m temporary?” Your voice wavered on the last word. “Let them keep writing the same story they always write about you? Single Lewis, mysterious girl, inevitable breakup. Because that’s safer?”

He stepped closer, eyebrows furrowing, his hands coming up like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he was allowed. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“By erasing me?” The words tasted bitter. “That’s not protection, Lewis. That’s what you did before. With everyone else. And I’m not everyone else. Or at least I thought I wasn’t.”

He looked like you’d slapped him. Eyes wide, breath catching for a second. The room went so quiet you could hear the rain again, steady against the glass.

“I’m not erasing you,” he said, voice rough. “I would never—”

“Then why does it feel like you already have?” You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. “You closed the door. You went in there and talked to them without me. And now you come out with their plan. No comment. Like I’m not even in the room.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand over his braids, tugging at the ends like he was trying to pull himself together.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he said finally. “I just… I panicked. Seeing those comments. Knowing what comes next if we don’t shut it down fast. I was trying to fix it.”

“But you didn’t ask me.” Your eyes burned. “You didn’t even look at me and say, ‘what do you want to do?’ You just decided. Again.”

He stared at you, something raw and helpless flickering across his face. For once, the man who always had a plan looked completely lost.

The silence between you stretched thin, brittle. Lewis stood there, phone in one hand, the other rubbing at the back of his neck like he could massage the tension out. His eyes were on you, glassy but guarded too. Like he was waiting for you to give in and understand.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. The anger and hurt you were feeling had long drowned out any sort of understanding you could reach.

“You didn’t even ask me,” you said again, quieter this time, but sharper. The words cut through the room like glass. “You just went in there, closed the door, talked to your team, and came out with their plan. Like my opinion doesn’t matter. Like I’m just… collateral.”

His hand dropped from his neck. Something flickered in his expression—hurt, maybe, or frustration starting to boil over.

“I was trying to handle it before it got worse,” he said, voice still low, but tighter now. “Before they start camping outside the building. Before they find your flat in London. Before—”

“Before what?” you cut in. “Before they realise I exist? Because that’s what this feels like, Lewis. Like you’re still ashamed. Or scared. Or both.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “I am not ashamed of you.”

“Then fucking act like it.” The words came out faster than you meant, edged with everything you’d been swallowing down whilst he was on the call. “You read those comments. You saw what they’re saying. And your first instinct is still to hide. To let them think I’m nothing. You’d rather protect your image than protect us.”

That hit him, his shoulders jerked back like you’d shoved him.

“My image?” His voice rose, incredulous. “You think this is about my fucking image?”

“Isn’t it?” You stepped closer, chest tight. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re more worried about what the media will say tomorrow than what I feel right now. You’re more worried about the team, the season, the noise—than me.”

He stared at you for a second, his eyes narrowing. Then his anger broke through, hot and sudden enough that it startled you. “I’m under enough pressure this season, you know I am!” he shouted, voice cracking open. “Ferrari’s breathing down my neck, the car’s still a question mark, everyone’s watching every move I make. Why the hell should I add more? Why should I throw fuel on the fire when I know exactly how fast it fucks everything up, huh?”

You flinched at the volume, but you raised your own voice to match his.

“Because I’m not fuel, Lewis! I’m your girlfriend! Or at least I thought I was.”

He turned away sharply, stalking toward the bedroom. You followed without thinking.

“You don’t understand!” he yelled over his shoulder as he yanked open a drawer, pulling out a hoodie, boxers, sweatpants, anything to cover up like he suddenly couldn’t stand being so exposed in front of you. “The last time I had a relationship out in the open, they turned it into entertainment! Every fight, every date, every fucking tear—they ate it up. It was fucking everywhere. Tabloids, socials, people in my comments wishing we’d break up just for the drama. And when it ended, it ended badly. Really badly. I’m not doing that again. I’m not letting them do that to you!”

He shoved one leg into the sweatpants, movements jerky and angry. “You think I want this? You think I like seeing those comments about you? About us? I hate it. I hate every single word. But if I say something, if I confirm, they’ll never stop. They’ll dig until they find cracks. Until they break us.”

You stood in the doorway, arms wrapped tight around yourself, shaking. “But you haven’t even asked what I want, Lewis.”

The words came out quiet at first, almost pleading, because you still hoped he’d hear you this time.

He froze, hoodie halfway over his head. Pulled it down roughly, braids swinging against his neck. “What?”

“You keep saying you’re protecting me.” Your voice cracked on the next breath, edged with the hurt that had been building in your chest. “But you haven’t asked me once what I want. Do I want to stay hidden? Do I want a statement? Do I want to go public on my terms? You just decided. Again. Like I’m not even part of this.”

His face twisted into so many emotions it was impossible to pinpoint them. Anger flashing, guilt flickering underneath, something desperate and helpless in his eyes. “What aren’t you understanding?! I’m trying to keep you safe!”

“By shutting me out?” Your voice cracked again. “By making me feel like I’m still on the outside looking in? Like the only woman you ever knew how to stand beside publicly was Nicole—and everyone else is just hidden away?”

You watched the name land like a slap. He recoiled instantly, a sharp step back, as though you’d struck him across the face. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second with shock. Then, something darker, more wounded, before the walls slammed down hard. You saw it happen: the flinch, the tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders locked up. You knew you’d gone too far. The anger kept rising anyway, hot and unstoppable, fuelled by the ache of suddenly feeling unheard by him.

“Don’t,” he said, low and dangerous. “Don’t do that.”

The warning crashed over you like cold water. You hadn’t meant for the words to come out so sharp, so cruel. But they had, and now they hung between you, ugly and irreversible. Your chest ached with the realisation that you’d wanted to hurt him, just a little, because he was hurting you first. Because he was already retreating behind the walls he’d spent months letting you slip past. The second the outside world pressed in, he’d thrown them straight back up, and you were suddenly on the wrong side again.

You swallowed, throat tight, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. Your hands shook at your sides; you curled them into fists to stop it. You hated how small you sounded. Hated how much it still mattered that he looked at you like you were his, not a problem to be managed. So, stupidly, you carried on.

“Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it? You’re doing the same thing. Different year, same playbook. Typical Lewis Hamil–”

He cut you off by grabbing his motorbike helmet off the shelf, gloves too. “I’m not doing this right now.”

His voice had turned cold. Distant. Not angry anymore, he was just gone. The warmth that had always lived under his words, even when he was teasing or tired, had vanished like someone flipped a switch. It hurt worse than shouting. Shouting meant he still cared enough to fight. This felt like he was surrendering. Like he’d already decided you weren’t worth the breath it would take to stay and fight.

“Lewis—”

“No.” He strode past you, back into the living room, helmet tucked under one arm, shoulders rigid. “I can’t—I can’t keep going round in circles with you when I’m this wound up. I need air. I need to think.”

He didn’t look back. Not once. The absence of his eyes on you felt like the real wound, deeper than any word either of you had thrown.

You followed him to the door, chest heaving. “So you’re just leaving? In the middle of this?”

He stopped with his hand on the door handle. For a second you thought he might turn back, might reach for you. But the silence stretched, heavy and final, and the hurt carved deeper into the quiet between you.

“I love you,” he said eventually, his voice rough. “More than anything. But right now I can’t breathe in here. I can’t fix this if we keep hurting each other. We’re both shouting…I-I need to get out.”

Then, he opened the door before you could even answer. You could only watch as he slammed it behind him. The slam vibrated through the walls; a picture frame on the shelf rattled, then stilled.

You stood there, staring at the closed door. Chest rising and falling too fast. Tears burned hot down your cheeks before you even realised they were falling. You pressed a hand to your mouth to stop the sob, but it came anyway. The apartment suddenly felt too big, too quiet, like all the air had been sucked out with him.

The rain kept tapping the windows. The notifications on your phone kept buzzing on the sofa where you’d left it. The space where he’d been standing felt huge. You loved him. You loved him so much it hurt. Now it felt like everything you’d built had been ruined.

Lewis gripped the handlebars tighter, the motorbike's engine roaring beneath him as he tore through the winding streets of Monaco. Rain slicked the roads, turning the city lights into smeared streaks of gold and red that blurred the quicker he drove. His heart hammered in his chest, too fast, too hard, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out everything but the ringing in his ears. The helmet muffled the world, but it couldn’t quiet the storm inside his head.

Anger surged first, hot and unyielding. How could you not see it? How could you throw Nicole's name at him like a weapon, knowing how deep that cut? He'd opened up to you about it all: how young he was, the endless headlines, the paparazzi hounding every move he made, the way love had twisted into something public and poisoned. And now you accused him of hiding you? Of treating you like the others? Bullshit. He was protecting you. Protecting the two of you. The anger coiled in his gut, making his knuckles ache against the grips. You didn't get it. You couldn't. You'd never had your life dissected like a lab rat, never woken up to your face splashed across tabloids with lies stapled to every inch.

But underneath the fury, guilt crept in like fog off the sea, slow, insidious, impossible to shake. He shouldn't have shouted. Shouldn't have paced like a caged animal, snapping at you while yanking on clothes just to feel less exposed. The look on your face when he'd grabbed his helmet hurt more than any of the words you'd said. He'd left you there, alone in the apartment, tears probably already falling. He'd walked out. Slammed the door like a coward. Guilt twisted sharper than the anger. He'd promised himself he'd never be that guy again, the one who ran when it got hard. But tonight, he'd done exactly that.

The heartache hit next, a deep, throbbing ache that made his throat tighten until he could barely swallow the lump wedged there. This argument wasn’t just words. It was the first crack in your relationship, and it terrified him. He loved you. Loved you in a way that scared the shit out of him sometimes, because you were the light he'd been chasing in the dark for years. Through the grind of seasons, the losses that stung, the pressure that never let up, you'd been his anchor. Your soul tethered to his in ways he couldn't explain, your kindness quiet and steady, like a hand on his back when the world pressed too heavy. You saw him, the real him, beyond the driver, beyond his career. He loved you for it. Fiercely. Maybe too fiercely. Maybe he was being overprotective, wrapping you up so tight because the thought of losing you to the same circus that had wrecked him before gutted him.

He leaned into a curve, the bike tilting low, wind whipping rain against his visor. But the speed wasn’t helping. It never did when the chaos was inside.

Eventually, he couldn’t ignore the pull anymore. He eased off the throttle, veering to the side of the coastal road where the guardrail overlooked the Mediterranean. The sea stretched out black and restless under the moon, waves crashing against rocks far below. He killed the engine, swung his leg over the seat, and tugged off his helmet. Rain hit his face immediately, cold and relentless, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He leaned against the bike, gloves still clutched in one hand, staring at the horizon like it held answers.

The argument replayed in his mind, every sharp word a fresh sting. Sure, he hadn’t asked what you wanted. That was on him. He'd panicked, jumped straight to damage control because that was what he did, tried to fix things before they broke. But you had no idea what it was like. The spotlight didn’t just shine; it burned. It exposed every flaw, turned private pain into public entertainment. His brain flickered back to those comments he'd scrolled through earlier. The mean ones. Vicious digs at your body, your worth, your place in his life. Calling you a fling. A distraction. They were disgusting. How dare anyone say things like that to his baby. The thought made his fists clench again. He couldn’t stand it, strangers spitting hate at the woman who made his world make sense. But he couldn’t stop it either. If he stayed silent, it festered. If he spoke up, it exploded. Internal conflict tore at him: protect you by hiding, or risk everything by claiming you out loud? Panic clawed up his throat quicker than he could force it down. What if this was the beginning of the end? What if his fear pushed you away for good?

He loved you so much it overwhelmed him sometimes, this fierce, aching thing in his chest. You were his peace. And tonight, he'd left you hurting because he couldn’t face the mess that simply being him caused.

Lewis stayed frozen to the spot, boots planted on the wet tarmac. The rain had eased to a fine mist now, clinging to his skin, soaking through the hoodie until it stuck cold to his back. He stared at the ocean, black and endless, waves rolling in with the same relentless rhythm they'd had for hours. The fear crept in slowly at first, then all at once, sharp and suffocating.

Fear of losing you.

Fear of what he'd already done.

Fear that this, the shouting, the slammed door, the way he'd walked out, was the crack that would finally split you both open. He pictured you back at the apartment: curled on the sofa in his T-shirt, phone face-down so you wouldn’t have to see more notifications, eyes red from crying. The image twisted deep in his chest and he suddenly felt nauseous. He'd promised himself, after everything, that he'd never be the reason someone he loved cried alone. Yet, here he was. He ran away, again.

He didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know what words would undo the damage. An apology felt too small. A statement from his team felt like surrendering. Going public felt like throwing you into the fire he'd been trying to keep you out of. Every option looked wrong. Every path looked like it ended in more hurt, for you, for him, for whatever fragile, beautiful thing you'd built.

He rubbed a hand over his face, water and salt smearing together. His mind kept circling back to your voice earlier, small and cracked: "You haven't even asked what I want."

You were right. He hadn’t. He was too stubborn to admit it at the time, too focused on protecting you.

He'd decided for both of you, like he always did when panic set in. Because asking meant admitting he didn’t have the answers. Meant trusting that whatever you chose, silence, a quiet post, going loud, he could live with the fallout. Meant believing you loved him enough to weather the storm with him, not despite him.

The thought made his throat close up again. Because what if you didn’t? What if the weight of his world was finally too much? What if you looked at him tomorrow, or next week, or next month, and decided you deserved easier? Someone who didn’t come with speculation and hiding and nights like this?

He let out a shaky breath, the sound lost to the wind. He loved you so much the fear of losing you felt like drowning. You weren’t  just his girlfriend. You were the person who made the world quiet. Who kissed the corner of his mouth when he came home exhausted and told him he was enough even when the car wasn’t fast enough, even when the results weren't there. Who laughed at his terrible dad jokes and stole his hoodies and made him feel like home wasn’t a place, it was you.

And he'd hurt you tonight. Badly. He stayed there until the sky began to change.

The black softened at the edges first, then bled into deep indigo. A thin line of pink appeared on the horizon, faint, hesitant, like it wasn’t sure it was allowed to show up after a night like this. The sea caught the first glimmer of light, silver threading through the dark water, turning restless waves into something almost gentle.

Lewis watched the sun rise slow and quiet, a thin golden edge breaking over the curve of the earth. His heart still hammered, but slower now. The anger had long since guttered out; what was left was quieter, guilt and love and a bone-deep ache for your forgiveness.

He still didn’t have the perfect words. Didn’t know the exact shape of what he'd say when he stepped back through that door. But one certainty cut through the fog like the first real light of morning: he wasn’t letting this be the end of you two. Not because of his fear. Not because of the noise he couldn’t control. Not because he'd been too stubborn, too scarred, too protective to let you choose. You were his light. His home. The love that tethered him when everything else spun too fast.

And he loved you enough to go back, to stand in front of you raw and sorry, and let you choose.

He straightened, swung his leg over the bike, pulled the helmet down. The engine caught with a low, familiar growl. The road back stretched ahead, wet and shining in the new light. He twisted the throttle and let the bike carry him toward you.

Lewis pushed open the apartment door just as the first real light of morning slipped through the windows, soft grey-pink, barely there at 6 a.m. The rain had stopped sometime in the night; the air inside still carried the faint damp chill of it. He stepped in quietly, helmet tucked under one arm, jacket already half-off his shoulders.

The sight of you stopped him cold.

You’d fallen asleep on the sofa, curled into the corner like you were trying to make yourself smaller. Phone still clutched loosely in your hand, screen dark now. Tear tracks dried on your cheeks, two faint silver paths that caught the low light and broke something inside him all over again. He could tell you hadn’t slept easy. You’d cried yourself out, waiting for him, and then exhaustion had finally taken you.

His heart ached at the sight. A lump rose thick in his throat, so sudden he almost choked on it. He stood there for a long second just looking at you. His beautiful, stubborn, kind girl, wrecked because of him. Because he’d walked out. Because he’d let fear win for one stupid night.

He slipped his shoes off without a sound, set the helmet down on the entry table. His jacket followed, dropped softly over the back of a chair. Then he crossed the room on socked feet, every step careful, like the floor might give way if he moved too fast.

He knelt beside the sofa, knees sinking into the rug. Close enough to feel the warmth still radiating off you under the throw you’d pulled up to your chin. His hand hovered for a moment, afraid to touch, afraid not to, then settled gently. Thumb brushing along your cheek, slow and reverent, tracing the dried tear tracks like he could erase them with the pad of his finger

“Baby…” His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Hey… hey, it’s me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused at first. Then recognition hit, and with it the hurt all over again. Your face crumpled. Fresh tears welled up fast, spilling over before you could stop them. A small, broken sound escaped your throat.

Lewis’s own eyes went glassy instantly. He cupped your face with both hands now, thumbs sweeping under your eyes, trying to catch the tears even as more fell.

“My beautiful girl,” he murmured, voice thick with everything he’d carried all night. “My sweet, beautiful girl… I’m so sorry. I’m here. I’m right here.”

You tried to speak, but the words came out shaky, fractured. “I didn’t know where you were… or what you were doing… and… and I just kept thinking—”

He shushed you gently, forehead pressing to yours, noses brushing. “I know. I know, baby. I shouldn’t have left. I should never have walked out like that. Never. I hate that I did. I hate that I left you here crying.”

You swallowed hard, still crying, still trying to listen through the ache. “You just… you just left. In the middle of everything. I thought—”

“I panicked,” he cut in softly, voice raw. “We were fighting and I hate when I talk to you like that. When you talk to me like that. It felt like we were tearing each other apart and I couldn’t—I couldn’t breathe in here. I needed to think. Needed to clear my head before I said something worse. But I should’ve stayed. Should’ve stayed and held you and let us figure it out together. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

His thumbs kept moving, gentle arcs across your cheeks. He leaned in closer, lips brushing your temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye. They were small, desperate kisses, like he was trying to pour every apology into your skin.

You stayed there on the sofa, his hands warm around your face even as fresh tears slipped free. Lewis didn’t move away. He stayed knelt in front of you, thumbs still brushing slow circles under your eyes like he could wipe away every hurt he’d caused.

You swallowed, trying to find your voice through the ache. “I just… I needed you here,” you said, quieter now. “When those comments started coming in, when I saw what they were saying, I felt so small. Like I didn’t belong in your world. And then you closed the door. You went in there and talked to them without me. It felt like… like I was already being pushed out. Like maybe I never really fit.”

Your lip trembled. “I’m not asking you to fight the whole internet. I’m not asking for a big declaration or to drag me into every photo. I just wanted to feel like we were on the same side. Like you trusted me enough to decide things with me. Not for me.”

Lewis listened. Really listened. His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy and red-rimmed, and when you finished he nodded slowly, like every word was sinking in deep.

“I know,” he whispered. His voice cracked on the first syllable, rough from the night and everything he’d held back. “I know I fucked up. I saw those comments and all I could think about was how they’d get worse if I said anything. How they’d turn you into a target. How they’d dig until they found every private thing we have and twist it. I’ve watched it happen, baby. And the thought of that happening to you—” His breath hitched. “It scared me so much I couldn’t think straight. I just wanted to make it stop. Fast. Before it touched you any more than it already had.”

He paused, swallowing hard. A single tear slipped free from the corner of his eye. “But you’re right. I didn’t ask you. I didn’t let you in. I shut the door and I shut you out. And that’s not protection. That’s me being scared and stupid and… and hurting the one person I never want to hurt.”

His voice broke again on the last word. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing for a second like the weight of it all was too much. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I love you more than anything in this world, and last night I made you feel like you weren’t even part of it. That’s on me. All of it.”

You were still upset, chest hitching with quiet sobs. You let him hold you there on the floor beside the sofa, his hands cradling your face like it was the only thing keeping him steady too, but the hurt lingered, stubborn and heavy. You could see it in him too: the way his shoulders stayed tense, the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his gaze flickered away for a second before returning to yours, like he was still bracing for another blow. The night had left marks on both of you.

You lifted a hand slowly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw. “I’m sorry about bringing up your past,” you whispered, voice small but steady. “That was a low blow. I didn’t mean to weaponise something you trusted me with. I was angry and scared and I wanted you to feel it too. That wasn’t fair.”

Lewis exhaled sharply, nodding. His eyes closed for a second, lashes wet. When he opened them again, the hurt was still there, raw and unguarded. “Yeah, that really hurt,” he admitted quietly. “More than I expected. Because I thought… I thought we were past that. Past me having to prove I’m different with you.” He swallowed, voice rougher now. “But I get it. I shut you out first. I gave you every reason to think the worst.”

You nodded, thumb tracing the faint crease at the corner of his mouth. “I was terrified we’d broken something that couldn’t be fixed. That one fight would be enough to undo everything we’ve built.”

He leaned his forehead against yours again, breath shaky, tears falling freely now, warm on your skin where they landed. “I was so scared we did,” he said, voice low and thick, cracking hard on the words. “I felt it the whole time I was gone. Kept thinking I’d come back and you’d be gone. That I’d lose you because I fucked up protecting you the wrong way.” His throat worked, another tear slipping down. “But I’m here. And I’m not leaving again. I promise, baby. I’m sorry.”

The admission hung between you, honest and heavy. You let your hand slide to the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into the damp ends of his braids.

“God, Lew,” you murmured, frowning. “You look exhausted.”

He let out a small, broken laugh, and leaned into your touch like he needed it to breathe. "Yeah. Didn't sleep. Obviously." His voice was rough, still raw from the night. "Just rode the bike. Stared at the sea. Panicked some more." His hand covered yours, guiding it to cup his cheek, pressing your palm there like he was grounding himself to you. "I kept seeing your face when I left. Kept hearing your voice crack. Couldn't shake it. Felt fucking awful once the anger burned out, baby."

You nodded, fresh tears slipping free, but they felt different now. Lighter. Like release instead of pain. The tight knot in your chest was finally loosening, breath by breath, with every gentle press of his fingers against your skin.

He shifted closer, knees pressing deeper into the rug, arms sliding around your waist. He pulled you gently forward until you were half in his lap, close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. "We're gonna figure this out," he said softly, voice steadier even though it still wavered at the edges. "Together. Whatever you want. No more deciding for you."

You let out a shaky breath and wrapped your arms around his neck in return. "Okay," you whispered. "Okay."

He stayed like that for a long moment, just holding you, breathing you in. His hands moved slowly up your back, warm and careful, like he was memorising the feel of you again. Then he slowly shifted, arms sliding under your knees and around your back. He lifted you off the sofa in one gentle motion, cradling you against his chest like you were something precious he'd almost lost.

You didn't protest. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. He carried you down the short hallway to the bedroom. The sheets were still tangled from yesterday morning; he laid you down without letting go, then followed, easing himself beside you. He pulled you close immediately, arms wrapping around you like he couldn't bear even an inch of space between your bodies. Your head settled on his chest, his chin resting against the top of your head, legs tangling naturally like they always did.

He exhaled a long, shaky breath against your hair, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other resting low on your back, fingers splayed wide like he needed to feel every part of you. "I'm so fucking tired," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion and something softer. "I know we need to talk, love. But my heads killing me. Need you right here." He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there, then another to your forehead. "Just stay close. Let me sleep with you wrapped up like this. Please."

You nodded against his collarbone, fingers smoothing over his stomach, holding on just as tight. "I'm not going anywhere," you whispered.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers then, eyes searching yours in the dim morning light. They were still red-rimmed, glassy, but softer now, full of a quiet, aching love he rarely let show this openly. Then he leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, soft lips lingering, unhurried, like he was pouring every apology and promise into it. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice cracked again, almost tearful.

"I love you," he whispered against your mouth. "So much. More than I know how to say sometimes."

Another kiss, softer this time, forehead resting against yours. "I love you," he repeated, quieter, like a vow he needed to hear himself say. "Always, beautiful."

You whispered it back, voice thick with emotion. "I love you too."

He settled then, pulling the duvet over both of you, tucking it around you with careful hands. One arm stayed locked around your waist, the other slid under your shoulders, holding you flush against him. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on your back, clingy in the gentlest way, like he needed the constant contact to believe you were really there. His breathing evened out within minutes, deep, steady, the kind of sleep that only comes after hours of no rest at all. You listened to his heartbeat under your ear, strong and sure, until your own eyes grew heavy, and sleep finally claimed you both.

Afternoon light slanted golden through the blinds when you woke again. The apartment smelled like fresh coffee and toast; Lewis had slipped out of bed earlier, quiet as always, and came back with two mugs and a plate of simple buttered toast he’d cut into triangles because he knew you liked it that way. He was propped against the headboard now, one arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, steady strokes over the fabric of his hoodie you’d pulled on.

He noticed you stir before you even opened your eyes. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep. “You good? Want more coffee? Or I can make tea if you’d rather.”

You shook your head, smiling a little, and reached for a piece of toast. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

He watched you take a bite, eyes soft, like seeing you eat was the most important thing in the room. “Eat slow. No rush.” He shifted slightly, turning his body more toward you so you were face-to-face, his hand sliding to your knee, thumb still moving in an absent, comforting rhythm. “Before we get into any of the things we need to talk about… tell me where your head’s at, baby. You still feeling okay? Or do you just want me to shut up and hold you for a bit?”

The question was so simple, so him. Direct, no pressure, waiting for you to set the pace.

You swallowed the bite of toast. “I just want to feel like we’re okay, to be honest.” Lewis nodded once, eyes locked on yours. “We’re okay,” he said quietly, voice low. “We got hurt. I hurt you. You hurt me. And yeah… it scared me.” He paused, hand tightening just a little on your knee. “I kept thinking about what it would feel like if you decided this was too much. If I lost you because I couldn’t figure out how to keep you safe without pushing you away. That fear… it’s still there. Right here.” He tapped his chest once, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the mere thought. “I don’t want to lose you more than I want to keep things private. And our privacy has already been ripped away. So whatever you need…whatever makes you feel good, safe, like you’re mine…I’m in. No hesitation.”

Your stomach flipped at the way he said it,  him laying it out like it was the most obvious thing in the world that you came first.

“I don’t want to hide forever,” you said. “It makes me feel like I’m temporary. Like I’m not worth claiming. But I don’t want to feed the circus either. Maybe something small? A quiet post from me, or from both of us. Just enough to say we’re real. No details. No explanations. Just the minimum we can give.”

He listened without interrupting, thumb still moving, eyes never leaving your face. When you finished, he was quiet for a second, thinking it through. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Small. On our terms. If it gets loud, we turn comments off. Block, mute, whatever it takes. We protect what’s ours.” His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “But only if that sits right with you. If you want to wait, or skip it, or do it differently… just say. I’m listening, love. I promise.”

You leaned into his palm, feeling the warmth of it, the faint calluses. “I think the small post is good. From us. Together.”

He smiled at that, eyes crinkling in the way that always made your heart stutter. “Okay. We’ll do it when you’re ready. No rush.” His arms slid around you again, pulling you closer until you were tucked against him properly, head under his chin.

You nodded and let yourself relax into him as his hand found yours under the duvet. His fingers laced through yours, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles like he was still reassuring himself you were both okay.

He squeezed your hand once, soft. “I love you,” he murmured against your hair. “More than anything. And I’m sorry I made you doubt that last night. Won’t happen again.”

You turned your face into his neck, breathing him in. “I love you too. And I believe you.”

He exhaled, long and slow, like a weight had finally lifted. Then he kissed your temple again, arms tightening, holding you like he never planned to let go.

The room was quiet for a while, the soft sound of your breathing syncing up and the distant hum of Monaco outside. Then he shifted slightly, nose brushing your hair as he murmured, “I bet you got bloody crumbs on the bed…”

You snorted, the sound muffled against his skin. You knew he hated eating in bed. Hated anyone eating in his bed. Crumbs in his sheets were his worst nightmare.

“You gave me the toast!” you shot back, laughing but still accusing.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours. “Yeah, I did. My bad.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Worth it, though. You needed it. And I needed to see you eat something.”

You smiled against his neck, the last of the tension melting out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you,” he said, voice soft again, almost serious. He pressed one more kiss to the top of your head, lingering there. “Always for you. Guess I'll have to change the sheets, hm?”

tags: @70srogertaylor @forzalewis44xo @mikaissance @jensonbuttonglazer10 @saintslewis @liveloungeharry @knowinglewis @thegirlinblackgreensilver @palefacestudentloves

When you got back to his apartment he let you shower first, the way he always did. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lips lingering for a second, then murmured, “Gonna get an evening workout in, yeah? Won’t be long, baby.” You nodded, already heading for the bathroom, loving how easy it all felt.

You took your time under the hot water, letting it wash the day away. Your body wash sat right there next to his on the shelf. Your body scrub too. Seeing them side by side still made your stomach do a little happy flip. It felt like proof that this was real, that you belonged here. By the time you were done you’d slipped into your favourite pyjamas. Tiny sleep shorts and one of Lewis’s old black t-shirts, softened from a hundred washes, hanging just right on you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.

You were still drying your hair when you heard the front door open. Lewis walked in looking like he’d just finished a proper session. He was sweaty, flushed, a running vest sticking to his chest and stomach, backwards cap over his head. He looked good. Too good. So good that it made you want to forget about the shower you’d just had.

“There she is,” he grinned, voice still a bit breathless. He peeled the vest off in one smooth pull, tossing it towards the laundry basket without looking, and started walking over to you.

He stopped just close enough to lean in and kiss the very corner of your mouth, careful not to get any of his sweat on your clean skin. “You smell so good, baby.”

“That makes one of us,” you snorted, taking a small step back even though you didn’t really want to.

“You don’t like my natural musk?” he teased, that big stupid grin spreading across his face.

“Musk? I bet you just ran 10k. You’re sticky and gross!”

He laughed, eyebrows raised. “Sticky and gross? Excuse you! Why’re you being mean?”

“I’m not being mean!” you laughed. “Go and shower, stinky.”

“Say please,” Lewis said, raising one eyebrow and stepping closer again, crowding you just enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

“I am not saying please—”

He kept looking at you, a playful challenge in his eyes, waiting. When you remained silent he tilted his head, a beautifully annoying smirk on his perfect lips.

“Oh my god—Lewis! Please go and shower,” you finally giggled, gently shoving at his bare chest.

He rolled his eyes all fond and dramatic, already turning towards the bathroom. “I’m going, I’m going… sorry for wanting a kiss and a cuddle after a hard run.”

“You’ll get plenty when you’re not covered in sweat!” 

“You think it’s sexy!” he shouted back from the doorway, voice echoing a little before the bathroom door clicked shut and the shower started running.

You stood there for a second, still smiling like an idiot, heart doing that warm, stupid flutter it always did around him. God, you really loved him. More than you’d ever thought possible.

You settled on his sofa, pulling the soft throw up to your chin. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of the shower and the sounds of Lewis’s movements. You grabbed your phone to scroll on Instagram, something mindless while you waited for him to finish.

Except the second you opened the app, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

Over 8,000 notifications. Eight thousand.

Your thumb froze for a second. What the fuck?

You tapped through a few, trying to figure out where the sudden flood had come from. Stories, tags, comments piling up like an avalanche. Then you found the post that started everything. A blurry photo from tonight’s dinner, taken from behind. Lewis leaning in close, his hand cupping your cheek, his soft smile you knew so well just visible in the low light. You were smiling too, one hand resting on his bicep like you’d done it a thousand times before, because you had. The tattoos on his arm, the exact vest he’d worn, the way his braids fell…it was unmistakably him. Somehow, impossibly, they’d found you too.

The caption made your heart drop to your stomach.

F1Gossip: Lewis Hamilton spotted cozying up in Monaco. Who’s the mystery woman?

Your pulse spiked so hard you felt it in your throat. Suddenly, the room felt unreal.

You scrolled the comments, stomach twisting tighter with every one. Sweet ones got buried fast under the vicious stuff:

user1: another fling he’ll deny in two weeks lol user2: Distraction for Ferrari, watch him drop her before testing user3: is she not embarrassed lmao user4: at least he wasn’t caught running away from this one when the cameras caught them 😭 user5: she looks like she’s trying too hard lol he’s never posting her user6: another one bites the dust before Bahrain user7: yikes thats not even his type lmfao

One even said something about how he always keeps them hidden until he’s bored and moves on, that he won’t ever claim a woman publicly.

You’d always been private. This felt like someone had ripped the door off your life and let the whole world stare in.

The shower shut off in the bathroom. You heard Lewis humming something low under his breath as he padded out, towel around his hips, skin still damp and warm from the steam. He looked over, grin starting to form like nothing had changed since you’d teased him about being stinky ten minutes ago.

But then he saw your face. The phone in your hand. The way they were shaking.

“Baby?” His voice dropped, playfulness gone in an instant. He crossed the room in three steps, crouching in front of the sofa so he was eye-level with you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You turned the screen toward him without a word. Let him see the post. The numbers. The comments still rolling in.

Lewis frowned the second he really saw the screen. He took the phone from your hand gently, like he was handling something fragile, and stayed crouched there in front of you. He said nothing at first. You watched his eyes moving down the comments, scrolling slowly.

That was his first mistake. The silence.

You watched his jaw lock tight, the muscle flexing under his skin. His eyebrows drew together, deep furrows carving between them as he kept reading. One after another. You could almost hear the storm building behind his teeth. But still, he stayed silent. He bit the inside of his cheek, a habit he always did when something had unsettled him deeply. You were aching for some kind of reassurance, something to soothe the way those comments had already dug underneath your skin, slicing through the peace that the relationship had been.

After what felt like forever, he let out a quiet breath. “It’ll blow over, you know,” he mumbled, voice low and rough. “It always does.”

You blinked at him. Hard. Was he looking at the same fucking thing as you?

Your throat burned. Something cold settled in your chest. Blow over. Like you were a phase, something temporary enough to wait out.

He stood up slowly, your phone still in his hand, and started pacing. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet, towel slipping a little lower with each turn. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, opening and closing like he didn’t know what to do with all the anger sitting under his skin.

You pulled the throw tighter around yourself, knees drawn up. Waiting. Hoping he’d say something real.

He stopped at the window, back to you for a second, shoulders rising and falling. Then he turned back to you, his eyes softer now. But you knew him. He was still guarded, like he was holding most of himself back.

“Baby…” He came back over, dropped to one knee again so he could look right at you. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing slow, the way he always did when he was trying to calm you down. “I hate this. I hate that they got to you like this. That they’re in your head now.” His voice cracked just a little on the last word. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed the reminder that you were still here, still real. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve… I don’t know. Done something sooner.”

You wanted to believe the softness in his eyes. Wanted to melt into the way his fingers curled around the back of your neck, warm and steady. But the comments were still there, loud in your head, and his “it’ll blow over” was still echoing too.

He opened his mouth to say more—something gentler, maybe—but then his phone buzzed on the coffee table. Sharp and insistent.

He glanced at it. Face changed again, tighter. He reached over, picked it up, thumb hovering over the screen.

The name on the caller ID made your stomach twist even harder. He answered anyway.

“Hello,” he said, voice flat. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”

He walked towards his bedroom and closed the door. He closed the door. All you could hear was muffled sounds of his voice, low, but unmistakably furious. 

Lewis stayed on the call for what felt like forever. You sat there on the sofa, throw still clutched tight, staring at the closed bedroom door like it had personally betrayed you. The muffled rumble of his voice came through in bursts. It was low, clipped, angry in the controlled way he got when he was really pissed but trying not to explode. You caught fragments: “...not doing that again,” and “she’s not—” and then something sharper that made your stomach flip.

When the door finally opened, he looked exhausted. Not just physically, but something deeper, like the weight of old scars had settled heavier on his shoulders in the last ten minutes.

He came back to the living room but didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms crossed loose over his bare chest, towel still low on his hips.

“That was some higher ups,” he said quietly. “And the PR team. They’ve seen the post. The comments. Everything.”

You waited. Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“They’re suggesting we put out a vague no-comment statement,” he continued, eyes on the floor for a second before lifting to meet yours. “Something short. ‘Lewis is focused on the upcoming season and asks for privacy.’ Nothing about you. Nothing confirming. Just… enough to make it die down faster. They think if we don’t feed it, it’ll burn out in a day or two.”

The words splashed over you like ice water. You stared at him. He just stared back. 

Then the fury hit instantly.

“You’re kidding.” Your voice came out small at first, almost disbelieving. Then you were shouting before you caught yourself. “You just read what they’re saying about me! You saw the comments. The ones calling me a fling. A distraction. A nobody he’ll drop before testing even starts. And your solution is… no comment? Like I’m just another girl in the rotation? Like I don’t even deserve a real response?”

He flinched at the shouting, but he didn’t back down.

“Baby, listen—”

“No.” You stood up, throw falling to the floor. “Don’t ‘baby’ me right now. You read every single one of those. You saw them digging into my life, my face, my body—like I’m public property because I dared to sit next to you at dinner. And instead of saying ‘yeah, she’s with me, back off,’ your team wants to act like I don’t exist? Like I’m the problem to be managed?”

His jaw worked again, the same tight muscle jumping. “It’s not about you being a problem. It’s about keeping them from tearing into you worse. If I say anything, if I confirm, they’ll double down. They’ll go harder. Dig deeper. I’ve seen it happen. I've lived it. I’m not letting that happen to you.”

“So you’d rather let them think I’m temporary?” Your voice wavered on the last word. “Let them keep writing the same story they always write about you? Single Lewis, mysterious girl, inevitable breakup. Because that’s safer?”

He stepped closer, eyebrows furrowing, his hands coming up like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he was allowed. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“By erasing me?” The words tasted bitter. “That’s not protection, Lewis. That’s what you did before. With everyone else. And I’m not everyone else. Or at least I thought I wasn’t.”

He looked like you’d slapped him. Eyes wide, breath catching for a second. The room went so quiet you could hear the rain again, steady against the glass.

“I’m not erasing you,” he said, voice rough. “I would never—”

“Then why does it feel like you already have?” You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. “You closed the door. You went in there and talked to them without me. And now you come out with their plan. No comment. Like I’m not even in the room.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand over his braids, tugging at the ends like he was trying to pull himself together.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he said finally. “I just… I panicked. Seeing those comments. Knowing what comes next if we don’t shut it down fast. I was trying to fix it.”

“But you didn’t ask me.” Your eyes burned. “You didn’t even look at me and say, ‘what do you want to do?’ You just decided. Again.”

He stared at you, something raw and helpless flickering across his face. For once, the man who always had a plan looked completely lost.

The silence between you stretched thin, brittle. Lewis stood there, phone in one hand, the other rubbing at the back of his neck like he could massage the tension out. His eyes were on you, glassy but guarded too. Like he was waiting for you to give in and understand.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. The anger and hurt you were feeling had long drowned out any sort of understanding you could reach.

“You didn’t even ask me,” you said again, quieter this time, but sharper. The words cut through the room like glass. “You just went in there, closed the door, talked to your team, and came out with their plan. Like my opinion doesn’t matter. Like I’m just… collateral.”

His hand dropped from his neck. Something flickered in his expression—hurt, maybe, or frustration starting to boil over.

“I was trying to handle it before it got worse,” he said, voice still low, but tighter now. “Before they start camping outside the building. Before they find your flat in London. Before—”

“Before what?” you cut in. “Before they realise I exist? Because that’s what this feels like, Lewis. Like you’re still ashamed. Or scared. Or both.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “I am not ashamed of you.”

“Then fucking act like it.” The words came out faster than you meant, edged with everything you’d been swallowing down whilst he was on the call. “You read those comments. You saw what they’re saying. And your first instinct is still to hide. To let them think I’m nothing. You’d rather protect your image than protect us.”

That hit him, his shoulders jerked back like you’d shoved him.

“My image?” His voice rose, incredulous. “You think this is about my fucking image?”

“Isn’t it?” You stepped closer, chest tight. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re more worried about what the media will say tomorrow than what I feel right now. You’re more worried about the team, the season, the noise—than me.”

He stared at you for a second, his eyes narrowing. Then his anger broke through, hot and sudden enough that it startled you. “I’m under enough pressure this season, you know I am!” he shouted, voice cracking open. “Ferrari’s breathing down my neck, the car’s still a question mark, everyone’s watching every move I make. Why the hell should I add more? Why should I throw fuel on the fire when I know exactly how fast it fucks everything up, huh?”

You flinched at the volume, but you raised your own voice to match his.

“Because I’m not fuel, Lewis! I’m your girlfriend! Or at least I thought I was.”

He turned away sharply, stalking toward the bedroom. You followed without thinking.

“You don’t understand!” he yelled over his shoulder as he yanked open a drawer, pulling out a hoodie, boxers, sweatpants, anything to cover up like he suddenly couldn’t stand being so exposed in front of you. “The last time I had a relationship out in the open, they turned it into entertainment! Every fight, every date, every fucking tear—they ate it up. It was fucking everywhere. Tabloids, socials, people in my comments wishing we’d break up just for the drama. And when it ended, it ended badly. Really badly. I’m not doing that again. I’m not letting them do that to you!”

He shoved one leg into the sweatpants, movements jerky and angry. “You think I want this? You think I like seeing those comments about you? About us? I hate it. I hate every single word. But if I say something, if I confirm, they’ll never stop. They’ll dig until they find cracks. Until they break us.”

You stood in the doorway, arms wrapped tight around yourself, shaking. “But you haven’t even asked what I want, Lewis.”

The words came out quiet at first, almost pleading, because you still hoped he’d hear you this time.

He froze, hoodie halfway over his head. Pulled it down roughly, braids swinging against his neck. “What?”

“You keep saying you’re protecting me.” Your voice cracked on the next breath, edged with the hurt that had been building in your chest. “But you haven’t asked me once what I want. Do I want to stay hidden? Do I want a statement? Do I want to go public on my terms? You just decided. Again. Like I’m not even part of this.”

His face twisted into so many emotions it was impossible to pinpoint them. Anger flashing, guilt flickering underneath, something desperate and helpless in his eyes. “What aren’t you understanding?! I’m trying to keep you safe!”

“By shutting me out?” Your voice cracked again. “By making me feel like I’m still on the outside looking in? Like the only woman you ever knew how to stand beside publicly was Nicole—and everyone else is just hidden away?”

You watched the name land like a slap. He recoiled instantly, a sharp step back, as though you’d struck him across the face. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second with shock. Then, something darker, more wounded, before the walls slammed down hard. You saw it happen: the flinch, the tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders locked up. You knew you’d gone too far. The anger kept rising anyway, hot and unstoppable, fuelled by the ache of suddenly feeling unheard by him.

“Don’t,” he said, low and dangerous. “Don’t do that.”

The warning crashed over you like cold water. You hadn’t meant for the words to come out so sharp, so cruel. But they had, and now they hung between you, ugly and irreversible. Your chest ached with the realisation that you’d wanted to hurt him, just a little, because he was hurting you first. Because he was already retreating behind the walls he’d spent months letting you slip past. The second the outside world pressed in, he’d thrown them straight back up, and you were suddenly on the wrong side again.

You swallowed, throat tight, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. Your hands shook at your sides; you curled them into fists to stop it. You hated how small you sounded. Hated how much it still mattered that he looked at you like you were his, not a problem to be managed. So, stupidly, you carried on.

“Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it? You’re doing the same thing. Different year, same playbook. Typical Lewis Hamil–”

He cut you off by grabbing his motorbike helmet off the shelf, gloves too. “I’m not doing this right now.”

His voice had turned cold. Distant. Not angry anymore, he was just gone. The warmth that had always lived under his words, even when he was teasing or tired, had vanished like someone flipped a switch. It hurt worse than shouting. Shouting meant he still cared enough to fight. This felt like he was surrendering. Like he’d already decided you weren’t worth the breath it would take to stay and fight.

“Lewis—”

“No.” He strode past you, back into the living room, helmet tucked under one arm, shoulders rigid. “I can’t—I can’t keep going round in circles with you when I’m this wound up. I need air. I need to think.”

He didn’t look back. Not once. The absence of his eyes on you felt like the real wound, deeper than any word either of you had thrown.

You followed him to the door, chest heaving. “So you’re just leaving? In the middle of this?”

He stopped with his hand on the door handle. For a second you thought he might turn back, might reach for you. But the silence stretched, heavy and final, and the hurt carved deeper into the quiet between you.

“I love you,” he said eventually, his voice rough. “More than anything. But right now I can’t breathe in here. I can’t fix this if we keep hurting each other. We’re both shouting…I-I need to get out.”

Then, he opened the door before you could even answer. You could only watch as he slammed it behind him. The slam vibrated through the walls; a picture frame on the shelf rattled, then stilled.

You stood there, staring at the closed door. Chest rising and falling too fast. Tears burned hot down your cheeks before you even realised they were falling. You pressed a hand to your mouth to stop the sob, but it came anyway. The apartment suddenly felt too big, too quiet, like all the air had been sucked out with him.

The rain kept tapping the windows. The notifications on your phone kept buzzing on the sofa where you’d left it. The space where he’d been standing felt huge. You loved him. You loved him so much it hurt. Now it felt like everything you’d built had been ruined.

Lewis gripped the handlebars tighter, the motorbike's engine roaring beneath him as he tore through the winding streets of Monaco. Rain slicked the roads, turning the city lights into smeared streaks of gold and red that blurred the quicker he drove. His heart hammered in his chest, too fast, too hard, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out everything but the ringing in his ears. The helmet muffled the world, but it couldn’t quiet the storm inside his head.

Anger surged first, hot and unyielding. How could you not see it? How could you throw Nicole's name at him like a weapon, knowing how deep that cut? He'd opened up to you about it all: how young he was, the endless headlines, the paparazzi hounding every move he made, the way love had twisted into something public and poisoned. And now you accused him of hiding you? Of treating you like the others? Bullshit. He was protecting you. Protecting the two of you. The anger coiled in his gut, making his knuckles ache against the grips. You didn't get it. You couldn't. You'd never had your life dissected like a lab rat, never woken up to your face splashed across tabloids with lies stapled to every inch.

But underneath the fury, guilt crept in like fog off the sea, slow, insidious, impossible to shake. He shouldn't have shouted. Shouldn't have paced like a caged animal, snapping at you while yanking on clothes just to feel less exposed. The look on your face when he'd grabbed his helmet hurt more than any of the words you'd said. He'd left you there, alone in the apartment, tears probably already falling. He'd walked out. Slammed the door like a coward. Guilt twisted sharper than the anger. He'd promised himself he'd never be that guy again, the one who ran when it got hard. But tonight, he'd done exactly that.

The heartache hit next, a deep, throbbing ache that made his throat tighten until he could barely swallow the lump wedged there. This argument wasn’t just words. It was the first crack in your relationship, and it terrified him. He loved you. Loved you in a way that scared the shit out of him sometimes, because you were the light he'd been chasing in the dark for years. Through the grind of seasons, the losses that stung, the pressure that never let up, you'd been his anchor. Your soul tethered to his in ways he couldn't explain, your kindness quiet and steady, like a hand on his back when the world pressed too heavy. You saw him, the real him, beyond the driver, beyond his career. He loved you for it. Fiercely. Maybe too fiercely. Maybe he was being overprotective, wrapping you up so tight because the thought of losing you to the same circus that had wrecked him before gutted him.

He leaned into a curve, the bike tilting low, wind whipping rain against his visor. But the speed wasn’t helping. It never did when the chaos was inside.

Eventually, he couldn’t ignore the pull anymore. He eased off the throttle, veering to the side of the coastal road where the guardrail overlooked the Mediterranean. The sea stretched out black and restless under the moon, waves crashing against rocks far below. He killed the engine, swung his leg over the seat, and tugged off his helmet. Rain hit his face immediately, cold and relentless, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He leaned against the bike, gloves still clutched in one hand, staring at the horizon like it held answers.

The argument replayed in his mind, every sharp word a fresh sting. Sure, he hadn’t asked what you wanted. That was on him. He'd panicked, jumped straight to damage control because that was what he did, tried to fix things before they broke. But you had no idea what it was like. The spotlight didn’t just shine; it burned. It exposed every flaw, turned private pain into public entertainment. His brain flickered back to those comments he'd scrolled through earlier. The mean ones. Vicious digs at your body, your worth, your place in his life. Calling you a fling. A distraction. They were disgusting. How dare anyone say things like that to his baby. The thought made his fists clench again. He couldn’t stand it, strangers spitting hate at the woman who made his world make sense. But he couldn’t stop it either. If he stayed silent, it festered. If he spoke up, it exploded. Internal conflict tore at him: protect you by hiding, or risk everything by claiming you out loud? Panic clawed up his throat quicker than he could force it down. What if this was the beginning of the end? What if his fear pushed you away for good?

He loved you so much it overwhelmed him sometimes, this fierce, aching thing in his chest. You were his peace. And tonight, he'd left you hurting because he couldn’t face the mess that simply being him caused.

Lewis stayed frozen to the spot, boots planted on the wet tarmac. The rain had eased to a fine mist now, clinging to his skin, soaking through the hoodie until it stuck cold to his back. He stared at the ocean, black and endless, waves rolling in with the same relentless rhythm they'd had for hours. The fear crept in slowly at first, then all at once, sharp and suffocating.

Fear of losing you.

Fear of what he'd already done.

Fear that this, the shouting, the slammed door, the way he'd walked out, was the crack that would finally split you both open. He pictured you back at the apartment: curled on the sofa in his T-shirt, phone face-down so you wouldn’t have to see more notifications, eyes red from crying. The image twisted deep in his chest and he suddenly felt nauseous. He'd promised himself, after everything, that he'd never be the reason someone he loved cried alone. Yet, here he was. He ran away, again.

He didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know what words would undo the damage. An apology felt too small. A statement from his team felt like surrendering. Going public felt like throwing you into the fire he'd been trying to keep you out of. Every option looked wrong. Every path looked like it ended in more hurt, for you, for him, for whatever fragile, beautiful thing you'd built.

He rubbed a hand over his face, water and salt smearing together. His mind kept circling back to your voice earlier, small and cracked: "You haven't even asked what I want."

You were right. He hadn’t. He was too stubborn to admit it at the time, too focused on protecting you.

He'd decided for both of you, like he always did when panic set in. Because asking meant admitting he didn’t have the answers. Meant trusting that whatever you chose, silence, a quiet post, going loud, he could live with the fallout. Meant believing you loved him enough to weather the storm with him, not despite him.

The thought made his throat close up again. Because what if you didn’t? What if the weight of his world was finally too much? What if you looked at him tomorrow, or next week, or next month, and decided you deserved easier? Someone who didn’t come with speculation and hiding and nights like this?

He let out a shaky breath, the sound lost to the wind. He loved you so much the fear of losing you felt like drowning. You weren’t  just his girlfriend. You were the person who made the world quiet. Who kissed the corner of his mouth when he came home exhausted and told him he was enough even when the car wasn’t fast enough, even when the results weren't there. Who laughed at his terrible dad jokes and stole his hoodies and made him feel like home wasn’t a place, it was you.

And he'd hurt you tonight. Badly. He stayed there until the sky began to change.

The black softened at the edges first, then bled into deep indigo. A thin line of pink appeared on the horizon, faint, hesitant, like it wasn’t sure it was allowed to show up after a night like this. The sea caught the first glimmer of light, silver threading through the dark water, turning restless waves into something almost gentle.

Lewis watched the sun rise slow and quiet, a thin golden edge breaking over the curve of the earth. His heart still hammered, but slower now. The anger had long since guttered out; what was left was quieter, guilt and love and a bone-deep ache for your forgiveness.

He still didn’t have the perfect words. Didn’t know the exact shape of what he'd say when he stepped back through that door. But one certainty cut through the fog like the first real light of morning: he wasn’t letting this be the end of you two. Not because of his fear. Not because of the noise he couldn’t control. Not because he'd been too stubborn, too scarred, too protective to let you choose. You were his light. His home. The love that tethered him when everything else spun too fast.

And he loved you enough to go back, to stand in front of you raw and sorry, and let you choose.

He straightened, swung his leg over the bike, pulled the helmet down. The engine caught with a low, familiar growl. The road back stretched ahead, wet and shining in the new light. He twisted the throttle and let the bike carry him toward you.

Lewis pushed open the apartment door just as the first real light of morning slipped through the windows, soft grey-pink, barely there at 6 a.m. The rain had stopped sometime in the night; the air inside still carried the faint damp chill of it. He stepped in quietly, helmet tucked under one arm, jacket already half-off his shoulders.

The sight of you stopped him cold.

You’d fallen asleep on the sofa, curled into the corner like you were trying to make yourself smaller. Phone still clutched loosely in your hand, screen dark now. Tear tracks dried on your cheeks, two faint silver paths that caught the low light and broke something inside him all over again. He could tell you hadn’t slept easy. You’d cried yourself out, waiting for him, and then exhaustion had finally taken you.

His heart ached at the sight. A lump rose thick in his throat, so sudden he almost choked on it. He stood there for a long second just looking at you. His beautiful, stubborn, kind girl, wrecked because of him. Because he’d walked out. Because he’d let fear win for one stupid night.

He slipped his shoes off without a sound, set the helmet down on the entry table. His jacket followed, dropped softly over the back of a chair. Then he crossed the room on socked feet, every step careful, like the floor might give way if he moved too fast.

He knelt beside the sofa, knees sinking into the rug. Close enough to feel the warmth still radiating off you under the throw you’d pulled up to your chin. His hand hovered for a moment, afraid to touch, afraid not to, then settled gently. Thumb brushing along your cheek, slow and reverent, tracing the dried tear tracks like he could erase them with the pad of his finger

“Baby…” His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Hey… hey, it’s me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused at first. Then recognition hit, and with it the hurt all over again. Your face crumpled. Fresh tears welled up fast, spilling over before you could stop them. A small, broken sound escaped your throat.

Lewis’s own eyes went glassy instantly. He cupped your face with both hands now, thumbs sweeping under your eyes, trying to catch the tears even as more fell.

“My beautiful girl,” he murmured, voice thick with everything he’d carried all night. “My sweet, beautiful girl… I’m so sorry. I’m here. I’m right here.”

You tried to speak, but the words came out shaky, fractured. “I didn’t know where you were… or what you were doing… and… and I just kept thinking—”

He shushed you gently, forehead pressing to yours, noses brushing. “I know. I know, baby. I shouldn’t have left. I should never have walked out like that. Never. I hate that I did. I hate that I left you here crying.”

You swallowed hard, still crying, still trying to listen through the ache. “You just… you just left. In the middle of everything. I thought—”

“I panicked,” he cut in softly, voice raw. “We were fighting and I hate when I talk to you like that. When you talk to me like that. It felt like we were tearing each other apart and I couldn’t—I couldn’t breathe in here. I needed to think. Needed to clear my head before I said something worse. But I should’ve stayed. Should’ve stayed and held you and let us figure it out together. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

His thumbs kept moving, gentle arcs across your cheeks. He leaned in closer, lips brushing your temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye. They were small, desperate kisses, like he was trying to pour every apology into your skin.

You stayed there on the sofa, his hands warm around your face even as fresh tears slipped free. Lewis didn’t move away. He stayed knelt in front of you, thumbs still brushing slow circles under your eyes like he could wipe away every hurt he’d caused.

You swallowed, trying to find your voice through the ache. “I just… I needed you here,” you said, quieter now. “When those comments started coming in, when I saw what they were saying, I felt so small. Like I didn’t belong in your world. And then you closed the door. You went in there and talked to them without me. It felt like… like I was already being pushed out. Like maybe I never really fit.”

Your lip trembled. “I’m not asking you to fight the whole internet. I’m not asking for a big declaration or to drag me into every photo. I just wanted to feel like we were on the same side. Like you trusted me enough to decide things with me. Not for me.”

Lewis listened. Really listened. His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy and red-rimmed, and when you finished he nodded slowly, like every word was sinking in deep.

“I know,” he whispered. His voice cracked on the first syllable, rough from the night and everything he’d held back. “I know I fucked up. I saw those comments and all I could think about was how they’d get worse if I said anything. How they’d turn you into a target. How they’d dig until they found every private thing we have and twist it. I’ve watched it happen, baby. And the thought of that happening to you—” His breath hitched. “It scared me so much I couldn’t think straight. I just wanted to make it stop. Fast. Before it touched you any more than it already had.”

He paused, swallowing hard. A single tear slipped free from the corner of his eye. “But you’re right. I didn’t ask you. I didn’t let you in. I shut the door and I shut you out. And that’s not protection. That’s me being scared and stupid and… and hurting the one person I never want to hurt.”

His voice broke again on the last word. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing for a second like the weight of it all was too much. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I love you more than anything in this world, and last night I made you feel like you weren’t even part of it. That’s on me. All of it.”

You were still upset, chest hitching with quiet sobs. You let him hold you there on the floor beside the sofa, his hands cradling your face like it was the only thing keeping him steady too, but the hurt lingered, stubborn and heavy. You could see it in him too: the way his shoulders stayed tense, the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his gaze flickered away for a second before returning to yours, like he was still bracing for another blow. The night had left marks on both of you.

You lifted a hand slowly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw. “I’m sorry about bringing up your past,” you whispered, voice small but steady. “That was a low blow. I didn’t mean to weaponise something you trusted me with. I was angry and scared and I wanted you to feel it too. That wasn’t fair.”

Lewis exhaled sharply, nodding. His eyes closed for a second, lashes wet. When he opened them again, the hurt was still there, raw and unguarded. “Yeah, that really hurt,” he admitted quietly. “More than I expected. Because I thought… I thought we were past that. Past me having to prove I’m different with you.” He swallowed, voice rougher now. “But I get it. I shut you out first. I gave you every reason to think the worst.”

You nodded, thumb tracing the faint crease at the corner of his mouth. “I was terrified we’d broken something that couldn’t be fixed. That one fight would be enough to undo everything we’ve built.”

He leaned his forehead against yours again, breath shaky, tears falling freely now, warm on your skin where they landed. “I was so scared we did,” he said, voice low and thick, cracking hard on the words. “I felt it the whole time I was gone. Kept thinking I’d come back and you’d be gone. That I’d lose you because I fucked up protecting you the wrong way.” His throat worked, another tear slipping down. “But I’m here. And I’m not leaving again. I promise, baby. I’m sorry.”

The admission hung between you, honest and heavy. You let your hand slide to the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into the damp ends of his braids.

“God, Lew,” you murmured, frowning. “You look exhausted.”

He let out a small, broken laugh, and leaned into your touch like he needed it to breathe. "Yeah. Didn't sleep. Obviously." His voice was rough, still raw from the night. "Just rode the bike. Stared at the sea. Panicked some more." His hand covered yours, guiding it to cup his cheek, pressing your palm there like he was grounding himself to you. "I kept seeing your face when I left. Kept hearing your voice crack. Couldn't shake it. Felt fucking awful once the anger burned out, baby."

You nodded, fresh tears slipping free, but they felt different now. Lighter. Like release instead of pain. The tight knot in your chest was finally loosening, breath by breath, with every gentle press of his fingers against your skin.

He shifted closer, knees pressing deeper into the rug, arms sliding around your waist. He pulled you gently forward until you were half in his lap, close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. "We're gonna figure this out," he said softly, voice steadier even though it still wavered at the edges. "Together. Whatever you want. No more deciding for you."

You let out a shaky breath and wrapped your arms around his neck in return. "Okay," you whispered. "Okay."

He stayed like that for a long moment, just holding you, breathing you in. His hands moved slowly up your back, warm and careful, like he was memorising the feel of you again. Then he slowly shifted, arms sliding under your knees and around your back. He lifted you off the sofa in one gentle motion, cradling you against his chest like you were something precious he'd almost lost.

You didn't protest. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. He carried you down the short hallway to the bedroom. The sheets were still tangled from yesterday morning; he laid you down without letting go, then followed, easing himself beside you. He pulled you close immediately, arms wrapping around you like he couldn't bear even an inch of space between your bodies. Your head settled on his chest, his chin resting against the top of your head, legs tangling naturally like they always did.

He exhaled a long, shaky breath against your hair, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other resting low on your back, fingers splayed wide like he needed to feel every part of you. "I'm so fucking tired," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion and something softer. "I know we need to talk, love. But my heads killing me. Need you right here." He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there, then another to your forehead. "Just stay close. Let me sleep with you wrapped up like this. Please."

You nodded against his collarbone, fingers smoothing over his stomach, holding on just as tight. "I'm not going anywhere," you whispered.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers then, eyes searching yours in the dim morning light. They were still red-rimmed, glassy, but softer now, full of a quiet, aching love he rarely let show this openly. Then he leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, soft lips lingering, unhurried, like he was pouring every apology and promise into it. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice cracked again, almost tearful.

"I love you," he whispered against your mouth. "So much. More than I know how to say sometimes."

Another kiss, softer this time, forehead resting against yours. "I love you," he repeated, quieter, like a vow he needed to hear himself say. "Always, beautiful."

You whispered it back, voice thick with emotion. "I love you too."

He settled then, pulling the duvet over both of you, tucking it around you with careful hands. One arm stayed locked around your waist, the other slid under your shoulders, holding you flush against him. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on your back, clingy in the gentlest way, like he needed the constant contact to believe you were really there. His breathing evened out within minutes, deep, steady, the kind of sleep that only comes after hours of no rest at all. You listened to his heartbeat under your ear, strong and sure, until your own eyes grew heavy, and sleep finally claimed you both.

Afternoon light slanted golden through the blinds when you woke again. The apartment smelled like fresh coffee and toast; Lewis had slipped out of bed earlier, quiet as always, and came back with two mugs and a plate of simple buttered toast he’d cut into triangles because he knew you liked it that way. He was propped against the headboard now, one arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, steady strokes over the fabric of his hoodie you’d pulled on.

He noticed you stir before you even opened your eyes. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep. “You good? Want more coffee? Or I can make tea if you’d rather.”

You shook your head, smiling a little, and reached for a piece of toast. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

He watched you take a bite, eyes soft, like seeing you eat was the most important thing in the room. “Eat slow. No rush.” He shifted slightly, turning his body more toward you so you were face-to-face, his hand sliding to your knee, thumb still moving in an absent, comforting rhythm. “Before we get into any of the things we need to talk about… tell me where your head’s at, baby. You still feeling okay? Or do you just want me to shut up and hold you for a bit?”

The question was so simple, so him. Direct, no pressure, waiting for you to set the pace.

You swallowed the bite of toast. “I just want to feel like we’re okay, to be honest.” Lewis nodded once, eyes locked on yours. “We’re okay,” he said quietly, voice low. “We got hurt. I hurt you. You hurt me. And yeah… it scared me.” He paused, hand tightening just a little on your knee. “I kept thinking about what it would feel like if you decided this was too much. If I lost you because I couldn’t figure out how to keep you safe without pushing you away. That fear… it’s still there. Right here.” He tapped his chest once, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the mere thought. “I don’t want to lose you more than I want to keep things private. And our privacy has already been ripped away. So whatever you need…whatever makes you feel good, safe, like you’re mine…I’m in. No hesitation.”

Your stomach flipped at the way he said it,  him laying it out like it was the most obvious thing in the world that you came first.

“I don’t want to hide forever,” you said. “It makes me feel like I’m temporary. Like I’m not worth claiming. But I don’t want to feed the circus either. Maybe something small? A quiet post from me, or from both of us. Just enough to say we’re real. No details. No explanations. Just the minimum we can give.”

He listened without interrupting, thumb still moving, eyes never leaving your face. When you finished, he was quiet for a second, thinking it through. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Small. On our terms. If it gets loud, we turn comments off. Block, mute, whatever it takes. We protect what’s ours.” His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “But only if that sits right with you. If you want to wait, or skip it, or do it differently… just say. I’m listening, love. I promise.”

You leaned into his palm, feeling the warmth of it, the faint calluses. “I think the small post is good. From us. Together.”

He smiled at that, eyes crinkling in the way that always made your heart stutter. “Okay. We’ll do it when you’re ready. No rush.” His arms slid around you again, pulling you closer until you were tucked against him properly, head under his chin.

You nodded and let yourself relax into him as his hand found yours under the duvet. His fingers laced through yours, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles like he was still reassuring himself you were both okay.

He squeezed your hand once, soft. “I love you,” he murmured against your hair. “More than anything. And I’m sorry I made you doubt that last night. Won’t happen again.”

You turned your face into his neck, breathing him in. “I love you too. And I believe you.”

He exhaled, long and slow, like a weight had finally lifted. Then he kissed your temple again, arms tightening, holding you like he never planned to let go.

The room was quiet for a while, the soft sound of your breathing syncing up and the distant hum of Monaco outside. Then he shifted slightly, nose brushing your hair as he murmured, “I bet you got bloody crumbs on the bed…”

You snorted, the sound muffled against his skin. You knew he hated eating in bed. Hated anyone eating in his bed. Crumbs in his sheets were his worst nightmare.

“You gave me the toast!” you shot back, laughing but still accusing.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours. “Yeah, I did. My bad.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Worth it, though. You needed it. And I needed to see you eat something.”

You smiled against his neck, the last of the tension melting out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you,” he said, voice soft again, almost serious. He pressed one more kiss to the top of your head, lingering there. “Always for you. Guess I'll have to change the sheets, hm?”

tags: @70srogertaylor @forzalewis44xo @mikaissance @jensonbuttonglazer10 @saintslewis @liveloungeharry @knowinglewis @thegirlinblackgreensilver @palefacestudentloves

Those hands. Broad, strong, veined from years of gripping wheels at forces that would shatter lesser men. Yet delicate in their details: the fine-line tattoos that danced across his skin like whispered secrets. The tiny rose on his right pinky, the ringed planet and moon on his ring finger, the playful spaceship on his pointer beaming up a figure. On the left, the tiger's fierce gaze, the star and bold 'A', the scripted 'live' on his pinky. When he moved them, the sacred geometry on the back of his hand unfolded. Interlocking circles, Metatron's cube in precise alchemy, while the other bore crossed swords guarding an all-seeing eye.

He poured oat milk into the coffee maker, fingers curling around the carton. The ink shifted subtly over knuckles and tendons as he measured grounds, the thin lines from the backs of his hands arrowing down his fingers like guides. His nails were immaculate, neatly shaped, clean in a way that spoke of care, of intention, of someone who paid attention to details others overlooked. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. You couldn't look away. The way his thumb brushed the spoon, the subtle flex when he twisted the lid, every motion was hypnotic, captivating your attention more than it should have. You knew those hands too well. The weight of them, the familiarity. You’d felt them linger at your throat, settle on your thighs, map you slowly under bedsheets. Watching them now, so careful and domestic, only made the memory sharper. It was impossible not to remember exactly what they were capable of, and how easily they could undo you.

He caught you staring, of course. That familiar knowing smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced over his shoulder. “You're doing it again, love.“

You bit your lip, not even pretending innocence. “Can't help it.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating through the sunlit kitchen. Turning fully, he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms so his hands were front and centre. His tattoos caught the light, delicate black lines stark against his warm glowing skin. You didn’t know where to look, truthfully. Eyes flickering to his biceps, his abs, his hands, the lean muscles disappearing into the waistband of his sweats. You were quickly overwhelmed with desire, and Lewis recognised it straight away. It was written all over your face. He raised an eyebrow, fond amusement seeping into his words. “Obsessed with my hands, aren't you, baby?”

Heat rose up your neck, but you slid off the stool instinctively at his tone, closing the small distance. “Maybe a little.”

“More than a little.” His voice was teasing, affectionate. The charismatic lilt he always used that made everything feel playful yet charged. He uncrossed his arms, extending one hand in invitation. You took it without hesitation, tracing his knuckles with your thumb, feeling the subtle lines of ink where the geometry met skin.

“They're just so... you,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the tiny rose on his pinky. “Everything you are, right here.”

His eyes softened, a thoughtful depth peeking through the playfulness. “They tell stories, yeah. But right now, they're just making coffee for my girl.”

You laughed softly, taking both his hands, holding them in front of you so you could see them better. When his hands joined, his pointers aligned perfectly: the spaceship and tiger forming “LOVE” across the gap. He noticed too and grinned, moving his hands together deliberately so the word completed itself. “See? Even they know how much I love you.”

The coffee maker gurgled to life behind him, but neither of you moved. You brought his hand to your lips, kissing each knuckle, tasting faint traces of the almond soap he loved. His gaze followed you with an intensity that made your stomach tighten, eyes dark, mouth parting as his tongue flicked out to wet his lips on instinct. You felt the shift in him before you saw it. The smallest hitch of breath, the subtle stillness as his body tensed slightly. He loved this part. The unspoken devotion. The way you took your time with him, as if there was nowhere else to be. It made him feel seen, cherished, undone. Worshipped without a single word needing to be said.

“Come here,” he said finally, voice a little rougher than before. He tugged you toward the living room, two mugs in his free hand, effortless as always. The sofa awaited, plush and oversized, overlooking the mountains outside.

He sank down first, placing the mugs on the coffee table, pulling you into his lap with ease. You straddled him, knees sinking into cushions on either side, your hands immediately going to his thighs for balance. But his hands settled on your thighs too. Palms splaying wide over bare skin (you'd stolen one of his old t-shirts and little else this morning), thumbs stroking lazy circles. That's where your eyes stayed. His fucking hands.

“Like this better?” he asked, smirking again as he squeezed his fingers around your thighs. “Gives you a proper view, yeah?”

You exhaled shakily, already embarrassingly needy, nodding. “Much better.”

His laugh was soft, fond. “You're so obsessed with my hands, baby. What is it? The tattoos? Or just knowing what they can do?” “Both,” you admitted, voice breathy. Your own hands covered his, guiding them higher on your thighs, feeling the warmth seep through. “The way they look when you're focused. Strong, but... gentle when you want to be.”

He hummed in approval, grip tightening just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. “Gentle, huh?” One hand slid up, thumb brushing the edge of your t-shirt, teasing your skin. “Been gentle with you all weekend. Making breakfast yesterday, carrying you to bed last night…”

You leaned in, lips grazing his jaw. “You were very gentle last night.“

“Was I?” His tone dipped into a playful challenge. “Think I recall you begging for more.”

More heat pooled low in your stomach. “Maybe.“

He cupped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. Dark, intense, but laced with the warmth that made him your Lewis. “Tell me what you want this morning, then. Since you're staring like you haven't seen them in years.” You swallowed, already struggling to form cohesive thoughts. “Want them on me. All over. Please.”

Lewis's smirk deepened. “My greedy little thing.” But he obliged, both hands roaming now. Up your thighs, under the tee, tracing your hips and waist with deliberate slowness. His eyes were glued to your face, drinking in every single reaction your body was giving him. The silence stretched for a minute or two, just your laboured breathing, his steady hands tracing your skin. He leaned forward, brushing kisses along your jaw, up to your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Remember that time in Monaco,” he murmured, fingers dancing along your inner thigh, “when you couldn't keep your eyes off them during dinner?”

“You were doing it on purpose,” you accused, gasping as his thumb grazed higher. “Flexing every time you reached for your glass.” “Guilty.” He nipped your earlobe. “Knew it'd drive you mad. Ended up fucking you in the bathroom, didn't I? My hand over your mouth so no one heard.”

You moaned softly at the memory, rocking against him. He was hard beneath you now, joggers doing little to hide it. “Lewis…” “What, baby?” His tone was innocent, but his eyes gleamed. They were even darker now, heated, the charismatic sparkle that was always there turning wicked. His hands kept moving, fingertips grazing your waist, ribs, until he pulled away from under your t-shirt to soothe his thumb along the pulse point of your neck. Up, again, over your jaw, your cheek. Then, he traced your lower lip, pressing just enough to part them slightly. “Open,” he commanded gently. 

You did, without question, lips yielding softly under his touch. He slid two fingers inside, pointer and middle, giving you time to adjust to the warm, thick intrusion. Your tongue swirled around them instinctively, tasting heated skin and the faint, lingering bitterness of coffee grounds. A soft, involuntary hum escaped you, vibrating around him.

His breath grew ragged almost immediately, chest rising sharper as he watched with hooded eyes, his gorgeous face softening in raw fascination. His jaw slackened slightly, full lips parting as if echoing the way yours stretched around his fingers. He was silently mirroring your moan before it even fully formed, like he was already lost in the sensation with you.

“Good girl,” he praised, voice gravelly and low, affection threading through the heat. “Suck. Show me how obsessed you are.”

You did, hollowing your cheeks with devotion, bobbing shallowly as he pressed deeper. His fingers continued the gentle thrusts that coaxed more saliva, making his fine-line tattoos glisten under the morning light. His free hand gripped your hip tighter, fingers digging in harder. But he couldn't stay still; his hips rolled upward in slow, needy grinds against you, seeking friction through the thin barriers of fabric, a quiet desperation building as your grinding matched his rhythm.

“Fuck,” he groaned softly, the sound rumbling deep from his chest, eyes fluttering half-shut as another involuntary thrust lifted you slightly. His jaw went slacker still, mouth opening on a silent gasp. He looked so beautifully undone, his skin glowing with heat and need. “Look at you. Taking my fingers like that... just like you do with my cock. Take everything I give you so well, don’t you baby?”

You whimpered around him again, the vibration around his fingers drawing a sharper moan from his lips. It was low and throaty, syncing with yours as his hips ground up again, harder this time, chasing the pressure of your body against his growing hardness. Eyes watering slightly from the depth, you took him deeper, tongue pressing flat along the undersides.

He flexed his fingers inside your mouth, curling just a bit. Teasing, mimicking what he could do elsewhere, the motion pulled another groan from him. His free hand moved to knead your ass encouragingly, thumb stroking soothing circles even as his body tensed with need.

“That's it,” he coaxed, loving even in filth, voice husky with praise as his hips rolled once more, grinding up in a slow, deliberate circle that made you both exhale in unison. “Get them nice and wet for me, baby.”

When he finally withdrew, slowly and reluctantly, thick strings of saliva connected you still. His eyes were darker now, jaw still softly slack from the echoes of pleasure, but he didn't waste time. His slick fingers dove under your panties immediately, finding you soaked and desperate. One circled your clit teasingly at first, brushing sensitive nerves with feather-light precision, while the other slid inside. Slow, thick, curling perfectly against the spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

You cried out, head falling to his shoulder, body arching into his touch. “Lewis—”

“Shh, I've got you, baby.” His voice was soft and steady, a gentle anchor even as his fingers pumped steadily, building rhythm with exquisite care. He was cherishing every small sound you made, leaving gentle kisses anywhere he could reach. “Feel that? My hands know you better than anything.”

He added the second finger then, stretching you with a slow twist, scissoring gently before curling both in perfect unison. His thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles, the pressure building sharp and sweet. His grip on your ass hardened, grounding you as pleasure coiled hot and urgent in your core. His touch firm yet so tenderly attentive, every flex of his fingers designed to unravel you beautifully.

“Tell me how good it feels,” he murmured against your neck, lips brushing your skin in soft, open-mouthed kisses. His hips shifted restlessly beneath you still, grinding up in subtle waves, moans humming low against your throat as your walls fluttered around his fingers.

“So good,” you gasped, clenching deliberately around his fingers, nails digging into his shoulders. “Your fingers—fuck, always feel so good—”

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you as he sped up just enough. Precise, controlled curls of his fingers that hit every sensitive inch. “Come on, baby. Let go for me. Want to feel you come around my hand.”

It hit like a wave, crashing hard and all-consuming. You came with a muffled cry against his skin, body shuddering in deep, pulsing waves as he worked you through it. He was gentle now, slowing to draw out every aftershock with soft curls and soothing circles, murmuring praises against your ear until you sagged, boneless, in his arms.

He held you through the haze, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, palm splayed wide over the small of your back as your breaths mingled in the quiet. But even as you trembled with lingering sparks, his own need thrummed evident beneath you, hard and insistent against your thigh. He was throbbing now, twitching every few seconds. He didn't rush, though. He never rushed you. Instead, he shifted carefully, one hand sliding down to join the other, lifting you just enough to shove his sweatpants lower with an impatient tug.

Freed at last, he wrapped one inked hand around himself. He moaned as he moved. Slow, deliberate strokes from base to tip, the fine lines of his tattoos shifting over his veined length as he slicked himself with the remnants of your release still coating his fingers. His breath hitched, a low, reverent groan rumbled from his chest as he watched you: eyes hooded, dark, utterly captivated by the fading pleasure on your face, the parting of your lips as you gasped for breath, the way your body still quivered in his hold.

"You're so beautiful when you come," he murmured, voice rough with desire, thumb swiping over his tip in a teasing pass that made his hips twitch. His free arm kept you cradled close, fingers tracing lazy, possessive patterns along your spine. "Look what you do to me, baby... fuck, just watching you fall apart like that—"

His gaze roamed your face like he was memorising it, obsessed, in love, the adoring warmth laced with a raw aching hunger that had you ready to go again in seconds. Another few strokes, firmer now, and again until he was glistening at the tip. He exhaled shakily, jaw tightening then softening again in the most beautiful way, like your pleasure alone had nearly undone him.

"Need you now," he moaned, breathless, guiding you with both hands until you hovered over him, hard, thick, ready.

You nodded frantically, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion. He filled you completely, stretching you in the sensitive aftermath of his fingers, a shared gasp escaping as you seated yourself fully. His hands gripped your ass instantly, fingers digging in just enough to guide you, pulling you up and down in a slow, testing rhythm.

“Fuck, you're so perfect,” he groaned, head tipping back against the sofa for a moment. But his eyes stayed on you, intense, loving, drinking in every shift of your expression. “Ride me just like that.”

You did, hands on his shoulders for leverage, chasing friction. His thumbs dug into your hips, pressing a blooming mark. Everything dissolved into moans and praises, his voice a low, encouraging rumble.

“Beautiful,” he groaned, one hand sliding up to cradle your breast, pinching your nipple through the thin fabric of the t-shirt with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, drawing it to a stiff peak before soothing with a gentle stroke. “All mine, baby. All mine.”

The build was relentless. You rolled your hips in slow, grinding circles at first, savouring the drag of him deep inside, the way he stretched you perfectly, filling every inch until you felt impossibly full. His hands were everywhere. That was what you loved the most. Shifting from your ass to gripping your thighs with bruising strength; sliding up your waist to steady you; one tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back so he could watch your face unravel.

He thrust up to meet you, sharp and deep, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. A low moan escaped him. Deep, guttural, vibrating through where you were joined. “Fuck, baby... just like that,” he groaned, voice roughening as you clenched around him. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and intense, even as pleasure tightened his features.

You sped up, bouncing now, the friction building hot and urgent with every downwards slide. His length hit the perfect spot inside you relentlessly, slick sounds filling the air. Wet, obscene, mingled with your breathless whimpers and his escalating moans. His sounds always started controlled, soft exhales turning to husky growls. “Mmm, yeah... always feel so good around me,” murmured against your collarbone as he leaned forward to mouth at your neck.

But as you ground harder, taking him deeper, his composure frayed. A sharper thrust upward drew a ragged moan from him. “Ah, shit...” his hips bucked involuntarily, his hands clamped tighter on your ass, spreading you wider for him. Sweat glistened on his chest, making the subtle tattoos there catch the golden light. But it was his hands you focused on: veins standing out, ink shifting as he guided you faster, harder.

“God, you’re so tight,” he moaned, voice breaking on the words, deeper now, almost pleading. His thumb found your clit again, circling with his usual precision, while his other hand pinned your hip, controlling the pace even as he lost himself. Another moan tore from him, long and low, as you clenched deliberately again. “Fuck—do that again, love...”

You did, rolling your hips in a way that made his eyes flutter shut for a moment, a deep, throaty “Oh, fuck yes” escaping him, raw and unfiltered. His breaths came faster, moans spilling freely now. Gravelly, desperate, building with yours as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably.

“Come with me baby,” he commanded softly, but his voice cracked on the words, laced with urgency. His fingers worked your clit relentlessly, until you were gasping for air, the intense pleasure making you see white.

You shattered first, crying out his name as waves crashed through you, walls pulsing around him in tight, milking spasms. The sensation dragged him over the edge quickly. His hips jerked up hard, burying himself deep as he came with a series of broken moans: a deep, drawn out “Fuuuck...” followed by your name, his release pulsing inside you in thick waves.

He held you close through it, arms wrapping around your back, stroking soothing paths over your trembling body as aftershocks rippled through you both. His chest heaved beneath you, breaths ragged, a final soft moan humming against your hair as he pressed kisses there.

After, he didn't let go. He stroked your back tenderly, tracing lazy patterns over your spine. The ink on his chest was sweat-damp now, tattoos softened in the afterglow. You nestled into him, listening to his heartbeat slow as you kissed gently over the delicate lines. “Still obsessed with my hands?” he teased gently, still catching his breath as he kissed your temple.

“Always,” you whispered, completely spent.

He smiled against your hair. A real, warm, gentle smile reserved for quiet moments like this. Reserved for you. “Good. Because they're yours, baby. Every story, every line. Everything I do. For you.”

tags (lmk if u want to be added to my general one-shot taglist): @70srogertaylor @forzalewis44xo @mikaissance @jensonbuttonglazer10 @saintslewis @liveloungeharry @knowinglewis @thegirlinblackgreensilver @butterflykey @dewylewis44 <3

You hadn’t expected anything tonight.

Not anymore.

The Uber ride home blurred past with streaks of colourful city lights painting the tinted windows. One of your high heels had already been kicked off, resting sideways on the leather seat beside your thigh, and your perfume still clung faintly to your skin, mixing with the warm vanilla of your body lotion. The hem of your dress stuck stubbornly to your thighs, where sweat and glitter mingled in the shallow hollows of your skin, and your phone buzzed twice in your hand. You didn’t look though, there was no point.

Lewis wasn’t coming.

You’d known the moment his voice crackled through the phone two nights ago, across continents and time zones, worn thin by guilt. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I tried everything.”

You were curled under the covers then, face pressed to the pillow he always used when he was home, bare legs warmed in sheets that still smelled like him. You could picture him too clearly, with his hoodie tugged over his head, palm pressed to his mouth as he paced the hotel room floor, the crease between his brows deepening with every word.

“I just wanted to be there to celebrate you. I hate that I can’t be there.”

“I know,” you whispered back, brushing a thumb along the stitched seam of the pillowcase like it might hold you together. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, but you said it anyway. You knew what his life was like, you always had. You knew what you’d signed up for the moment you’d said yes to the first date.

“I was gonna bring those chocolates you like,” he added, his smooth voice dipping lower. “And that cake. The one with the little strawberries on top, remember?”

Your breath caught, blinking away the sting in your eyes, the softest smile pulling at your lips. He’d remembered it.

“It’s fine, baby. I understand,” you replied, keeping your voice light. “I’ll be out with the girls anyway. They’ve got something ridiculous planned.”

He smiled at that, you could hear it in the gentle lift in his tone. “Good, let them spoil you. Have a few drinks or something, you can use my card for the whole tab. Then, when I'm home, I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

He meant it, and so did you when you’d said it was okay, but the truth was, you would’ve traded every bar, every bottle pop, every shout of “birthday girl!” just to have him barefoot in your kitchen, icing cake with those stupidly expensive rings still on his fingers.

You tried not to dwell on it though. You tried to lose yourself in the chaos of blasting music, perfume in the air, and lip liners passed between clutch bags. You’d been halfway into a drink when your best friend leaned halfway out the car window, hair flying, voice tearing through the air as she screamed.

“IT’S MY BEST FRIEND’S BIRTHDAY, BITCHES!”

You’d squealed, curling in on yourself, laughing so hard you’d nearly cried as strangers on the footpath turned to stare. For a moment, it felt like enough, as though the ache in your chest might stay quiet for the night.

Now though…

It was late, quiet. A silence that only exists in the hour after the night has died, but before the morning begins. You tiptoed barefoot down the hallway of your apartment building, your heels swinging from one hand, your bag loose in the other.

Your dress, once crisp and perfect, was now creased at the hips, askew at the shoulders. Your throat felt dry, your makeup still clung to your cheekbones, but your eyelashes felt heavy, as if they were also tired of pretending tonight.

There was a hollowness to your steps, a strange, numb feeling, as though the day had happened, but you had hardly touched it. It had passed through you without leaving anything behind.

You paused at your door, fumbling in your bag for your keys. They clinked gently, your knuckles brushing the paint of the doorframe as you leaned in. You were tired, ready to wash away the night and let it melt into the dark.

You slid the key into the lock, still not expecting anything.

You stepped inside slowly, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft thud, and the quiet swallowed you whole. There were no shoes by the mat, no TV playing in the background, no keys in the tray. The emptiness you’d been expecting to return home to.

Except…not quite. There was a familiar scent in the air.

It was sweet and familiar, like candle wax, vanilla, maybe a trace of woodsmoke. The air felt warm, as though the space had been waiting for you. You took one slow step forward, then another, your fingers still wrapped around the strap of your bag like you needed something to ground you.

Your bare feet brushed the edge of the rug as you walked through the apartment. Then, your eyes landed on it, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Your apartment had been transformed. Every surface glowed, bathed in the amber flicker of candlelight. Tea lights lined the kitchen counter and danced along the edge of the dining table. Tall pillar candles flickered gently on the window ledge, their golden glow spilling onto the glass like moonlight melting across the surface. Shadows stretched and swayed with each flame, wrapping the space in a warmth that felt beautiful and cozy.

Music played softly from the speaker in the corner, a soft tune with warm vocals flowing around the room. Your heart ached with a sweetness you hadn’t been prepared for.

There was a cake on the table, perfectly iced, with piped cream swirls and sugared strawberries nestled along the top. It was a cake you’d mentioned once, offhandedly, in a memory about childhood birthdays. It looked just like the one you’d described. Small, round, and beautiful.

Next to it were wrapped boxes, stacked like steps on a staircase, each one perfectly tied with silk ribbon. Some big, some tiny, the paper smooth and pearlescent under the candlelight. They weren’t arranged for show, they’d been placed with intention, as if someone had taken their time to choose them, to think about what each one meant. You didn’t know what was inside, but your heart was already fluttering in your chest.

At the very top of the stack sat an envelope with your name inked across the front in his handwriting. Your fingers hovered above the envelope, trembling slightly. The edge of your nail caught the corner of the paper, but you didn’t lift it yet. Your throat was too tight, your breath coming in shallow, fluttering pulls, like your body couldn’t keep up with the moment. You felt full to the brim and hollow all at once, as if you were about to spill open.

However, before you could touch the card, before you could even exhale properly, you heard him.

“Baby.”

The voice behind you was low and warm, as if he hadn’t just arrived, but had been standing there for a while, waiting for you to see him.

You froze at the sound. Your breath caught in your throat, and the air around you shifted. The ribbon on the gift pile fluttered faintly in the draft. Tears sprang to your eyes before you could stop them as you turned slowly.

There he was. Home.

Lewis stood in the doorway to the hallway, dressed in soft grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the thick fabric clinging in all the right places. A fitted white shirt hugged his chest, the short sleeves sitting high enough to reveal the curve of his biceps, tattoos inked into golden skin that caught the candlelight like a work of art. His braids were tied back in a loose bun, a couple of them spilling down around his temples like they’d slipped free just to soften him.

It was his eyes though that made your heart race. Those deep brown eyes, lit with that quiet, disarming softness that only ever appeared when he looked at you like this, as though everything he’d been chasing, everything he’d missed, was standing right here in front of him.

Your lips parted on a shaky breath, but your body was faster than your voice. You rushed to him with no hesitation, with only the sound of your heart pounding in your ears and the rustle of your dress as you moved.

He caught you effortlessly like he always did, arms locking around your waist, pulling you tightly against him. You crashed into the solid heat of his chest, your face burying in the familiar scent of him, that woody spice in the faint trace of his cologne still lingering on his shirt. Your hands grasped into the cotton as if you were trying to prove to yourself that this was real.

His grip didn’t falter as he pressed his lips to your temple, and you trembled in his arms.

“I thought…” you breathed, the words catching as the tears slipped silently down your cheeks, “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmured, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles along your spine. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You pulled back to look at him, your eyes glassy, and your cheeks wet, your lips parted as if your heart was still searching for the words.

He looked at you as though you were made of starlight, like he was afraid to blink and miss the way your eyelashes sparkled with unshed emotion. 

Your lips wobbled into a small, shaky smile, before you leaned forward and pressed your mouth to his, overwhelmed and grateful. As though every minute without him had been building to this one moment of weightless, perfect quiet. Your fingers gripped his shirt, needing to be closer to him and keep him right there with you so he could never leave again. 

His hands slid up, cupping your face delicately, thumbs brushing tenderly beneath your eyes as his lips melted onto yours, moving in slow, needy sweeps and breathing you in.

Lewis kissed you like he’d crossed oceans just for this, and in a way, he had. Everything about him, the way he smelled, the familiar way he held you, the warmth of his skin and the solid press of his body, it all felt like home. Love in its purest form. A love that waits, a love that stays.

When you finally broke apart, breaths mingling, you whispered, “I missed you.”

His forehead pressed to yours, his voice was barely a murmur. “Happy birthday, my love.”

His hands stayed on you, one arm low around your waist, while the other still cupped your face as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go too soon. His thumb brushed your cheekbone in a gentle sweep.

You sniffed once, smiling up at him, your fingers reaching for the back of his wrist and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Thank you, baby,” you replied, your voice soft as you leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time.

When you moved back slightly to look at him, his lips were curved into that tender smile that always made your ribcage feel too small for the way your heart swelled at the sight of him, the dimple on his cheek revealing itself.

“I know you just got home.” He tapped his thumb lightly against your jaw, eyes tracing every line of your face like you were a work of art. “But…are you hungry?”

You breathed a tiny laugh, still pressed so close you could feel each word against your skin.

“A little, yeah.”

“Good.” He grinned, relief and affection threading through every syllable. “Because I’m starving.”

You blinked up at him, stomach flipping at the way he said it, as though he meant more than just food, like he’d been hungry for you too.

His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“I’ve got something ready for us, so why don’t you go put that dress on for me?” His voice dipped, almost playful, almost shy. 

Your breath caught at his words. That dress. The one hanging in the garment bag at the back of your closet, a dress you’d bought specifically for tonight, imagining his reaction, imagining his hands on your waist, imagining the way he’d look at you.

The dress you thought you wouldn’t get to wear because he wasn’t coming home. Your chest squeezed tight, a soft ache of sweetness spreading behind your ribs.

“You remembered,” you said quietly, your eyes warm.

“Of course I did.” He smoothed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, fingers tracing the shell of it delicately. “You bought it for your special day.”

“Okay,” you whispered, the word barely forming before you leaned in and pressed a final, slow, loving kiss to his mouth, your palm cradling his jaw, your thumb brushing the soft hairs of his beard.

He hummed against your lips, a low, content little sound that made everything inside you melt. 

Then you pulled away, still smiling like your heart was spilling over. “I’ll be right back.”

His eyes lingered on you as you stepped backwards, and you felt his gaze on your skin all the way down the hallway.

The bedroom lights were dimmed, a faint colourful pour of the city streetlights slipping through the curtains. The dress hung where you’d left it, the fabric catching a subtle flash of reflected light as you ran your fingers over the shape.

Your pulse was already fluttering in excitement, but your eyes drifted lower to the shopping bag tucked beside the dresser. In the bag, folded carefully, was a delicate, silky lingerie set that you’d bought impulsively, secretly, because you wanted tonight to feel special. You wanted yourself to feel extra pretty for him, especially when you knew he was going to make you feel like the only woman in the world tonight, as he often did. You hadn’t expected to wear it though, you thought it would sit in the drawer until next year.

But now, he was here, and your heart was racing in your chest like it had just remembered what hope felt like.

You slipped the garment bag from its hanger, laying the dress across the bed with a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the bag, pulling aside the tissue paper until the lingerie revealed itself. Soft lace, tiny satin bows, sheer in places that made your breath hitch.

Your reflection in the mirror looked almost shy, yet giddy inside. You stepped out of your clothes slowly, letting the moment feel real, letting the anticipation stir in your belly. The first brush of lace against your skin made your knees soften. The fabric hugged your hips perfectly, delicate, yet sexy at the same time. The bra lifted you just right, framing your chest in a way that made your lips part softly as you adjusted the straps.

You smoothed your hands down your sides, inhaling a shaky breath as you saw the full picture in the mirror, the lingerie, the glow of candles lingering from the hallway, the soft glow in your cheeks.

Lewis would lose his mind, and the thought of it sent a shiver straight through your spine. With your heart pounding, you slipped the dress over your head, the satin whispering down your body like a secret only you and the fabric shared.

It skimmed your curves, and hugged your waist, settling over your hips perfectly to enhance the curve of your backside. You touched the mirror once more, fingertips against your reflection as if you were preparing yourself, then reached for your perfume, misting your neck and wrists.

Your pulse fluttered beneath the scent. You weren’t just getting ready, you were walking back to your love. To your birthday surprise, and to the man who’d somehow turned one disappointing night into something magical already.

You took one last breath, then turned toward the hallway, ready to show him.

The hallway lights were low enough to guide your steps, while the rest of the apartment glowed, lit by scattered candles and the dim shimmer of dusk melting against the windows. Warmth spilled out from the open balcony doors ahead, a flicker of lantern light brushing the floors like the moonlight had come to greet you.

You smoothed your palms down the fabric of your dress, your heart thudding in your ears as you stepped into the glow of the living room.

You felt the air shift the second Lewis laid his eyes on you, as though an invisible thread had tugged tightly between you. His eyes sparkled as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was real.

His full lips parted, breath catching faintly as his gaze dragged down the length of your figure, from the delicate straps on your shoulders, to the way the fabric kissed your waist, clinging just right over the curve of your hips.

You watched the muscles in his jaw flex, saw the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to touch you already.

“Damn…” His voice was rough and a little breathless, scraping the edge of awe. His mouth curved into a grin, before his teeth pulled at his lower lip. “Are we sure it’s not my birthday?”

His words pulled a breath of laughter from you, light and a little shaky as you moved toward him, drawn in like a tide. One hand found your waist as soon as you were close enough, the other sliding down your arm to catch your own hand. 

Lewis lifted your hand above your head, his fingers tightening as he moved it. “Turn for me.”

You twirled, slowly, letting him guide you, the hem of your dress whispering around your thighs. You felt the breeze kiss your legs as you turned, the coolness of the fabric brushing your skin, the secret of your lingerie hugging close beneath it all.

When you faced him again, he was shaking his head, his eyes drinking in every inch as though he was trying to burn you into his memory.

“You’re…so beautiful,” he exhaled, almost like it hurt, his throat working as he swallowed.

Your cheeks warmed at the way he was looking at you, and you reached for him without thinking, letting your hands settle over his chest. His heart was beating rapidly under your palms. You leaned forward and met your lips to his, and he responded immediately, pressing back against your mouth, then slower, deeper, until the world around you blurred away.

His hand found your jaw, thumb stroking gently along your cheek. You leaned into the touch instinctively, mouth still brushing his, your whole body warm with love.

“Come on,” he murmured against your lips. “Let’s celebrate first, before I take this dress off you.”

You let him lead you barefoot across the wood of the living room floor, past the flickering candles that lined the hallway, their golden flames swaying gently in the cross-breeze. The curtains at the far end of the room danced like they knew a secret, the evening air curled soft and cool against your skin as he pulled the balcony doors open.

Your breath left you in one slow, quiet exhale when you saw it. 

The balcony was glowing, tiny lights strung with gold wire and low-hanging promises shimmered above your heads like suspended fireflies. They flickered against the darkening sky, casting a warm, buttery glow over everything. At the center was a small round table, draped in pale linen, candlelight flickering low in a golden glass. Two chairs were placed at the table, one pulled out slightly, for you, and the other draped in the jacket you’d been stealing lately.

The scent of garlic and basil, along with a sweet, rich, spice floated through the air like it had been waiting for you to notice it. You stepped forward slowly, as if in a dream, and let your eyes trace the scene.

The spread was like something out of a dream. The pasta from your favorite trattoria in Rome, the one you’d raved about for weeks after your trip, plated in delicate ceramic. A fresh salad with jewel-colored tomatoes, cucumber ribbons, and that exact vinaigrette you used to order every Thursday from the café tucked behind your old apartment. Fresh beignets with a dusting of powdered sugar clinging to their paper wrap like snow, along with your favorite drink, chilled to perfection, condensation gliding slowly down the glass like it had been poured just before you walked in.

There were little handwritten labels tucked beside each plate, tiny hearts drawn next to the ones he knew were your favorites. Some of the letters tilted sideways, charmingly uneven, a familiar sign of his handwriting, and the effort in every stroke made your heart swell.

You blinked hard, trying to speak, to thank him, to comment on the perfection of the setup, but your throat burned with the effort.

Lewis stepped in behind you, arms sliding around your waist and tugging you back into his strong chest. He buried his face into your neck and pressed a light kiss to your skin, breathing in quietly as though you were the one who steadied him.

“I didn’t know if I’d make it in time, but I had to try,” he spoke softly against your skin, the low rasp of his voice running right down your spine.

You turned in his arms slowly to look at him. There was a softness in his face that made your knees weakened, all tender and boyish, as if he wasn’t just proud of what he’d done, but hopeful that you’d feel his love through his actions.

You reached up and touched his face gently, your thumbs brushing down his cheeks and around the shape of his neatly trimmed facial hair. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, like he needed the contact, the tension in his shoulders relaxing at your touch.

You couldn’t help yourself, so you kissed him again, grateful and trembling with how much you loved him. It tasted like every emotion you hadn’t spoken out loud.

“It’s perfect, baby,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady as you pressed your mouth to his once more, where you felt his lips stretch into a proud smile.

Then, he placed a kiss on your forehead, lingering there quietly, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Only the sound of distant traffic below, the soft rustle of leaves, and the glow of a birthday built by someone who knew you better than anyone ever had.

Soon after, you’d taken your seat and began enjoying your meal. You hadn’t even realised how hungry you were until the first bite.

The pasta was warm and rich, clinging to the fork as you spun it through, the flavor so familiar it tugged at the sweet memories in your chest. You moaned quietly around it, a sound that made Lewis glance over with the faintest smirk, as though he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

He reached for his own plate, twirling the pasta slowly, eyes still on you even as he took a bite,  like watching you enjoy it fed him just as much. The candle between you danced with the breeze, throwing golden light across his jaw, and all you could do was look at him. He was so soft in this moment, so handsome it made your chest ache at the sight of him.

You slipped a piece of garlic bread toward his mouth without thinking, and he leaned in to take it, lips brushing your fingers as he hummed in approval. The casual intimacy of it made your skin flush, your pulse skipping with the warmth under your skin.

He asked gently about your day, about the girls, the lunch you’d gone to, your best friend who had leaned out the window and screamed at a row of confused tourists about how good they looked. You laughed telling him about it, cheeks still warm from the memory, and he smiled through sips of his drink, head tilted as he listened intently, the look in his eyes making you feel as though you were the only person in the world.

He told you about the flight, how he barely made the takeoff, how his team had tried to convince him to postpone, but the second he saw your birthday marked on his calendar again, he knew. There was never any question, he had to be here.

The conversation drifted like a slow current, from memories of the past year to dreams for the one ahead. You spoke of things you wanted to do, places you’d like to go. He nodded along, absorbing every word, taking mental notes of which destinations to research for your next anniversary, eyes never straying far from yours.

At one point, he reached across the table to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing a little too slow along your jaw. You leaned into his touch, leaving a light kiss on his palm.

The food disappeared between you, bite by bite, passed back and forth with affection. The beignets followed, pulled apart with sugar-coated fingers and soft, sticky laughter, a powdered smudge at the corner of your lip that he leaned forward to kiss away. You melted into him then, your heart tight with how full you felt, not just from the food, but from his love.

At one point, without quite realising when, you rose from your seat and eased yourself onto his lap like you belonged there, which you did, you always had. You laid your arm long his broad shoulders, thumbing along the ends of his braids, while the other rested on his chest, occasionally rubbing up to his neck.

Lewis welcomed you instantly. One arm curved around your waist, the other resting across your thigh, his hand brushing over the bare skin where your dress had ridden up. You kissed him slowly between words, tasting the leftover sugar on his lips.

The conversation eventually dwindled to soft touches and shared glances.

His thumb traced small shapes against your hip through the fabric of your dress, your fingers threading into his braids above the nape of his neck. You rested your forehead against his and breathed him in, your entire body melting into the quiet joy of the moment. Of him, of all the ways he kept showing up for you, with intention, with love, with more thoughtfulness than your heart sometimes knew what to do with.

He whispered soft words about how beautiful you looked, how much he’d missed you, how lucky he felt, how every birthday with you made him believe more in the timing of things. You blinked away the glassiness in your eyes, a small lump forming in your throat from the adoration in his words.

Eventually, the plates were cleared, your glasses half-full, and your body warm and relaxed with love.

You didn’t want to move, you didn’t want to break the spell of being tucked into his lap, cheek resting on his shoulder while the night settled around you, but then his hand slid beneath your thighs, and you raised your head again to look at him.

"Time for your cake," he announced with a little smile, his thumb brushing the inside of your knee. "Let’s do it properly, yeah?"

Before you could rise, he slipped one arm beneath your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly into the air. You let out a tiny squeak of surprise, fingers clutching at his shirt as he carried you back inside bridal style, like something out of a movie. You felt the soft cotton of his hoodie under your palms, the low thud of his heart close to your own, and smiled into the curve of his neck.

The apartment was still warm and golden, every candle still flickering where he’d placed them, the soft scent of vanilla and spice lingering in the air. He set you down carefully near the kitchen nook, where the cake was waiting.

It was beautiful up close. Round, frosted in soft swirls of cream and delicate blush pink, with sugared strawberries nestled gently around the edges, some whole, others sliced enough to show their jewel-toned insides. Candles, with the exact number of your age, were perched delicately on top, unlit for now, their little wicks waiting patiently.

You reached out to touch Lewis’ back gently as he leaned forward and picked up the lighter. He struck the flame with care, shielding it from the air as he moved from the first candle to the second, a slow glow catching on each one until the cake shimmered in warm light.

When he turned, setting the lighter aside, his hand found your cheek without hesitation. He cradled your face like he always did when words fell short, as though he wanted to make sure you felt everything, even the things he couldn’t say.

His lips met yours again delicately, lingering long enough to slow time and suspend you in this moment for just a bit longer. When he pulled back, his sparkling brown eyes searched yours, and he began to sing softly.

His voice was smooth and quiet in the candlelight, brushing over the words like a lullaby. His gaze didn’t waver once. Every line was for you, every note wrapped around your heart and pressed under your skin with affection. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he sang the last notes of the birthday song.

"Make a wish, baby," he whispered once he’d finished, gesturing towards your lit candles that had begun to melt.

The candles flickered between you, glowing and flickering softly, but the real light was in front of you. In his eyes, the way he watched you, like you were the moon and the stars themselves.

You didn’t need to wish. He was the wish. The love of your life, the man who knew your heart better than anyone, the one who always showed up. Who chose you, again and again, across time zones and any distance in the world. He was right here, loving you, on your birthday.

Your pulse stuttered, chest too full of love to speak, so you just smiled through it, cheeks damp with a couple of stray tears, and closed your eyes.

Then, you blew the candles out, and smoke floated into the air, disappearing lightly into the breeze coming from the window, and Lewis leaned in to kiss your temple, his hand still resting tenderly at your waist.

You cut the first slice carefully, just like you were told to, the knife he handed you gliding through soft sponge and thick swirls of cream, the ripe strawberries on top shifting slightly as the slice tilted onto the plate. You could feel Lewis’s gaze on you the whole time, buzzing with pride.

“Fuck, you’re so cute,” he grinned, lifting his phone. “Wait, hold it like that for me.”

You glanced over your shoulder, laughing as he snapped a picture of you mid-slice, still barefoot in your birthday dress, the golden candlelight catching the shine of your lips and the crinkle of joy in your eyes.

“I’m saving this. That’s all mine,” he added, lowering his phone, beaming at the photo.

You shook your head fondly and plated the slice with careful hands, then turned and held it out toward him, fork in hand, eyes twinkling. “Open up, babe.”

Lewis stepped in close, mouth already opening as he leaned in. You fed him slowly, letting the bite linger on the fork just a moment longer than necessary.

“Mmm,” he groaned softly, letting the cream melt in his mouth. “Damn, that’s good.”

“Yeah?” You asked, unable to contain your smile despite the ache in your cheeks.

He nodded and reached for the fork, loading it with a bite that was slightly too generous, a layer of sponge cake, icing and a chunk of strawberry seated precariously on the edge. “Your turn.”

You gave him a narrow look, eyeing the messy forkful. “That’s huge.”

He raised a brow, mischief laced in his tone while his lips tugged into a small smirk. “You can take it, birthday girl.”

Your breath caught, whether from the words or the look in his eyes, you weren’t sure, but you leaned in anyway, lips parting obediently as you tried to take the whole bite…and failed.

A smear of icing kissed the corner of your mouth, while a crumb flaked free and dusted your chin. You blinked, slightly cross-eyed from the effort, before slowly chewing the rest while Lewis stood there, grinning as though this had been his plan all along.

“Oh,” he chuckled teasingly, stepping closer, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Messy girl.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but didn’t get the chance.

He leaned in, a hand reaching around your waist as his mouth brushed against yours. His tongue caught the cream at the corner, soft and slow, a kiss disguised as clean-up. You melted instantly as his lips pressed to yours lingering, as if he could taste the sugar and your smile all at once, like this was the part he’d really been waiting for.

You pulled back with a soft breath, dizzy from how gently he loved you.

“Your fault,” you whispered, barely able to speak with how full your chest felt.

Without thinking, you reached for the fork, swiped it across the edge of the cake, and smeared the icing across his lower lip.

His eyes lit up playfully, but you didn’t give him a chance to gloat, you leaned in and kissed it off slowly, tongue brushing his bottom lip as your hand found the back of his neck. He made a soft sound in his throat, that low, pleased hum you loved, and kissed you back with heat that stirred in your lower abdomen.

You were still catching your breath from the kiss, when he dipped the fork again.

“Alright, one more,” he announced, scooping a generous bite from the cake.

You opened your mouth, lips parting for him with trust. He leaned in with that same teasing gleam in his eye, a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and fed it to you with care.

However, it wasn’t quite enough care, as when the fork nudged against your bottom lip, cream and sponge brushing your tongue, you felt the soft weight of the cake slipping. A piece of strawberry, slick with icing, dropped straight down.

You gasped as it landed just above your neckline, sticky and cool against your skin. Lewis paused, eyes following the trail of icing down your chest to where the strawberry had landed, and slowly setting the fork down.

“Oops.” His voice was low, velvet-dipped, full of mock-innocence.

You glanced down, heart thudding, the mess glistening pink and white against the warm swell of your chest.

His fingertips brushed over your sternum, feather light as he traced the line where your skin met the fabric of your dress. Then his mouth followed, wet and unbearably slow. He kissed the spot, making your breath catch, tongue flicking over the sugar-stained dip of your skin, and your fingers flew to the back of his neck like a reflex.

“Lewis,” you sighed, a little shaky at the tickle of his breath along your breast.

His hands found your hips, holding you in place as his lips moved higher. He kissed his way up to the hollow of your throat and lingered there, as though he could feel your pulse beneath his mouth, before moving up to press along your neck and under your ear. It wasn’t about the cake anymore, it hadn’t been since the moment you walked through the door and saw him standing there in sweatpants and love in his eyes.

You tilted his face back up to yours, your cheeks hot at the sensation of his mouth on your skin. A playful grin spread across his handsome face, making you giggle softly when he nudged his nose against yours, your skin still tingling from his touch.

“Alright, baby,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling with affection. “Before we get carried away, I’ve got something for you.”

Your eyebrows lifted as he stepped away over to the other side of the table, barefoot and cozy in those damn sweatpants that made your heart skip. He stopped in front of the stack of gifts, each box wrapped in delicate paper and ribbons, every edge neatly folded with care. 

You hadn’t really counted them before, you’d been too overwhelmed by the sight of it all. Yet now, as Lewis turned slightly to glance at the pile, a smile playing at his mouth, your eyes swept slowly across the stack, and counted without meaning to.

The number was exact, one gift for every year of your life, just like last year. You remembered that soft moment in your old apartment, where he’d done the same thing and, with a boyish grin, said it casually as he nudged the first box toward you:

"One for every year you’ve made this world better just by being in it, baby. That’s the rule now."

He’d said it like it wasn’t even a question, it was simply the truth, and clearly, he’d kept the tradition.

Lewis leaned forward and picked up the envelope with your name on it, the parchment smooth in the candlelight. He turned it over in his hand briefly, thumb brushing the edge as though he was debating whether to give it to you first or not, before placing it carefully on the table beside the cake.

Then, he reached for one of the boxes, the smallest one near the front, wrapped in pearlescent cream paper with a gold satin ribbon tied in a neat bow. “Let’s start with this one.”

He handed it to you with both hands, eyes lingering on yours, wanting to watch your reaction from the very first second. The box was cool beneath your fingers, the ribbon soft and slippery as you tugged it loose. The paper crinkled delicately when you peeled it away, heart skipping when you saw the familiar embossing of the Cartier logo pressed into the box.

You lifted the lid slowly, your breath catching in a gasp as the necklace revealed itself.

A single, brilliant diamond set into a fine white gold chain, glittering as if it had caught a star. Sleek, dainty, perfectly elegant. It looked strikingly similar to the one Lewis wore tucked beneath his shirt some days, the one you’d borrowed once on a sleepy morning after breakfast, letting it dangle over your collarbones as he kissed your bare shoulder from behind.

“Lewis…” you whispered, overwhelmed and in awe of the beautiful piece.

His gaze softened, hand brushing your arm while he watched you fondly. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how good mine looked on you, so I wanted to get you one of your own.”

You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes. Lewis had always been kind and thoughtful, but his generosity was always amplified when it came to you. He loved to spoil you shamelessly, and in moments like this, when he’d take note of the little things like this, you never felt more seen, more loved.

He took the box back carefully, then stepped behind you as he picked the necklace out of the box. You gathered your hair with one hand, your skin tingling with anticipation as his fingers brushed the back of your neck.

The cool kiss of the chain made you shiver, and his touch lingered an extra moment before the clasp clicked shut. You felt his warm lips meet the skin of your shoulder, while his hands found your waist, turning you gently towards him.

Lewis’ eyes dropped to the diamond resting above the neckline of your dress, his lips parting just slightly, as though he couldn’t believe how perfect it looked. His fingertips adjusted it slightly along your throat, tracing down towards your neckline. His gaze swept back up to yours, filled with tenderness and swimming with love. “You wear it even better than me.”

Your breath wobbled out in a shaky laugh, fingers brushing the necklace where it lay warm now against your skin. Still, your gaze drifted back curiously to the envelope on the table, your name inked in that familiar, slightly slanted handwriting.

“Can I read it?” you asked softly, almost shy yourself now, as if peeling back the last layer of the night might reveal too much, make you feel too much. “Before I open the rest?”

Lewis’s expression flickered ever so slightly, but you caught in the faint lift of his eyebrow, and the bashful tug of a smile at one corner of his mouth as if he’d braced for you to ask but still wasn’t fully ready. He looked suddenly younger in the candlelight, boyishly nervous almost.

“Yeah,” he murmured, scratching lightly at the back of his neck, voice a little quieter than before. “Yeah, of course. Just…go easy on me, yeah?”

You smiled at that, your belly fluttering in anticipation as he stepped back to give you space. You reached for the envelope with care, your fingers brushing the edge like the paper softly. It felt thick beneath your fingertips, high-quality, smooth, like it was worth holding onto. You turned it over gently, sliding your finger beneath the sealed edge, and opened it with slow, steady movements.

Inside was a single folded sheet of cream-coloured paper, warm from the room’s heat, faintly textured beneath your fingertips. You unfolded it carefully to reveal his handwriting. You could’ve picked it out in a heartbeat.

Neat, slanted letters, mostly the same size, with the occasional gentle loop on some letters, but it was the uppercase letters that always gave him away, swirled with a little extra flair, like they were signing off on something. There were a couple of tiny spelling errors, things your eyes caught but your heart ignored, because they only made it more him. Because you knew he always second-guessed himself when it came to writing, but he’d still done this. For you.

Your thumb traced the edge of the page once, breathing in slowly as your eyes dropped to the first line, and you began to read.

‘To the love of my life,

Happy Birthday baby.

This is your day. I hope you feel just how deeply loved you are, not just by me, but by every soul lucky enough to know you.

You are the most beautiful soul I’ve ever known. You’ve changed my life in more ways than I could ever count.

You’ve given me a kind of love I didn’t know I needed. You’ve made space for me to be myself, and that’s something I’ll never take for granted.

You’ve taught me what it really means to love someone unconditionally.

You’ve shown me how to slow down, how to breathe, how to sit back and let someone take care of me for once.

You’ve given me peace and meaning. You’ve made every part of life better, the best days, and the hardest ones. The endless flights and long nights we’ve spent halfway across the world from each other.

I’m endlessly grateful for the day you were born.

I love everything about you. The way you always show up for the people around you. The way you hold the people you love. The way you carry so much in that beautiful heart of yours.

I love your laugh. I love the way you kiss me when I’m half asleep. I love the way you always remember everything I somehow forget. I love being held by you, and I love holding you even more.

I love every day we’ve spent together. Every joke, every fight we worked through, every quiet moment. Every adventure.

I can’t wait for all the ones still to come.

This year, I hope you feel celebrated and apprecaited.

I hope you know just how lucky I feel to wake up next to you.

You deserve the world, baby, and I promise to spend every day of my life trying to give it to you.

Happy birthday, my beautiful girl.

I love you more than you’ll ever know.

Yours always,

Lewis’

As you finished reading, a warm tear slid from your cheek down to your lip  salt mingling with the faint sweetness of cake still clinging there. The paper wavered in your hands, the candlelight blurring into soft gold halos across the page as your breath caught on a quiet, trembling inhale.

Your heart felt too full for your chest, swelling with emotion.

You pressed the letter gently to your chest, holding it there as if it could steady you, as if the physical weight of his words might somehow help you make sense of the tidal wave rising inside your ribcage. Your fingers curled over the edges lightly, your pulse fluttering beneath them.

You sensed Lewis move towards you in the way the air shifted slightly behind you, carrying his warmth, his faint cologne, that familiar woody scent lingering in his sweatpants and shirt, as his arms slid around you. One wrapped low across your waist, palm flattening over your stomach; the other came up slowly to cover your hand where it clutched the letter to your chest.

His strong chest pressed to your back, his breath warm as it exhaled into the curve where your neck met your shoulder. He tucked his chin lightly against you, holding you gently, protectively.

Your eyes squeezed shut, and another tear slipped free, gliding hot and slow down your cheek. You carefully placed the letter on the table in front of you, and turned in his arms before the emotion could swallow you entirely. Your hands reached for him immediately, one sliding up the side of his neck, the other clutching into his shirt.

Lewis’s brows pulled together when he saw your face, the wet lashes, the tremble in your mouth. Concern flickered across his expression, tenderness softening it just as quickly.

“Too much?” he asked quietly, searching your eyes, his thumb brushing the streak of a tear from your cheek.

“No,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you shook your head and leaned closer, your breath catching on his lips. “No, baby…it’s perfect.”

Then, you tugged him towards you and met his mouth with your own.

You kissed him as though you were pouring every beat of your heart into him, like the only way your lungs could work again was through him. Your lips pressed to his with a shaky urgency, wet from tears, yet soft with emotion. He responded instantly, hands moving up to cradle your face, his thumbs sweeping your cheeks gently as he kissed you back with a slow tenderness that melted you from the inside out.

Your tears smeared lightly against his skin, and Lewis didn’t pull back. Instead, he kissed them away, kissed the corner of your mouth, kissed the path a tear had taken down to your jawline, kissed you like the emotion spilling out of you was louder than any words that could be spoken.

“I love you,” you breathed against his lips, barely forming the words.

Lewis exhaled sharply, the sound low and full of feeling as he kissed you again harder and deeper, pulling you into him until your body met every inch of his. “I love you so much, sweetheart.”

His hands slid down to your waist, gripping softly, and guiding you closer. You felt the warmth of him everywhere, radiating from his chest through your dress, the soft friction of his sweatpants brushing your thighs, the faint tickle of his braids slipping loose near his cheek as he tilted his head to drag his tongue along yours. He kissed you with hunger, with devotion, with a deep love that made your knees soften and your breath tremble in your throat.

At one point he broke away just slightly, breathing hard, his lips still brushing yours.

“Baby…” he murmured, thumb tracing your damp cheekbone, “You’ve got more gifts. We should-”

“No,” you replied immediately, your fingers sliding into the back of his hair to pull him back into another kiss. “Later.”

He blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, kissing him again, slower, deeper. “You’re my gift.”

A low sound left him, almost a groan, maybe a laugh, warm and full of affection. His hands tightened at your waist, his lips pressing to yours again, needier this time. The kiss stole your breath and gave you something else in return, heat, sparks, that familiar ache blooming low in your belly.

Your dress was soft under his palms as he slid his hands down, fingers bunching the fabric lightly as he lifted you effortlessly by the hips. You let out a soft gasp as your bottom hit the cool edge of the dining table, still cluttered with candlelight, cake crumbs, and the ribbon from your gift. The slight shift of a plate rattled next to you, a small candle flame bending with the movement.

Lewis stepped between your parted knees immediately, his hands spreading warm across your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, teasing lines up toward the hem of your dress. His mouth trailed along your jawline, kissing the hollow beneath your ear, his breath warm and tinged with sugar from the cake.

You tilted your head back in response, fingers gripping the back of his neck to keep yourself upright. The table felt cool beneath your thighs; his palms sliding higher towards the lace underneath.

His mouth dragged lower down your throat, brushing the swell of your chest with his soft lips, the tickle of his breath chasing goosebumps across your skin. Your back arched and you didn’t even realise you’d shifted back until your thigh bumped the edge of the plate with the faintest clink, just a whisper of contact, but it was enough.

The plate tilted, and the slice of cake slid across the porcelain, a thick ribbon of pale icing meeting your bare skin with a cold, unexpected kiss.

You gasped at the sensation, the contrast making you jolt. Chilled frosting smeared across the outer curve of your thigh. Cool sugar clung to your warmth, softening instantly from the heat of your skin, and the feeling was dizzying. 

Before you could blink, Lewis’ gaze dropped, as if yanked there by gravity itself. His eyes traced the mess along your leg, and there was a primal shift in his expression. Then, he sank to his knees like a man being offered his last meal. 

“I’ve got it.” The sound of his voice was deeper now, roughened with hunger, and it made your thighs tense beneath his touch.

He leaned forward, and his mouth met your skin like it had been waiting for this exact moment. His tongue swept through the icing in one long stroke, hot and unbearably slow. He licked through the cream as though he wanted to taste every inch of you. He didn’t stop there, either,  he followed it with a kiss, then another, just beside it. His lips sank into your skin like he was memorising the taste, moving towards your inner thighs.

By the time he looked up at you, your heart was in your throat. Your hands trembled at your sides, heat pulsing low and deep, spreading through you in waves. You felt it in your chest, your spine, your belly, and especially between your legs.

He didn’t have to say anything, not with the way his pupils had grown wide, the way his jaw flexed, the way his hand tightened slightly at your hip like he was trying not to lose control.

You reached for the plate without a second thought when you saw the look on his face. A dollop of cream clung thick to your fingertips as you dipped into the edge of the slice again, before you brought it low between your thighs. You smeared it softly on the inside of your other leg, just above the knee at first, then higher, a curved streak of sugar against your skin.

The cold made you shiver again, but it was nothing compared to the burn of his gaze as he watched your fingers trail up, icing melting beneath your touch.

Lewis lifted his head slowly, as though he needed a breath before he completely unravelled. His palms slid further up your thighs, warming the places the icing had cooled, his thumbs tracing slow circles against your skin.

Then, he leaned in again. His mouth found the smeared streak on your inner thigh with a hunger that made your heart stutter. His tongue flattened against your skin, dragging through the sweetness in a long, intoxicating sweep that left nothing behind. You felt the vibration of a low groan spill from him as he tasted you, the sound rumbling against your leg and deep into your core.

He kissed higher, soft, and open‑mouthed just above the tender inside of your knee, tasting the last hint of sugar there.

Then, higher still, the warm pull of his lips smoothing over the curve of your thigh, his breath growing heavier as he moved closer to where you were already throbbing for him. Your fingers tangled into his braids almost without thought, your hips tilting forward, silently begging for him to keep going.

You felt every inhale he took, and every warm exhale blooming against your inner thigh as he leaned in again. His tongue traced up through the last thin streak of icing you’d smeared purposefully, until his mouth was kissing just shy of the place your lingerie hid everything.

Your thighs tightened instinctively, and his hands slid firm beneath them, holding you open, keeping you right where he wanted you. The heat building in your belly sharpened at the touch, at the way he handled you like you were precious, and you only wanted more.

Your hand drifted back toward the plate, and Lewis noticed instantly. He stilled as he watched you, his chest rising with deep, hungry breaths. You slipped your fingers into the thick icing again, gathering it slowly. His eyes grew darker as he watched the movement, tracking every inch of your hand until your fingertips lifted, glistening.

You parted your legs just a little further, and spread it along the delicate inner curve right at the edge of your core, where the lace of your lingerie kissed your body. The cold made you gasp and the anticipation made your pulse stumble even more.

Lewis’s hand clamped around your thigh, a reflex he didn’t bother to hide.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice so low it barely existed. “Come here. Come here, baby…”

He didn’t wait for permission, his hands slid beneath your thighs, pulling you to the very edge of the table with one smooth motion. Your breath punched out of you as your hips shifted, your dress hiking up around your waist, lace stretching tight over the slick heat gathering beneath it.

He exhaled as if he’d just been handed the thing he’d been craving all night. His thumbs hooked beneath the edges of your thighs, spreading you open gently but firmly, as though he needed to see every inch you were willing to offer him.

He leaned in slowly, his nose brushing the soft lace between your legs first, inhaling you, and the sound he made was almost pained.

Then his tongue pressed to the inside of your thigh, right at the edge of the icing you’d smeared. He licked upward agonisingly slow, tracing the sugary trail with a careful, hungry precision that had your fingers twisting tighter in his braids.

He kissed the last of the icing clean, lips sinking into your skin like he wanted to mark the spot. Then he looked up at you from between your legs, his voice a low, shaky rasp. “Open wider for me.”

You did instantly, your breath catching as your knees eased even further apart, your dress slipping higher, your heartbeat thundering in every limb.

Lewis’ warm hands slid along the inside of your thighs again, guiding you open until the lace framed everything he wanted. His thumbs stroked once at the edges of your lingerie, before he pushed the delicate fabric aside. The air hit you first, cool against your heat, then his breath followed.

“Look at you,” he whispered, as though he was looking at the one thing he’d dreamt about on every flight, on every lonely night away from you. 

You barely had time to take another breath, before he leaned forward and sealed his mouth to you. His lips closed around your slick core like he’d been starved, his tongue sweeping through your folds with a deep, perfect stroke that made your entire body jolt. A whimper slipped from your throat, and Lewis groaned into you like the sound was his reward.

His hands gripped your thighs firmly, keeping you exactly where he needed you. He licked again, slower this time, dragging the broad flat of his tongue up through your slick, tasting where the sugar ended and you began.

You trembled, fingers clutching at his braids, pulling him deeper, and he went willingly, eagerly humming deep in his chest as his mouth worked you open. Each kiss, each lick was purposeful, slow enough to undo you, deep enough to imprint itself into your bones, hungry enough to leave no question of what he wanted most tonight.

You, only you.

His tongue circled your clit in a slow, perfect drag that made your head drop back, a soft moan catching on your breath. He felt the way your thighs tightened around his head and answered with a sound that vibrated right through your core.

“Lewis-” you gasped, your voice trembling, hips lifting toward his mouth.

He didn’t pull back or slow down. Instead, he pushed the lace further aside, opening you completely to him, and lowered his mouth again, deeper and hungrier, tongue stroking, lips sealing, consuming you like your taste was the sweetest thing he’d had all night. He held you there, devouring you like this was the real birthday gift. The one he’d been waiting to give you since the moment he stepped off the plane.

His tongue pressed deeper, parting you with precision. He tasted you as though he’d missed you more than sleep, more than sanity, like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment, and now that he had you, spread open on the table with sugar on your skin and your legs shaking in his hands, he wasn’t letting go.

“Fuck…” His voice was muffled, buried between your thighs, his mouth still working you open. “You taste so good, baby. Always so good.”

You hummed in bliss, hips tilting into his face, and he groaned into you like he needed more. His grip tightened around your thighs, fingers digging in gently to keep you there as he dragged his tongue up again, teasing, circling your clit in the lightest, most maddening way. He followed with a sudden barrage of quick flicks that made you cry out.

“Baby, f-fuck…” the words tore from your throat weakly like a warning that you couldn’t hold yourself together much longer.

He groaned in response, the vibration of it shooting through your core like lightning. Then his mouth sealed over your clit. The suction was deep, steady, perfect, pulling everything inside you tightly, coiling, the kind that made your hands fist in his braids and your thighs clamp helplessly around his head. His tongue moved in slow, devastating circles while his fingers slid lower, gently teasing your entrance, slick and ready.

When he pushed a finger inside, you moaned instantly, the sound caught between pleasure and disbelief. He added a second a moment later, his fingers curling as he dipped them inside you, your head dropping back, mouth parting as he worked you up, the squelch of your slick loud in the silence

“Oh my-fuck…Lewis-”

“I know, baby. I know. You’re so close, my love,” he panted, lips still moving against you, eyes dark and wild as he looked up at you. 

The orgasm crested fast at his movements, stealing the breath from your lungs as your thighs trembled around his shoulders and your hips rocked against his mouth. You cried out, loud and desperate, as the wave of it surged through your entire body, through every nerve. Your hand tugged his braids, your back arched, and all you could feel was him, the heat of his mouth, the strong hold of his hands, the safe stretch of his body between your legs as he worshipped you through every pulse, every tremble, every raw, beautiful aftershock.

Lewis didn’t stop until your thighs were twitching and your hand gently pushed at his shoulder. Even then, he kissed the inside of your leg one more time, then another. A final one right over your fluttering pulse.

When he stood, his lips were glistening, his breath heavy, and his eyes drunk on you. You were floating, still catching your breath, still trembling from the strength of it. You smiled, dazed, warm, in love, and your eyes sparkled when they met his.

“My turn,” you breathed, licking your lips slowly and guiding him backwards with a little shove to the chest.

Lewis stumbled back into the chair behind him, stunned but laughing, his grin wide as he watched you slide off the table and onto his lap.

You straddled his lap slowly, knees pressing into either side of his thighs as your dress shifted, the fabric catching against his sweatpants in delicate rustles. Your thighs still trembled faintly, tingling from the aftershock of his mouth, but your hands were steady as they found his face.

You cupped his jaw with your palms, your thumbs sweeping the dampness from the corners of his mouth as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, tasting the remnants of yourself on his tongue.

Lewis groaned against your mouth, the sound swallowed by your kiss, his hands instinctively grasping at your hips. His tongue flicked against yours, filthier, hungrier. Then, without warning, he caught your bottom lip between his teeth, biting just enough to make you gasp.

A light laugh spilled from you, the sound breathy and giddy, your nose brushing his as you pulled back slightly. "Cheeky.”

"You started it," he smirked, running his teeth over his lower lip, his hands smoothing over your thighs.

You reached for the hem of his shirt without breaking eye contact, fingers coiling into the fabric before tugging it slowly upward. Lewis lifted his arms wordlessly, his gaze dark and steady as you pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.

The candlelight kissed every ridge of him, his chest, broad and golden, tattoos etched across his skin, glinting as he breathed. You let your palms glide over him slowly, fingertips tracing the line of ink along his collarbone, then down the center of his chest. He was so warm beneath your touch, solid and perfect, all yours.

Your lips twitched into a smile as you reached for the cake plate again. You plucked a single strawberry from the edge of the slice, its skin glistening with icing and soft juice. You brought it to your own mouth first, teeth sinking into the ripe flesh with a soft pop. Juice spilled onto your tongue, sweet and tangy.

Then, you leaned forward, holding the rest of the berry between your lips as you hovered just inches from his, where he met you halfway. He opened his mouth against yours, his teeth brushing the other end of the strawberry as the two of you bit down at the same time. The fruit split between your mouths, juice spilling onto his chin, all sticky and red. You grinned at the sight of it, licking the corner of your lips before leaning in again.

Your tongue traced the sweet, slow trickle down his chin, licking it off with agonising care along the line of his beard, then kissing your way from his jaw to his throat, your tongue flicking against the hollow where his pulse thudded.

He exhaled sharply, head tilting back as your kisses drifted lower, your lips finding the edge of his collarbone, then trailing down the center of his chest.

Your fingers dipped into the cake again, collecting a generous smear of icing. Without hesitation, you spread it across his chest in a slow, curved stroke, the white contrasting starkly against his skin.

His breath shuddered slightly at the coolness, but didn’t move, just watched you through heavy-lidded eyes, his jaw tense, his breath shallow. 

You met his gaze as you leaned in again and licked it off in a single, slow drag of your tongue across the icing on his chest, savoring the mix of sugar and him. You pressed a kiss to the spot after, then another, before licking the rest clean, like he had done to you.

You kissed lower sliding off his lap and following the faint trail of sweetness down the line of his abs, licking slowly between each ridge, tasting him like a second dessert. His skin was hot beneath your mouth, chest rising and falling faster now, his hands flexing in the air, where he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or just hold on.

Smearing more cream down the grooves of his abdomen, you followed with your tongue flicking just above his navel, then moved your lips along the deepest dip between his abs, and that’s when his hips twitched involuntarily. You followed with another streak of icing across the deep V of his hip, watching goosebumps ripple in your wake.

He swore under his breath, muscles flexing beneath you. “Fuck…that mouth.”

You leaned in and licked a stripe straight up the center of his abs, tongue dragging through the sweetness, warm and wet along his skin. His breath caught like it punched from his lungs.

You kissed lower, tracing the icing with your tongue, one stripe at a time, licking him clean until all that was left was heat and the faintest stickiness against your lips Your palm landed just below, right where the thick tension in his sweats made itself known, so stiff and hard for you, straining upward against the soft fabric. The moment your hand pressed down, his breath caught with a small gasp of your name.

His hands reached for you then, one finding your waist, the other tangling in your hair, fingers tightening enough to ground himself as you kissed lower, your thumb stroking along the waistband of his sweats.

You palmed him again, feeling how solid he was through the soft grey fabric. He groaned low, his grip in your hair tightening to keep himself from unraveling. You let him guide you back up, crawling over him slowly, breath hot as you kissed your way back up his torso, your thighs tightening around his hips as you straddled him once more. Your chest pressed against his, heat melting between you.

The second your lips found his again, it was like a blaze. He kissed you like he’d lost his mind, as though he couldn’t believe he was still allowed to have you like this, draped across his lap, sugar still clinging to your skin, and all of your love pouring out through every breath, every press of your mouth against his.

You kissed him until you couldn’t breathe, then, you sat back slightly, hands dropping low again, fingers toying with the waistband of his sweats.

You hooked your fingers into the fabric and slowly dragged the pants down, easing them over his hips, down his thighs, and all the way off, until he was bare beneath you, his length thick and heavy against his stomach, already leaking at the tip with a pearly bead.

Lewis leaned forward, catching your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing over your parted lips. “See what you do to me, baby? This is all for you.”

“All mine?” you whispered in reply, pressing a kiss to the pad of his thumb.

He nodded slowly, his brown eyes sparkling in the candlelight, the barest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Every fucking inch, sweetheart.”

That was all you needed to hear.

You rose up on his lap, the hem of your dress slipping higher, the satin bunching at your hips. One of the delicate straps had already fallen down your shoulder, and the other followed now, slipping low as you moved, revealing a teasing glimpse of the lace underneath, sheer and soft, enough to make his lips part with disbelief at such a beautiful vision.

Your fingers reached between your bodies, finding him easily, hot and solid against your palm, slick at the tip from how much he’d been holding back. You stroked him once, just to hear his breath catch again, and watch his jaw tighten.

The moment the head of his dick pressed to your entrance, you paused to watch him, to feel every stutter in his breath, every twitch in his thighs, every ounce of restraint that was ready to snap.

Your eyes met his as you sank down slowly, inch by aching inch. Slick and tight, your walls stretched perfectly around him, easing him in until you were seated fully in his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, his length buried deep inside you.

He swore quietly, his hands flying back to your hips like he couldn’t help himself. His lips brushed yours as he held you close, pressing to the corner of your mouth as you adjusted slightly for your perfect angle.

You rocked your hips just once, testing the fit, the fullness, and it made both of you gasp, the sound tangled between your mouths.

“Gonna let me ride you, baby?” you asked with a whisper, pressing your palms to his chest to still him from moving.

He nodded, completely undone beneath you. “Anything you want, birthday girl.”

You started slowly, grinding your hips in slow, deep circles, feeling every drag of his dick through your folds, every pulse of him inside you. He filled you just right, stretching you in a way that made your whole body sing. You moaned softly, letting your head fall towards his, your hands finding his shoulders for balance as you rode him steadily, letting the friction build.

The straps of your dress had fallen completely now, your chest rising and falling with each bounce, the lace of your bra just barely holding in the curve of your breasts as you moved. The sight of you made him groan, his hands sliding up from your hips, then one rising to gently cup your breast through the lace.

You gasped when his thumb brushed your nipple, and his other hand grasped at your hip tighter. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he grunted out, his tongue circling around your nipple as he sucked gently. “What did I do to deserve you?”

You tugged at his braids lightly to pull him back, then leaned forward again, capturing his mouth with yours, your hips never breaking rhythm as you slammed down onto him over and over, the repeated sound of skin slapping filling the room. Your mouths moved together messily, your lips slightly fuller from how many times he’d claimed them tonight. Your breath stuttered as you bounced a little faster now, the angle hitting deeper while your clit rubbed against him, pressing right where you needed it most.

“Gonna come again for me?” he asked, breath warm in your ear as his hips rocked up in his seat, catching your rhythm.

You nodded, unable to form words, your movements growing more frantic now, chasing that high, using him to get there as you squeezed him tight. The sensation bloomed stronger from the friction, building higher and higher with every grind.

Lewis leaned in, his mouth finding your neck, trailing hot kisses up to the shell of your ear. “You’re doing so good, my love. I want to feel you come all over my dick.”

Shaky moans escaped your lips, the heat building impossibly fast now, your nails digging into his shoulders as your hips stuttered. “Lew…fuck, I-”

“Look at me, want to see your pretty face,” he commanded gently, and when your eyes met his again, when you saw the way he was looking at you, like you were everything he’d dreamed of and more, it tipped you straight over the edge.

Your body seized with pleasure, your hips grinding deep against him as bliss tingled through every nerve ending. Your thighs trembled, breath catching, mouth falling open in a moan that he kissed away, swallowing your cries as your walls clenched hard around him, soaking his length down to his balls.

He held you through it, letting you ride it out, every wave, every twitch. Your whole body trembled for a moment, and he was still rock hard inside you when you finished. You weren’t done yet though.

You leaned back, both hands reaching behind you to brace yourself on the edge of the dinner table, fingertips clutching around polished surfaces as your body arched, offering yourself up without shame. Your spine lengthened, head tilted back, your hair slightly tousled. Your chest rose and fell as you caught your breath, your bra loosened around your breasts, the candlelight casting a soft glow against the swell and glittering on the surface of your new necklace. Your lips were kiss-bitten, fuller from his kisses, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy from pleasure. A view no man deserved.

“Fuck,” Lewis breathed in disbelief, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your pulse fluttered at the sincerity in his voice, filled with awe. His hands roamed up your waist, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needed to feel every inch of you. 

“You don’t even know what you do to me.” He shook his head, eyes trailing from your parted lips down to where your hips slowly began to rock against him again. “I’m so in love with you.”

You felt his adoration in every part of you, his need, the way his breath stuttered as you rolled your hips with intent, grinding down until he groaned low in his throat. The table beneath your palms trembled slightly with each movement, and still, you held his eyes like you were daring him not to fall apart for you.

He broke your gaze though, glancing down between you to watch the way he slipped in and out of you, your panties pushed further aside with each movement, a low growl in his throat as he swallowed. You followed, the sight of his thick length drawing a whimper from you, biting down on your lower lip when his thumb found your clit. 

Your body arched perfectly with each roll of your hips now, your moans breathier, needier, and all for him. His name spilled from your lips in broken, pretty little gasps, until your fingers scrambled for the edge of the table just to keep you upright.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, one hand bracing your back, the other circling slow and firm around the bundle of nerves at your core as you moved on him. “That’s it, baby. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

All you could think, through the warmth building again between your thighs and the dizzy sweetness in your chest, was how deeply, wholly, fiercely he loved you, and how good it felt to be worshipped like this. 

It wasn’t long before the friction from his thumb, and the deep grind of him inside you pushed you to your peak, your head tipping back as a soft cry of pleasure left your lips. 

He caught you just as your body slackened in the aftershock, tugging you back to his chest, and your arms looped instinctively around his shoulders as he rose to full height, holding you carefully. Your legs wrapped around his waist with ease, bare thighs still trembling slightly, the heat between you still pulsing. The soft drag of his fingertips along your spine grounded you as he carried you from the dining chair, past the half-melted candles and forgotten cake, straight toward the bedroom.

There was no rush now, just the heavy air of desire, thick with emotion. He laid you down slowly, gently, like the world might stop if he let go too soon. The sheets were cool beneath your warmed skin, a soft contrast to the fever that still throbbed low in your belly. His gaze roamed over you, devouring and delicate all at once, like he couldn’t believe you were real, and his.

He stood between your parted knees, leaning down and brushing your hair back with both hands, his eyes sweeping over you with awe. 

“Stay just like that,” he murmured, hands gliding up along your thighs. “Want to look at you.”

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress, and tugged it off your body like he was unwrapping a gift of his own. His eyes darkened with desire when he saw what you wore underneath in full view, the soft lace you’d chosen only for him.

“Fuck, I wish I could frame this,” he groaned, fingertips gliding along the inside of your thigh, then to the dip of your waist, up to your chest. “The way you look right now is just…unreal.”

You sat up slightly on your elbows as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the curve of your hip, another to the center of your stomach, then lower, until his mouth ghosted just over the delicate lace. He pulled your panties down with painstaking care and tossed them to the side like he couldn’t wait to forget they existed. Then, he crawled over you slowly, not between your legs this time, but alongside you, his body aligned beside yours as he drew you to lie back.

Instead of the usual rhythm, him over you, you beneath, he curled behind you, pulling your back to his chest in a warm cocoon of his strong arms. His mouth grazed the curve of your neck as one hand slid down your stomach, slow and deliberate, while the other cradled your jaw and turned your face toward him. 

His lips found yours again, exploring like you were a secret he was still discovering, and he had all night to map you.

“I missed having you in my arms,” he whispered into your mouth.

His fingers began to move, gentle, soft swirls through your folds, while he whispered how proud he was of you, how beautiful you looked all night, how this year was going to be everything you wanted and more.

“You deserve it all, baby.” He brushed your hair back as his fingers circled deeper. “Everything. The world, the stars. My whole fucking heart.”

Your head fell back against him, a soft cry breaking from your throat as he kissed your shoulder and pressed his hips flush to yours. When you reached back to touch him, his breath hitched, and he nuzzled closer.

He kissed you like he’d missed you for months instead of days, mouth hungry but sweet, tasting of sugar and the faintest echo of you. His tongue slid against yours, and you whimpered into his mouth, the kiss messy, greedy, filled with a desperate want only built from years of knowing every inch of each other, and still not getting enough.

You felt him twitch against your thigh, but he didn’t push for anything yet. Not until you finished again. His fingers continued to slip between your folds with a tantalising rhythm that made your hips roll into his hand. You broke the kiss with a gasp, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other clutching his wrist as he worked you toward another release.

“That’s right, birthday girl. One more for me, you deserve it,” he murmured against your skin.

You were already unraveling, heat gathering again with dizzying speed. The way he looked at you, kissed your cheek between words, whispered your name, it was almost too much. Your nails dug into his arm as the wave hit you, stealing the breath from your lungs and arching your back. He swallowed your moan with his mouth, catching every trembling sound like a secret he’d keep forever.

Once your frantic breathing slowed, he eased out of the intimate tangle of limbs, lifting himself above you to look at you again. His gaze swept over your face, your chest, the straps of your lacy bra barely hanging on.

Lewis kissed his way down your sternum, fingers fiddling with the hooks of your bra at your back, tugging it off and baring you completely. 

He paused when he reached your navel, resting his cheek there for a second, wrapping both arms around your waist. “Just wanna hold you like this forever.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he shifted again, lips trailing lower, then back up as he aligned himself with you, settling between your legs. You opened easily for him, still slick and pulsing from the last climax.

When he slid in again, filling you with every inch, it felt like a sigh across your soul. Two halves of a heart, the deepest love you had ever experienced, all threading together to form this moment. 

He rolled his hips in slow strokes, pulling soft, shaky breaths from you with every movement. His arms cradled your body like you were the most precious thing he had ever held, his mouth never far from your skin, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, the slope of your neck.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him close to you. One arm draped over his back, nails digging into his muscles, while the other carded through his braids. He began to pick up pace, still gentle, still focused entirely on you. You were completely soaked between your legs, the slick squelch of every drag of his dick through you only adding fuel to the fire in your belly.

You pulled him closer, lips brushing against his cheek, your mouth right by his ear when you felt the familiar twitch inside you, his breath shaky with moans. “I love you so much, Lew…please come inside me.”

A soft groan tore from his throat, his hips faltering for just a moment before he steadied again, still deep, still smooth. His forehead dropped to yours, and he kissed you as you clenched around him again, ready to milk every bit of him. 

That was his undoing.

With a final few thrusts, Lewis buried himself as deep as he could, groaning your name against your lips as he filled you up with thick, creamy ropes, trembling above you, arms shaking, eyes shut tight like the moment would never end. His breath shuddered against your neck, hips twitching with every pulse of release as your slick core milked him.

Still, he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside, wrapped around you, breathing you in. His hands never left your skin, while his lips pressed kisses to your temple.

You stroked his back with slow, dreamy sweeps of your hand, the room thick with the scent of strawberries and love.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Lewis whispered again, his mouth mapping its way back to yours.

You smiled against his lips, your legs still curled around his hips. Neither of you moved to break the spell for a while. The candles still flickered in the other room, casting a golden glow across the hallway, and the world outside felt miles away.

“Thank you for everything, Lew. This might be the best one yet,” you replied softly, still slightly dazed as you traced your thumb along his facial hair.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot just below your ear. “It’s not over yet though.”

Your eyebrows lifted in amusement as you giggled when his breath tickled your skin. “Yeah?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes warm, and his heart shaped lips curved in that smile that always made your heart swell with love. “You’ve still got more gifts to open.”

You bit your lip, grinning now. “You mean the ones on the table, or…”

He dipped his head, kissed your neck again purposefully. “All of them, but maybe we can start with the smallest box. I don’t think you’ve seen that one yet.”

Your heart kicked harder in your chest, and he felt it as he smiled against your collarbone. 

When he finally pulled back to meet your gaze, still inside you, still tangled together, you could see in his eyes, that this night, this love, wasn’t done giving.

There would be more gifts to open, and more love to share, but one thing you knew for certain, was that he was the best gift of all.

It’s true in ways he can’t even explain. You’re not just beside him…you’re in him, carved into every quiet space in his chest. He studies the shape of your face like he’ll never be able to memorise it enough, commits the sound of your laugh to muscle memory, kisses your nose just to feel the way your face scrunches up in mock annoyance.

You’re his safest place. The soft landing after a brutal race, the one person who doesn’t want anything from him except him. He’d give you every part of himself if you asked. He thinks that maybe he already has.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur against his collarbone, a soft smile on your lips.

“Can’t help it. Love looking at you babygirl. Love you.” he says simply. He’s not embarrassed about it anymore. Not about the way he watches you like you’re a miracle he still hasn’t figured out how he earned.

You sigh contentedly, shifting until you’re even closer, practically plastered to him. His heart aches with how much he loves you, with how heavy and soft you feel against him, with how right it all is. He kisses your forehead this time, lips lingering like he’s praying something wordless into your skin.

“I love you too, baby.” You kiss his jaw softly, and his eyes soften impossibly more as he kisses your forehead again. 

He doesn’t want this night to end. Not ever. He’d be content to sit here forever until his last breath. 

Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Once, twice, then a flood of notifications lighting up the dark. He ignores it at first, nosing into your hair, breathing you in. But it doesn’t stop. The vibration rattles the glass of water beside it, insistent, intrusive.

With a quiet curse, he reaches for it. A flurry of messages stacked on top of each other, names he trusts, his boys blowing up his screen. His eyebrows furrow as he sees names that aren’t normally ever lighting up his phone at this time messaging him too. Anxiety surges when he reads the names of other drivers. What the fuck? Charles? Isack? 

Miles (9:13 PM): Bro r u seeing this? Miles (9:13 PM): call me rn Jonny (9:14PM): yo wtf man?? Daniel (9:14PM): Bruv is that ur girl? Charles (9:14 PM): LH mate are you okay? Have you seen this? Isack (9:14PM): Lewis have you seen twitter? Maybe don't.

The link is waiting. He opens it before he can think.

Tabloid headline. Your face. Another man’s hand pressed to the small of your back, his mouth at your ear obscuring his face, your smile frozen mid-laugh. His eyes flickered over the man’s jaw, curls, earring. He knew exactly who he was. Handsome, charming, successful. Lewis wasn’t an insecure man. But this was hard to ignore. 

His eyes scan the article.

After being pictured wrapped around Hamilton at last weekend’s Grand Prix and fuelling rumours of a secret engagement, the driver’s girlfriend was spotted laughing and leaning close to another man described by witnesses as a “star athlete” and one of European football’s most recognisable midfielders. Multiple onlookers claimed the two were “inseparable” throughout the night, sharing whispered conversations, with one source insisting they kissed more than once. The pair were later seen leaving together in the early hours, reportedly returning to his London flat, all while Hamilton was in Italy. “She didn’t seem to care who saw,” one insider told the outlet. “It was brazen, like she wanted people to talk.” The images have already ignited a storm online, with hashtags linking her name and the footballer’s trending within minutes. Tweets ranged from sympathy to ridicule, with one viral post reading: ‘Imagine thinking you’re marrying Lewis Hamilton, then running off with another athlete while he’s out there training. Disgusting.’ Another simply said: ‘Hamilton got played.’ No comments have yet been made from Hamilton or his team, but fans were quick to note the absence of his girlfriend at events he attended this week. The story has exploded across social media within hours, with tabloids branding it “the shock betrayal nobody saw coming”.

The floor drops out from under him. All air sucked out of his lungs. His face burns with embarrassment, humiliation, disbelief. Lewis’s vision blurred as the words carved themselves deeper into him, every line of the article louder than the last. It wasn’t just the photos…it was the humiliation, the way the world already knew. His phone buzzed nonstop with notifications, each vibration another knife in his gut. Group chats were lighting up. Even other drivers sending links with pitying little “you see this, mate?” as if he hadn’t already seen enough in the last thirty seconds.

He realised that by the time the story reached him, with you curled up on his lap like this, the headlines had circled the globe. Everyone knew. Everyone believed it. And he was the last to find out.

His pride shrivelled under the weight of it. Seven-time world champion, reduced to a punchline. The fool who got played while he was thousands of miles away, pouring his blood into his sport. He could already imagine the whispers in the paddock, the mocking headlines, the looks.

The burn in his chest twisted lower, rolling into his stomach until he thought he’d be sick right there in the bed. His hands trembled, grip tightening around his phone, jaw locked so hard it ached. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just the same looping nightmare: You and that prick. His hands on you. His baby. His girl. His safe space. 

The room tilted. His pulse hammered in his ears, uneven and frantic, like his own body couldn’t keep up with the weight of what he’d just read.

“Baby?” you mumble, half-asleep, shifting against him when his body goes rigid. He doesn’t answer. Just stares at his phone, chest rising too fast beneath your cheek.

“Lew? what is it?”

He shoves the screen at you, eyes glassy. There it is. The headline screaming betrayal, the photos cropped and cruel.

Your stomach drops, but not for the reason he thinks. You remember that moment vividly. How you’d laughed politely at something harmless, already aching to get back to Lewis, wondering why this man had the audacity to get that close, wishing you had a ring on your finger to brand in his face. The whole world knew you were Lewis’s, so why did this man have the confidence to even talk to you? It had been nothing. Less than nothing. But the pictures make it look like everything. You blink and look at Lewis’s face. He looked wrecked. 

“Lewis, it’s not—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks against his will. He pushes you off his lap, so sudden you stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the bed.

His hand grips around the phone until his knuckles ache, but he can’t tear his eyes from the screen. Your smile…his smile, the one he’d earned in the quiet hours when the world wasn’t watching, splashed across headlines, but aimed at someone else. A stranger’s hand low on your back, too low. His mouth pressed to your ear. And you laughing.

Every nerve in his body screams.

He swallows hard, but bile surges higher. His mind spins: You were too good to be true. Should’ve known. Should’ve never believed…

The phone slips from his grip, clattering onto the floor. He stumbles toward the bathroom like a man shot in the chest, lungs burning for air that won’t come.

The second the lock clicks, he’s on his knees, gagging into porcelain. Acid scorches his throat. His hands shake so violently he nearly misses the rim of the sink, fingertips smacking wet tile. The sound he makes isn’t human.

It hurts everywhere. His chest, his throat, his stomach, like the world is splitting him in two. His eyes burn, and the sob that breaks free is raw and violent, the kind he hasn’t let himself feel since he was a kid.

This is worse than losing a championship on the last lap. Worse than the nights he sat alone with headlines ripping him apart. This is you. The only place he thought he was safe.

And now it’s gone.

You laughed. You let him touch you. You looked happy.

He gags again, empty, nothing left to bring up, but his body keeps revolting, keeps punishing him. The ache won’t stop.

Because this isn’t just about a picture. It’s about trust. The one thing he couldn’t afford to hand over and the only thing he’d given you anyway. And now it’s being shoved back in his face, splintered into a thousand pieces by flashbulbs and headlines.

Your voice comes muffled through the door. “Lewis, please…listen to me, it’s not what you think—”

His chest caves in tighter. He wants to believe you. He wants to tear the lock open and bury himself in your arms and hear you tell him it’s all a lie. But the images keep replaying, burning themselves into his eyelids every time he blinks

“I can’t—” His voice cracks, strangled, barely his own. He braces a trembling hand against the wall, dragging himself upright, but the room tilts and spins.

“Lewis, please—”

“Get out.”

It doesn’t even sound like anger. It sounds like defeat. Like something inside him has snapped so violently it will never fit back together.

You freeze outside the door, forehead pressed against the wood. The words don’t sound like him. They sound hollow, gutted.

“Lewis—”

“I can’t even look at you.” His voice is ruined, shaking, like he’s choking.

Your breath catches.

“Lewis, I love you. Let me in…I could never do that to you, I–” your voice cuts off with a helpless sob.

He curls against the cold cabinet, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold the pieces in. His whole body shakes, sweat chilling his skin, but he can’t stop. He can’t breathe without the images flooding back.

The sound of your laugh just minutes ago, when you’d been curled against him, humming, safe… it clashes violently against the memory of that photo. Same laugh. Different man. Different meaning. His brain refuses to let him separate them.

His heart lurches so hard it feels like a physical wound. He presses the heel of his hand against his chest like he can stop the splitting, like he can stitch himself back together with sheer force. But it doesn’t work. It only makes the pressure sharper.

Why did he ever think he deserved something this good? Why did he let himself believe that someone like you could actually love him the way he loved you?

Because he did. More than anything. More than racing, more than winning, more than the parts of himself he never let anyone see. He loved you so much it terrified him. And now it feels like it's killing him.

He can still feel you on his lap. Your legs tangled over him, your weight pressed into him, the warmth of your cheek against his chest. It’s burned into his skin, cruel reminders of the safety he thought he’d finally found. A cruel before-and-after that plays on loop: the girl in his arms, the girl in the photo.

His vision blurs again, tears forcing their way past clenched eyes. The sob that claws its way out of his chest is ugly, broken, animal. His throat burns, voice shredded to pieces. He bites down hard enough on his lip to taste blood, but even that doesn’t distract him.

And all the while, your voice filters weakly through the door. You’re pleading, promising, begging him to listen, your words breaking on his name. That makes everything hurt worse. Because he wants to so badly. He wants to believe you more than anything.

But the photos won’t stop burning. His friends’ messages won’t stop buzzing. And he can’t risk it. He can’t risk giving his whole heart to you, only for the world to prove him wrong.

The bathroom spins. He presses his forehead to the cold porcelain of the sink, sweat dripping down his temples, chest heaving. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the picture. His baby with someone else. It makes him gag again. His fingers tremble against the basin. He feels small, hollowed out, like he’s back to being a boy again, broken open by a world too sharp, too cruel.

“Why?” The word falls out of him, ragged, ruined, meant for you but maybe only for himself. “Why would you do this to me?”

Silence answers. Then your voice again, weak and desperate: “I didn’t, Lewis, I swear. Please, it’s not what it looks like—”

He squeezes his eyes tighter, rocking forward with his arms wrapped tight around his ribs, desperately trying to hold himself together. He doesn’t believe you. He can’t. Because if he lets himself even hope, and it turns out to be true…if you really have betrayed him, it’ll destroy what little is left of him.

He tips his head back against the cabinet with a hollow thud, throat raw, lungs straining for air. The sound of your voice through the door is salt in an open wound. Every syllable carves him deeper, every plea twisting the knife.

He drags his palms over his face, nails scraping skin, and chokes on another sob. He’s unraveling. He knows it. And he hates that you’re the one who can hear it.

“Get out. Please,” he rasps, the words mangled by tears. “Just get out. I can’t do this.”

It doesn’t stop the grief. Doesn’t stop the avalanche crushing his chest. It only makes it worse, because even as he pushes you away, even as he tells you to leave, he knows a part of him will always, always want you to stay.

“Baby…” you sob, hands pressed flat against the door.

That ruins him, his stomach lurches once more as he dry heaves between sobs. He doesn't want to hear anymore. He can’t even hear your voice without feeling a sharp stab to his chest.

“Get the fuck out!” he screams desperately through the closed door. 

The sound jolts your entire body. Your Lewis had never even raised his voice at you. Not once. Not until now.

You slide down to the floor outside the door, curling into yourself. Tears blur everything, but you can still hear him inside, sobbing like his body is splitting apart, like your name itself has become poison in his throat. But the longer you sit there, the more the truth sinks in like ice water over your head: he doesn’t want you. Not here. Not now. Your voice only hurts him more.

Every muffled sob from behind that door cuts into you, sharp and merciless. He sounds destroyed. Ruined. And all you can think is that staying will only make it worse.

Your legs feel weak when you push yourself upright, like you’re moving underwater. You grab your bag with shaking hands, the apartment a blur through your tears. For a moment you hesitate in the doorway, praying he’ll open the bathroom door, call your name, beg you not to go. But all you hear is the broken sound of him falling apart.

So you leave. Not because you’re guilty, not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because the man you love is too shattered to hear the truth.

The door shuts, and the echo feels like a gunshot. His cries seep through the walls, each one shattering another piece of you, until you don’t know which of you is more broken. You leave him behind not because you want to, but because he begged you to. You walk down the hall on shaking legs, knowing the man you love is crumbling a few feet away, and you can’t touch him, can’t fix him. He doesn’t want you to. That hurts more than anything else ever could.

You don’t remember getting home. Only the blur of the Uber ride, your phone heavy in your hand, eyes swollen and raw. The city outside the window looks crueler than ever, every streetlight stabbing at your temples. You can still hear him, broken behind that bathroom door.

Your thumb hovers over his name in your contacts for hours. And then you cave.

1:13 a.m. Lew, please, I need you to listen.

1:26 a.m. It wasn’t like that. I would never.

1:42 a.m. I’m begging you. Answer me. I can’t breathe without you.

You call. Once. Twice. Ten times. His voicemail picks up every time. The robotic “leave your message after the tone” slices through the quiet of your apartment until you’re pacing, glass in your hand, words spilling out until you don’t even remember what you said.

By the fifth call, your throat is raw. By the tenth, your hands are shaking so badly you spill vodka down the front of your shirt. By the fifteenth, you’re sobbing into the receiver, voice broken, pleading for him to pick up.

You don’t stop. Not until the sun starts rising, painting the walls of your empty apartment gold.

The apartment door closes behind you, and he doesn’t move. He stays curled on the cold tile until his muscles ache, until his tears dry in sticky tracks against his face. The silence is deafening, but he can’t bring himself to leave the bathroom. Because if he steps into the bedroom, if he looks at the bed where you’d been tangled up with him only hours earlier, he thinks it might kill him.

When he finally stumbles out, dawn is bleeding through the curtains. Your bag is gone. So are you. The place smells faintly like your perfume, the hoodie you wore crumpled on the bed like proof he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. He sinks to the floor beside it, clutching it to his face, rocking like a man trying to wake himself from a nightmare.

His phone won’t stop buzzing. Notifications stacking, texts lighting up his screen. He ignores them until he can’t anymore. He sees your name first. Dozens of messages. Missed calls. Voicemails.

He swipes through the list with trembling fingers before pressing play.

“Lewis, baby, it’s me… please, please don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. You know me. You know I’d never—”

Your voice is fractured, soft, breaking on his name. He doubles over, pressing a fist to his stomach, hoping it’ll stop the twisting ache.

Another voicemail.

“You’re the only one I want. The only one I’ve ever wanted. Please call me back.”

He presses the phone against his ear until it hurts. The sound of you sobbing on the other end makes bile rise in his throat again. His hand shakes so badly he nearly drops it.

By the fourth message, your words are slurred.

“I can’t—fuck, I can’t lose you. Do you hear me? You’re it, Lew. You’re everything. I swear on my life, it’s not true. Just… answer me. Please.”

His breath shudders out of him, harsh and uneven. The words stab through his chest, cruel because they’re exactly what he wants to hear, but exactly what he can’t believe. His pride, his humiliation, the image of those photos plastered across every screen in the world, they all press against your voice, crushing him until he can barely breathe.

Another one. Another. Each worse than the last.

You sound destroyed.

He can’t stop listening.

By the tenth, he’s curled on the floor, hoodie clutched in his fist, tears soaking the fabric. Every voicemail feels like someone hammering nails into him, one after the other, until he’s pinned to the floor by his own grief.

He can’t do this here. Not in the apartment that still smells like you, not surrounded by your shoes by the door, your charger tangled on the nightstand, your laugh echoing in his skull like a ghost.

So he runs.

The drive is endless and yet a blur. The motorway lights streak past in pale yellow smears, his grip white-knuckled on the wheel, vision clouded by tears that keep threatening to spill over again. He doesn’t pack properly, just throws a duffel into the car, hoodie over his head, glasses pulled low. Not even a toothbrush. He just needs to run.

He doesn’t put music on. He can’t. The silence is punishment enough, filled only by the occasional buzz of his phone in the passenger seat, lighting up with your name again and again. He can’t look at it. He grips the wheel tighter, chest aching every time it vibrates. He knows it’s you. He knows you’re still trying.

But the voices of his friends, of the other drivers, of strangers on the internet drown you out. Hamilton got played. Did you see this, mate? She didn’t even care who saw.

By the time he turns into the town he grew up in, the sun is rising, painting the sky a thin, bleak grey. His stomach churns as he pulls into the driveway. The house hasn’t changed since he was last here. Same bricks, same flowers in the front garden his mum tends every spring. For a moment he just sits there with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel, breathing like each inhale hurts.

The door opens before he can knock. His mother stands there, cardigan pulled tight around her, concern carved into every line of her face.

“Lewis?” she says softly, and that’s all it takes.

His lips press together in a trembling line before they break completely. His eyes squeeze shut and the tears spill fast and hot, shoulders shaking as he drops the duffel on the step. She rushes forward and pulls him into her arms, no questions asked, no demands for explanation. Just warmth, steady and certain.

He collapses against her like he’s seventeen again, not forty, not a champion, not a man the world sees as unbreakable. His body racks with sobs, face buried in her shoulder, the sound of him crying raw and desperate, like the child she used to rock to sleep after nightmares.

“Shh, sweetheart,” she whispers, stroking the back of his head, swaying gently. “It’s okay. You’re home now. It’s okay.”

But it isn’t. It isn’t okay. And the worst part is, he doesn’t even know if it ever will be again.

That night, he lies awake in his bedroom at their house. Posters on the walls, shelves lined with trophies from before the world knew his name. The space feels foreign and familiar all at once, like a version of himself he can’t reach anymore. He’d distracted himself by spending time with his niece and nephew, and it had worked, helping him feel a little more human. Until now.

He wants to call you. God, he wants to so fucking bad. He clutches his phone to his chest. Your name stares back at him in endless missed calls, endless messages stacked one after the other. His thumb hovers over the screen. He could call you. He could end this spiral in a second, let you explain, let you fix it.

But then he hears it all again: his friends’ texts, the mocking headlines, the whispers in the paddock, the pitying messages from the people who were supposed to respect him, the images of your smile aimed at someone else. And his pride won’t let him. His heartbreak won’t let him.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do: he presses play on another voicemail.

“Lew, please answer. Please. I don’t know what to do without you.”

The sound of your voice cracks through the quiet of his room like a blade. He turns onto his side, curling into himself, face pressed to the pillow. His body trembles with silent sobs, the kind that leave him gasping, chest aching like it’s caving in. He clutches the duvet in his fists, pulling it over his head, trying to block it all out. But your voice slips through anyway.

He thinks of you on his lap, humming gently, pressing soft kisses to his jaw. He thinks of your smile. The smell of your hair. Your warmth in his arms. And then he sees the photos again. The article. The “sources.” The hashtags trending with your name and someone else’s. The whole world believing you’d betrayed him while he was too blind, too in love, to see it.

It’s breaking him in half.

He presses the pillow harder to his face and cries into it until his throat is raw, until his body is exhausted from grief. He’s Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion. But here, in his family’s home, he’s just a broken boy who can’t understand how love turned into this much pain. Pain that felt like it was ripping him open from the inside out. He’d never felt like this. Never wanted to feel like this again

It was then that he decided he couldn't let himself go back. Couldn’t bear to go through anything like this again. 

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Three days pass in a haze. Lewis barely eats. He can’t train. He can’t even leave the house. He spends hours in his room, curtains drawn, scrolling and scrolling through the same photos, as if staring at them might change what they show. Each time his chest tightens all over again.

Lewis doesn’t mean to open Twitter, but he can’t sleep, can’t breathe. Every scroll is torture, every photo a reminder. But then he sees it.

[BREAKING] Star midfielder DENIES rumours of alleged affair with Hamilton’s girlfriend

His thumb freezes. The headline stares back at him like it’s in another language.

He taps the article. The footballer’s face fills the screen, jaw tight, eyes blazing at a press conference.

In a shocking twist, the scandal that dominated headlines this week has now been branded a fabrication. The football star at the centre of the alleged affair has spoken out publicly, slamming the story as “absolute bullshit.” “She’s barely even my friend,” he told reporters at a press conference earlier today. “We spoke briefly about a youth program, and that’s it. There was no kiss, no relationship, no ‘late-night flat.’ I’m furious the media twisted something so harmless into a scandal. And I’m especially angry for her, because this nonsense disrespects her and her relationship. She loves Lewis. Everyone knows that.” The statement has sent shockwaves through social media, with fans now demanding apologies for Hamilton’s girlfriend. The photos have since been confirmed to be cropped and misleading, and the alleged ‘flat sighting’ traced back to recycled paparazzi shots from months ago. What began as “the shock betrayal nobody saw coming” has instead become another high-profile case of tabloid sensationalism.

Lewis stares at the words until they blur. His chest constricts, nausea climbing his throat.

It wasn’t true. None of it.

The phone slips from his hand and hits the floor with a dull thud. He sinks onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, pressing his hands into his face. His body trembles violently, breaths coming shallow and fast.

He doesn’t know if it’s relief or devastation. Both, maybe. Because the story was fake, yes, but his reaction wasn’t. His reaction was real. And it feels like he's destroyed the one person who ever made him feel safe.

Across the city, you’re staring at the same headline, tears spilling over your cheeks. For the first time in days, you exhale without your chest crushing in. Relief and exhaustion war inside you, but the ache doesn’t vanish. The damage is done. He didn’t believe you. He didn’t even give you the chance to explain. You don’t know if things can ever be the same again.

You curl onto the sofa, phone pressed to your chest, whispering into the empty room. “Thank you.” Not to him, not the footballer, but to whatever higher power finally, finally cleared your name.

Meanwhile, Lewis rocks back and forth on his mattress, hearing the midfielder’s words on repeat. She loves Lewis. Everyone knows that.

He wants to believe it. He knows he should believe it. But the truth is louder: he didn’t know. He didn’t trust. He threw it all away before the world corrected him.

He’s not relieved. He’s in shock. Then he’s drowning in guilt.

When the knock comes, you almost don’t answer. It’s late, and you’re the most drained you’ve ever been.  Three days of sobbing into pillows, clutching your phone until your fingers cramped. You’d spent all day  rereading the denial article like it might erase the damage already done. You’ve just about convinced yourself it’s someone else. A neighbour. Delivery. Anyone but him.

But then you hear it. His voice, muffled, desperate.

“Baby, please. Please open the door.”

Your breath stutters. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then your legs carry you forward before your brain can catch up. You unlock the door.

Lewis stands there, hood soaked with rain, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the night you left. The moment he sees you, his chest heaves, and the first sob rips free.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re in shock, gripping the edge of the doorframe so hard to hold you upright. He ignored you for three days. Left you alone with your own heartbreak while the world tore you apart. Now he’s here, crying like a child on your doorstep.

“I didn’t believe you,” he says, voice shaking, words tumbling out. “I didn’t even let you explain. I pushed you away, I screamed at you, I—” His voice cracks. “I broke us. I broke you. And it was all a lie.”

Tears sting your eyes again, hot and relentless. “Lewis—”

“I wanted to marry you,” he blurts, chest heaving. “Do you understand that? I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve never loved like this. Never been this obsessed with anyone. You’re my safe place, my home, my everything… a-and I ruined it because my pride couldn’t take it. Because the whole world saw those photos and I—” His hands drag through his braids, frantic. “I thought I was a fool. I thought everyone was laughing at me. I couldn’t—fuck, I couldn’t breathe knowing people thought you were his. Thinking he'd touched you”

Your knees feel weak. The sight of him so raw, so shattered, is almost incomprehensible in your current state. You understand. Of course you get it. If it had been him in those photos, you’d have lost your mind too. You’d have burned the world down. But the pain he put you through is still there, lodged deep in your chest, throbbing with every beat of your heart.

“Do you know what it did to me?” you whisper, voice breaking. “Three days, Lewis. Three days of calling, begging, screaming into voicemails, and you didn’t answer. You left me to drown.”

He flinches like you struck him, tears spilling freely now. “I listened,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I listened to every single one. Over and over. I couldn’t stop. Your voice—” He shakes his head, choking. “It killed me. But I didn’t have the strength to call back. I was so fucking broken. I couldn’t face you thinking that you didn't...didn't want me”

He cuts himself off by gasping for air through sobs.

The silence between you is jagged, broken only by his sobs and the rain dripping from his hood onto your floor. You want to collapse into him, to let him hold you, to believe this can be stitched back together. But the wound is still raw.

“Lewis,” you whisper, and his name tastes like salt on your tongue. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. But something between us broke that night. You shut down, Lew. Shut me out.”

“I know,” he says instantly, desperate. “I know, baby. And I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life fixing it, if you let me. I’ll fight for us harder than I’ve ever fought for anything. Because I can’t lose you. I can’t. I won’t.”

He takes a shuddering breath, trying to force more words out between tears. “I was so scared, baby. You have to understand. I’ve dealt with the world doubting me, mocking me, tearing me apart, but this… this was different. It wasn’t just headlines. It was you. It was them all looking at me like I was pathetic, like the whole world had proof I wasn’t enough for the woman I love. I felt stripped bare. I didn’t know how to come back from that. And it killed me, because all I’ve ever wanted was you.”

His hands twitch helplessly at his sides, as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or hide his face. “I’ve never been that vulnerable. I’ve never given anyone this much of me. And when it looked like you’d thrown it away, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know how to keep standing.”

His hands drag down his face, and when he looks at you again his eyes are wild, wrecked. "I’ve never cared about anyone like this, never loved anyone this hard. You’re in every part of me. And when it looked like you’d given that to someone else—” his words shatter, his hand clenching over his chest, “—I lost it. It felt like my heart was being ripped out in front of everyone. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, because if I lost you, then what’s left of me?”

His voice softens, almost ashamed. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you speak. I should’ve, but I panicked. All I saw was you with someone else, and it felt like the whole world was laughing at me. I told myself you were gone before I even gave you the chance to tell me otherwise.”

Your chest aches. You can see it in his eyes, the boy who never believed he was worthy of being loved like this, who let fear and pride turn him into his own enemy. And you can feel it in your own heart too, the ache of betrayal, the scar of abandonment, but also the love that hasn’t dimmed, not for a second.

Slowly, you step aside, leaving the door open. “Come in,” you whisper.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days, stumbling inside, shutting the door behind him. And when you finally collapse into his arms, both of you sobbing, both of you clinging like you might disappear, the mess doesn’t vanish. The pain doesn’t vanish. The pressures, the headlines, the public eye, they’re all still there.

But so is the love. It always was. 

The chaos still hums in the air long after the tears dry, but neither of you speaks as you move together through the motions of something mundane, something grounding. A shower to wash away the rain and the grief, his hands trembling when he helps rinse the shampoo from your hair, your fingers brushing gently over the bruises left on his pride, his heart. Neither of you says much. You don’t need to.

Later, in your bed, after the rain and the tears and the silence of the shower, you lie tangled together. His head rests on your chest, his arm locked firmly around your waist. His breath warms your skin, uneven, like he’s still coming down from the storm inside him.

“I was fucking horrified,” he whispers suddenly, voice raw against your skin. “The thought of you with someone else… it—it killed me. And the whole world saw it, believed it. They thought my baby wasn’t mine anymore. I thought I’d lost you, that you wanted someone else, and I couldn’t stand the thought of that.”

Your throat tightens, tears stinging again. You slide your fingers gently through his damp braids, soothing. “I know,” you whisper. “I know, Lew. I get it. With all that pressure, with the cameras, the headlines… God, if it was me, I don’t think I’d have survived it either.”

He shifts, lifting his face just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and glassy in the dim light. “I was serious about wanting to marry you,” he breathes. “Still do. Even after all this. Especially after all this. If you’ll still have me.”

Your chest aches at the broken hope in his voice. You press a trembling kiss to his forehead, your arm wrapping tighter around him. “I’m here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

Something inside him gives way. He buries his face against your chest again, the sob that escapes is muffled but heavy.

“I love you more than anything,” he sniffles into your neck.

“I love you too baby, more than anything.” Your voice is barely above a whisper as you kiss his temple again. 

As you drift into sleep, you both let yourself believe that if you can get through this, then you can get through anything.

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him speak.

“No. No, let me finish.” You point toward the door, toward the garage, the team, the whole damn building. “You’ve been telling them that the setup felt wrong. You told them the tyres wouldn’t last. You told them you felt the rear sliding and what did they do? nothing. Like?? what’s the point of having Lewis Hamilton if you’re not going to listen to Lewis Hamilton?!??

He lets out a breath, controlled and slow, the kind of exhale that means he’s been expecting this. But you keep going. “You told them about the setup. You told them about the tyres. You told them about the balance issues. And they looked at you like you were what? Paranoid? Too sensitive? Like you haven’t spent how many years proving you know exactly what a car is doing?”

Lewis places his gloves on the table, neat and deliberate, while you start pacing because standing still burns too much.

“And then today...P18? P18?! That wasn’t your fault! But the way they brushed it off after the race? What did they say? regroup? analyze? see what went wrong? Are you kidding me?” Your laugh comes out sharp and humorless. “How many more times are they gonna promise they’ll analyze before they actually fix something?”

Lewis leans back against the counter, arms crossed loosely, listening but that serene look on his face only fuels the blaze inside you.

“Lewis, they’re wasting your talent. They’re wasting your years. And honestly?” You stop in front of him, heart hammering. “I’m starting to hate Ferrari.”

His eyebrows lift just slightly but he still doesn’t interrupt, he listens to you, lets your frustrations out, he lets you rant. “And I know you’re gonna give me that calm philosophical crap, but look me in the eyes right now and tell me you’re not frustrated. Tell me you’re not exhausted. Tell me you don’t feel like you deserve better.”

His jaw tenses and you noticed, still you didn't care, you continued

“…I don’t even understand why you left Mercedes for this.”

And finally, his gaze snaps to yours, sharper than before, the air slowly shifts

“Don’t” he warns quietly but you’re too worked up, too heartbroken for him, too mad at the universe to stop.

“No, I will. Because clearly someone has to say it. You left a team that listened to you, that trusted you, that built around you, for this. For a team that treats your feedback like optional background noise! Why did you move? Why did you do this to yourself? To me? To us?”

The last word hangs heavy between you. Lewis just stands up straighter. “Y/N.”

But you’re shaking your head, anger and despair mixing until you can’t tell them apart.

“I watched you suffer today. I watched you fight a losing battle in a car that shouldn’t even be on the track in that state. I watched you go through hell and just accept it? Just smile and say you’ll try again? You deserve more than trying again. You deserve the support you had. You deserve-”

“Enough.” His voice is firmer than you’re used to. Not harsh but definitely not soft.

Your breath stutters, thrown off balance by the edge in his tone.

Lewis takes a step closer, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Don’t make this about Mercedes versus Ferrari. I left because I wanted something new. I left because I chose to. I’m not a child being led around. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

“But-”

“And don’t talk like this decision was a mistake I need to repent for.” There’s heat under his words now, not at you, but from the feelings you touched.

“I’m allowed to choose a path that challenges me. Even if you don’t understand it.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because he isn’t yelling, that would be easier. He’s porbably disappointed and that hits harder.

Your anger falters for half a second… but then the frustration surges again, tears pricking your eyes. “I just...I hate seeing them treat you like this,” you snap, voice breaking. “I hate watching you give everything and get nothing back. I hate watching you hurting and pretending you’re not. And I hate...I hate that red has become the color of your pain.”

That’s when Lewis exhales, a long, slow sigh that melts the tension in his shoulders. Something softens in his eyes, even though he’s still frustrated with you.

He steps closer, gently taking your wrists before you can turn away.

“Hey.”

Your breathing is uneven “Look at me.” and you did

Lewis’s voice lowers to that impossibly tender register, the tone that somehow reaches you even through the fire of your anger.

“I get it” he murmurs. “I really do. You’re angry because you care. Because you love me. Because watching me struggle hurts you.”

You swallow hard, chest still rising too fast. “And yes… I got annoyed. Because it sounded like you think I made the wrong choice. Like I put us in this situation. And maybe… maybe I did.”

He shrugs slightly, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. “But it’s my situation. My battle. And I chose it with open eyes.”

“But it’s hurting you!”

“It’s racing, baby.”

He brushes his thumb across your cheek, calming you with maddening ease. “Some seasons are beautiful. Some are brutal. But every chapter belongs to me. Even the ugly ones.”

His hands slide around your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer until your forehead rests gently against his.

“And when you’re angry like this…” He chuckles softly, the warmth in it dissolving the last of your resistance.

“When you’re all fire and fury… I don’t get upset because you’re wrong. I get upset because I hate being the cause of your pain.”

Your eyes sting. “But you’re not” you whisper. “Ferrari is.”

That earns a soft smile. “You’re allowed to be upset, love” he says. “You’re allowed to hate red. You’re allowed to question everything. But don’t turn that anger on my choices. I need you with me, not fighting the ghosts of decisions I’ve already made.”

Your anger crumbles, replaced by something heavy and aching. “I just don’t want you to lose years you won’t get back.”

Lewis presses a kiss to your forehead, slow, lingering, and tender.

“I won’t” he murmurs. “Because I’m living them with you.”

The room feels quieter now, warmer. You breathe him in, letting his steadiness anchor you.

“And hey…” he adds lightly, a teasing smile appearing.

“Next time you plan to yell at me about my career decisions, remind me to bring popcorn.”

You swat at his chest, and he laughs and the sound finally easing the knot in your stomach.

He cups your jaw again, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“We’ll figure this out” he promises. “One bad race doesn’t define a season. And one frustrating year doesn’t define a legacy.”

You nod, finally letting yourself melt into him.

“But if they ignore you again-”

“I know” he smirks. “You’ll torch the entire Scuderia.”

“Glad we understand each other.”

Lewis kisses you, steady and reassuring.

“of course, love”

Fin.