CHOCOHOLIC2.0

AMSTERDAM

THE ANSWER COMES IN THE MORNING WITH A SINGLE TEXT FROM RIHANNA. A grainy picture of you Lewis through the darkened car window. You half in his lap. His hand on your waist. Your mouth very--and you mean very--obviously on his. 

Robyn: That’s what I’m talking about. Get it girl. 

You make a sound of dread as you sit up in bed, prompting Lewis to stir awake behind you. 

“What’s wrong?”

You shove your phone in his face. “It's everywhere!”

Tabloids--That Night 

“Midnight Madness: Lewis Hamilton Caught Getting Handsy With Teammate’s Younger Ex-Girlfriend.”

“Backseat Confession? Racing Icon Lewis Hamilton Spotted Getting VERY Cozy with Teammate’s Former Flame.”

“Love in the Fast Lane: Lewis Hamilton and (Your Full Name) Can’t Keep Their Hands off of Each Other After Afterparty.”

There are photos under every one.

At the party: Lewis’s hand at the small of your back while he leans down to hear you over the music, his expression intent in a way cameras love to exaggerate.

Outside the venue: the two of you laughing, your heels in one hand, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder as he ushers you into the waiting car.

And the car. A blurry but unmistakable series through the tinted glass — your body turned toward his, his hand around your waist, your mouth on his, one frame where you’re very obviously straddling his lap while he looks at you like he’s forgotten the world exists.

Your face burns.

Lewis--the bastard--laughs. 

A deep, genuinely amused laugh, like he’s reading something ridiculous instead of what is effectively photographic evidence of the two of you making out in the back of a car.

“Lewis,” you say, scandalized.

He looks up, entirely too calm, as he watches you, “They make it sound much more dramatic than it was.”

You stare at him.

“We were literally kissing in a car.”

He shrugs, laying back down and pulling you into him. “Yes.”

“You ripped my panties.” 

“I’ll buy you new pairs,” he grins smugly, suddenly maneuvering you until you're straddling his waist. 

“Lewis,’ you scold, still gripping your phone. “We have become a scandal!”

His hands settle on your thighs.

“Yes,” he says, hand meeting the back of your neck and pulling down until his mouth brushes yours. “And?”

Your retort dies when he kisses you once, slowly and infuriatingly unconcerned.

~~~~~

Charles almost throws his phone through a fucking wall. It starts with one notification. Then another.

Then a message from Pierre that says only:

Have you seen this?

He opens the link expecting some race commentary, maybe a sponsor story. Instead, he gets a full-screen photo of you in Lewis’s lap.

Charles goes completely still. The room seems to narrow around him.

There’s another picture — the two of you at the gala, Lewis leaning close, his hand on your back. Another outside the venue, his hand at your waist. Another in the car, your mouth on his, his face tilted up to yours with an intimacy that is impossible to mistake.

Charles’s jaw clenches so hard it aches.

He opens another article. And another. Every headline is worse than the last.He scrolls through them, anger building so fast it leaves him lightheaded. Not because you moved on. That’s what he tells himself.

It’s because of Lewis. Because of the optics. Because the press is dragging his name into it. Because Lewis — quiet, unreadable Lewis — had looked him in the eye all season and apparently been circling around you the whole time.

But underneath all those excuses is the thing he refuses to name.

The image of you smiling up at someone else.

The way you’re touching Lewis like you once touched him.

Like the years you spent together, the fights, the apologies, the promises — like all of it could be replaced in one night with a man twice as composed and infinitely harder to read.

Charles throws the phone onto the kitchen counter so hard it skids across the marble.

“Are you serious?” he snaps to the empty apartment, chest heaving.

He paces once. Twice.

Then snatches the phone back up, staring again at the photo in the car.

You look happy. That is what makes something ugly twist in his stomach. Not guilty. Not messy. Not drunk and making a mistake. Happy. Like you aren’t thinking about him at all. Like what happened between the two of you ended exactly when you said it did — and only one of you kept replaying it afterward.

Charles scoffs bitterly, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

“As if it meant nothing,” he mutters, even though he was the one who cheated. The one who lied, then somehow managed to turn every argument afterward into your failure to forgive him quickly enough.

In his mind, none of that matters right now.

All he can see is Lewis’s hand on you. All he can hear is the teasing from the paddock that will come the second he steps into the garage.

His phone buzzes again.

A video this time. He doesn’t mean to watch it. The clip is halfway down the page, buried between race analysis and endless speculation, a grainy thumbnail with your face caught mid-laugh and Lewis’s hand unmistakably tangled with yours.

Charles knows he should keep scrolling. Instead, he taps it.

The footage is shaky, taken on someone’s phone in the dark. Camera flashes go off in violent bursts, bleaching everything white for half a second before the image snaps back into motion.

But it’s clear enough. 

You’re the one leading Lewis. Your fingers are laced through his, tugging him forward down a narrow street crowded with shouting photographers. You’re laughing — head tipped back, cheeks flushed, moving with that loose, unguarded ease of someone who’s had just enough to drink to stop caring who’s watching.

Lewis stumbles half a step behind you and laughs too, low and easy, letting you pull him wherever you want.

Not resisting. Not rushing. Just following. Like he’d go anywhere if you were the one taking him there.

“Lewis! Over here!”

“Are you two together?”

The voices overlap, frantic and sharp. Then another one cuts clean through the noise.

“Lewis—any comment on the tension this is going to cause in the paddock?”

Charles stills. His thumb freezes against the screen. In the video, Lewis slows. Just slightly. He turns his head toward the cameras. For one brief moment, there’s something sharper in his face. A flicker that could almost be a warning. Then you glance back at him and the look disappears. It softens instantly, the hard edge melting into something infuriatingly calm.

He smiles, lazy, content, unbothered. Like the question doesn’t touch him at all.

Like Charles doesn’t touch him at all.

“Ask me when the season starts back up,” Lewis says, voice light, almost amused.

The reporters erupt. Questions come faster, louder.

You tug on his hand again, laughing as you look back at him.

“Don’t encourage them.”

Lewis’s smile widens, smaller than a grin, but somehow more intimate. Like it’s only really for you.

“I’m not,” he says, and lets you pull him forward again.

He doesn’t take his hand back, doesn’t glance at the cameras, doesn’t even bother hiding how naturally he follows when you lead.

And just like that, the two of you disappear into the waiting car together--that same car where you kiss him like he’s what you need to breathe, swallowed by the dark and the crowd and the flashing lights.

Charles replays that part.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time, though he tells himself he’s only trying to hear Lewis’s answer again.

It isn’t the question that gets under his skin. It’s the handholding.

The way you reached for Lewis first. The way he let you. No hesitation. No surprise. Like that’s normal now. Like letting you touch him is second nature.

Charles pauses the video at the exact moment you turn back to look at Lewis.

Your hand is still in his. You’re smiling at him, bright and careless, and Lewis looking at you — not at the cameras, not at the crowd — you.

Charles knows that look. He used to think it belonged to him. That soft, private expression. The one that makes everything around the two of you seem irrelevant.

He remembers when you used to laugh like that with him. Late nights after events, sneaking outside entrances to avoid cameras, your hand wrapped around his while you pulled him toward some afterparty or empty street or wherever the night happened to take you.

Except now, watching the clip again, something awful settles in his stomach.

You never looked that free with him.

You were happy, yes, but careful.

Always checking if someone was watching. Pulling your hand away before cameras caught too much. Smiling, but with restraint.

This—This is different.

You look like you don’t care who sees.

And Lewis looks like he’s already decided that if anyone has a problem with it, that’s their burden to carry.

Charles replays it again.

This time, he notices the smallest detail. When you tug Lewis’s hand, he tightens his grip before following. Not to stop you. To keep hold of you.

Charles drops the phone onto the bed like it burned him.

But even staring at the ceiling, he can still see it.

Your hand in Lewis’s.

Your laughter.

The way he followed without question.

And for the first time, something ugly and undeniable cuts through all the anger he’s been feeding himself.

It isn’t just that you moved on.

It’s that you look happier doing it than Charles ever let you be.

PARIS 

 YOUR DISLIKE FOR PARIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH PARIS ITSELF. You just have experiences you’d rather not relive again and Paris had a bad habit of throwing your problems back at  you with a violence that could cause whiplash. 

That is where Charles finally catches up to you. Of course it had to be Paris. 

Paris is 3 for 0. Fuck you Paris, you know what you did.

You walk down the street towards where you planned on meeting Lewis at the end of your separate days out, shopping bags looped over your arm, sunlight catching in your hair. There’s an ease to the way you move now — something that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. No rushing. No checking over your shoulder. No bracing for a message that might ruin your day.

Just movement.

Just you, carrying the remains of a long afternoon and the kind of quiet happiness that sneaks up on you when you stop expecting it.

You’re halfway down the block when you see him.

Charles Leclerc.

Leaning against a parked car like he’s been waiting.

The change in you is immediate.

Not fear. Not even anger, at first. Just a sharp, tired irritation. 

You keep walking.

“(Name).”

You don’t stop.

“(Name)—wait.”

His hand closes around your wrist.

And the second his skin touches yours, the memory hits so hard it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

Your apartment door unlocking after rehearsal. The hallway is still dim. Your dance bag slipping off your shoulder.

A laugh from your bedroom that did not belong there.

The sight of him in your bed.

The woman tangled in your sheets, wearing your robe, turning toward you with startled eyes while Charles stumbled to his feet saying your name like he hadn’t just split something open inside you.

The way you shoved him. Again. And again.

Driving him backward through the apartment while he tried to talk over your anger.

Get out. Get out of my house. Get out.

The slam of the front door. His knocking afterward. His voice muffled through the wood.

(Name), I’m sorry, I love you, it didn’t mean anything. Open the door. Please.

Your stomach twisting so violently you barely made it to the sink before you were sick, one hand gripping the counter hard enough your knuckles ached. The image is repeating in your head. That girl in your bed. In your room. The perfume that wasn’t yours still hanging in the air.

Then the rage. Ripping the sheets off the mattress. Shoving pillows into garbage bags. Scrubbing the counters. The bathroom. The door handle. The floor. Scrubbing until your hands were red and raw and your tears were falling into bleach water because you could not stop feeling like something had been taken from the one place that was supposed to be safe. All of it flashes in less than a second. You yank your arm free so sharply he stumbles back a half-step.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your voice is colder than he expects.

Charles exhales, already unraveling. “You won’t answer my calls.”

You stare at him.

“Yes.”

He blinks, thrown by the simplicity of it.

“That’s all you have to say to me? After everything?”

You adjust the bags on your arm, looking at him like you genuinely cannot believe he’s still making this about himself.

“What exactly are you expecting, Charles?”

“I’m expecting you to stop this,” he snaps, gesturing vaguely. “This thing with Lewis. The traveling, the photos—this is ridiculous.”

You blink, before releasing a short, incredulous sound.

“You think this is ridiculous?”

“Yes,” he says, louder now. “You disappear, you parade around with Lewis Hamilton, you let everyone think—”

“I’m not letting anyone think anything,” you cut in, voice turning sharp. “I’m living my life.”

“With him,” Charles says, like that alone is the offense.

Your expression changes. All the irritation drains out of it. What’s left is something much colder.

“With someone who didn’t cheat on me in my own apartment.”

His mouth opens immediately. Maybe to defend himself, maybe to have the audacity to claim that he loves you. You didn't let him get that chance, “You don’t get to make yourself the hurt party.” 

A few people nearby slow. You don’t care.

“You brought another woman into my home,” you say, your voice rising despite yourself. “Into my bed. She was wearing my robe. I threw up, Charles.” 

His face pales.

“I had to throw everything out,” you say over him, anger building with every word. “Do you understand that? I stood in my bathroom throwing up because I could not stop thinking about her in my sheets.”

The street grows quieter around you. People are looking now. Charles’s expression fractures.

“I didn’t know you felt—.”

“Of course you didn’t,” you snap. “Because you never paid attention to me unless I was useful to you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” you fire back. “You couldn’t even come to the Tonys.”

“I had a race—.”

“You didn’t even watch,” you say, louder now. “I won the biggest award of my career and you didn’t even watch. But you had time to bring someone else into my home.”

He recoils like you slapped him. A couple at the corner has stopped entirely. Someone discreetly lifts a phone.

Your chest rises sharply, but you don’t stop.

“You made me feel small before you ever cheated,” you say. “Like my work didn’t matter. Like my life only mattered when it fit around yours.”

Charles’s jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair.”

“You made me scrub my own skin raw because I felt dirty in my own apartment,” You confess, “Do you know who sat with me when my hands were bleeding?”

His face changes before you even say it.

“Lewis,” You watch him flinch with satisfaction, “He didn’t ask me to be less to make room for him. He didn’t make me feel embarrassed for wanting to be seen.” Your eyes don’t leave him. “He treated me like I mattered before he ever touched me. He had a race too--but he still watched, he still celebrated me. He made the space. The time. You couldn’t even be bothered to make a fucking instagram post.” 

Charles scoffs, but there’s panic under it now.

“He was waiting for this. He’s playing games.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But at least he didn’t destroy my sense of safety and call it love.”

Silence. Heavy. Public. 

Charles looks at you like he’s finally realizing that whatever he lost, it isn’t something he can talk his way back into.

“(Name),” he says, voice cracking now. “I love you.”

“You don’t get to say that after I had to sanitize my own home because of you.”

“(Name)—.”

“No.”

You take one step back. Your voice is flat. Final. “We’re done here.”

And as you walk away, there is no trembling despite the unsteadiness in your gut.

No collapse.

Because the woman who sobbed on her bathroom floor surrounded by trash bags full of ruined sheets and stripped bedding is gone.

She disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic — somewhere between Barbados and Milan and Paris, somewhere between Lewis’s hand at the small of your back and his quiet voice telling you that what Charles did did not make you dirty.

At the end of the block, a black car waits.

Lewis is leaning against it, sunglasses on despite the late afternoon light. He does not interrupt. He simply waits.

As if he knew you didn’t need saving. And when you reach him, he takes one look at your face, opens the passenger door, and presses a kiss to your temple before helping you inside.

No questions. No demand for explanation. Just that steady, grounding presence that has become dangerously easy to lean into. As he makes his way around to the driver side door, you miss the way Lewis levels Charles with a sharp warning look. A silent and sure, “Stay in your lane,” conveyed in the silence of the aftermath. 

~~~~~~~

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, soft but final. For a second, you just stand there. Shopping bags slip from your fingers and land in a quiet heap by the entryway, tissue paper spilling out, one handle snapping under the weight. You don’t even look at it, moving deeper into the room. Straight past the bed, past the open balcony doors where late afternoon Paris light spills in, straight into the bathroom like something inside you has decided it can’t breathe anywhere else.

The faucet turns on too hard. Water splashes against the porcelain sink. Cold.

You put your hands under it immediately.

Soap. Lather. Rinse.

Again. And again.

Your breath is sharp, uneven, too fast in your chest. The mirror fogs in broken patches as you lean closer to the sink, scrubbing harder than you need to. Because your skin still remembers. Charles’s hand on your wrist in the street. Too quick. Too familiar. Too wrong. And worse than that—what it pulled up. The apartment. The bed. The woman in your sheets. The moment your world split open and never fully closed again.

Your stomach twists so sharply you brace one hand against the counter while the other keeps washing.

Soap.

Water.

Again.

The bathroom feels too small suddenly. Too bright. Too much. Your breathing sharpens. 

“(Name),” Lewis’s voice, quiet behind you.

You don’t turn around.

“I’m fine,” you say immediately. It comes out wrong. Thin. Strained. You keep scrubbing.More soap, lather, scrub. 

He steps closer anyway, “Hey,” he says softly.

You shake your head once, like you can physically dislodge the memory.

“I just—.” Your breath catches. “I can still feel him.”

Lewis reaches past you and turns the water off. Silence rushes in immediately. It’s worse than the noise. Your hands stay hovering over the empty sink, dripping. Soap sliding away too slowly. For a second, you just stare at nothing. Then your fingers twitch toward the tap again. His hand catches yours, stopping you from hurting yourself anymore. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you say, words coming too fast now. “It’s just—he touched me and I can’t get it out of my head and I feel—.” your voice breaks slightly, “I feel sick.”

Lewis turns you gently, guiding until you’re facing him instead of the sink, when you see him, something in your chest finally cracks open properly. His expression isn’t alarmed, he’s steady, present, “There’s nothing stupid about it,” he says quietly.

You swallow hard.

His gaze drops briefly to your hands, red from scrubbing, then back to your face.

“He crossed a boundary your body still remembers,” he says. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

Your throat tightens. You hate how much you need to hear that.

Lewis lifts your hand carefully, turning your wrist slightly. His thumb brushes over the exact spot Charles grabbed earlier. Then he presses a kiss there, soft and intentional like hes trying to erase the feeling with his mouth. Your breath stutters.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says.

A shaky breath leaves you, and then you’re stepping forward before you even decide to.

Lewis opens his arms immediately and you fold into him.

Forehead against his shoulder, hands gripping the back of his shirt like you need something solid to anchor you to the present. His arms wrap around you, firm and steady, one hand at the back of your head, the other between your shoulder blades, letting you exist there.

After a moment, he shifts back slightly, just enough to look at you.

“You’re here,” he murmurs.

Not a question.

A reminder.

You nod faintly, but your hands are still shaking.

Lewis notices.

Of course he does.

He leans down, slips an arm under your legs before you can protest, and lifts you easily onto the bathroom counter. You let out a small, startled breath.

“There you are,” he says softly, like he’s found you again.

He steps between your knees, one hand resting at your waist, grounding you in place without pressure. And for the first time all day, you stop bracing. Your hands loosen where they’re still curled into his shirt. Your breathing slows. But there’s still something raw under your ribs. Something that hasn’t fully settled. Lewis’s thumb traces the inside of your wrist again.Then he lifts your hand and presses another kiss there.

Your eyes close for a second, heart stuttering violently in your chest. 

And when you open them, you’re already leaning toward him. It happens before you fully think it through. You kiss him. It’s quick at first—almost desperate. Your fingers catch in his shirt again, pulling him closer before you can second-guess it. Lewis stills for half a heartbeat. Then he responds, meeting you exactly where you are.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you as he steps closer between your knees, and the kiss deepens into something slower, more deliberate. Grounding.

Like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto from the inside out. Your breath catches against his mouth. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t escalate.

He just stays with you in it, letting you set the pace without letting you drift away from yourself. When you break slightly for air, he doesn’t go far.

Forehead resting against yours.

You’re both breathing unevenly now, but calmer than before.

His thumb strokes your jaw once.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, but it’s small, not fully there yet, so he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper and something in your chest finally unclenches.

The sink. The street. Charles’s hand. It all starts to fade at the edges. Not gone. But quieter. Less sharp. When he pulls back again, you don’t chase him this time—you just stay there, forehead still touching his, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Lewis looks at you for a moment like he’s reading something only he understands.

Then he exhales softly.

“There you are,” he says again.

You let out a small breath that might almost be a laugh, still a little unsteady, still a little stunted.  He smiles faintly in response before pressing a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—brief, soft, certain. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

You sigh into his mouth, you don’t know. He trails his lips, soft and sweet, down your jaw and your breath hitches slightly, involuntarily. He pauses a moment, mouth against your skin before he continues his path down your neck, his kisses slow, open mouthed, tongue tasting your skin in a way that makes you shiver. 

You feel him smile against your skin, “I know what you need,’ he whispered, nipping slightly at the junction of your shoulder and neck, your eyes flutter closed. “Let me give it to you.”

“Hmm?” 

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you breathed. 

“Good,” he wrapped your legs around his waist and picked you up, carrying you back into the bedroom. He plopped you on the bed and you looked up at him with wide eyes as he looked you over, liking his lips slowly, thoughtfully. His eyes lingered on your pleated black skirt before flicking back up to your face. “Take it off for me, baby, leave the skirt on.”

You find yourself doing what he says, with shaky fingers, discarding your blouse and bra. 

“Panties too, skirt stays.” 

Your painties join the small pile on the floor, leaving you bare under your skirt. He hums happily and drops slowly to his knees between your legs. Your breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at you and your heart stuttered at the dark look in his eyes. “Helping you take your mind off of it,’ his hands trailed up your thighs and you shivered. “Will you let me?”

You hesitated, “No one has ever--.”

He raised his brows looking oddly offended on your behalf, “No one?” 

You shook your head shyly. “Not really, one of my exes tried once,” you grimaced, “He bit me.” 

Lewis laughed. You smacked him on the shoulder. “It's not funny! Robyn had to take me to the ER, she laughed at me the entire time.” 

Lewis dropped his head against your knees chuckling for a moment more before he looked up at you, brown eyes shining. “I promise I won’t bite you, unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t,” you frowned, "I am a soft girl, I like soft things!” You protested, turning up your nose. 

He laughed brightly, “That’s not what you said last night.”

“Do not use my vulnerable words against me,” you narrowed your eyes even more and he chuckled, leaning forwards to kiss the frown off your face. 

“Yes, of course, my bad,” he kissed you again, deeper this time and you melted into the feeling. “Let me, please?”

“You don’t have to--.”

“I want to,’ he said, looking into your eyes. “Do you trust me?”

You nodded.

He smiled, his hands spreading open your legs slowly, “Can I taste you?”

Your breathing hitched, as you looked down at him. You nodded. 

“Use your words for me, baby.”

“Yes. You can.” 

“Good,” he pressed a kiss to your knee, pressing a hand to your sternum and you leaned back on your elbows, “Relax, let me help you feel good.”

He trailed open mouthed kisses up your thighs as he spread your legs wider, you couldn’t help but feel a little exposed as you watched him disappear under the fabric of your skirt, your breathing picked up as he drew closer and closer. He spread your thighs open wider. He pressed a warm open mouthed kiss high on your inner thigh, his warm breath on your skin sending a shudder through you. 

Then his mouth met you exactly where you needed him, you both moaned at the contact. Your elbows slipped out from under you, back hitting the bed as he licked a long strip through your slit. 

He took his time with you, mapping out every reaction, every hitch in your breath, every buck of your hips. He catalogued what made you whine and what made you tremble. Soon he was building pleasure with a slow intensity that made it almost too much but equally not enough.

He sucked gently at your neglected clit and your hand flew to your mouth almost instinctively when a sound slips out of you—too honest, too unfiltered—and you try to swallow it down. It doesn’t work. A low hum leaves him in response, quiet but approving, and it sends a sharp ripple through your whole body that makes your stomach tighten.

“Lewis—."

Your voice breaks on his name.

One of your hands drops to the mattress, gripping the sheets hard like you can anchor yourself there. The other reaches for him without thinking, needing something real.

He notices instantly.

Of course he does.

His arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place—not letting you retreat from the intensity building in your body, but not letting you drift away from it either.

“God,” you whisper. “You’re—."

You can’t even finish the sentence.

Because everything feels like it’s building too quickly now—too concentrated, too focused in a way that makes your thoughts fragment.

You shift slightly, overwhelmed, your body instinctively trying to retreat from the intensity.

“Lewis,” you gasp. “Wait—."

He stills instantly, not fully stopping, but pausing just enough that the pressure eases, enough that you can breathe again, but not far enough for you to come down, the feeling of his breath against your sensitive flesh making you tremble.

“Look at me.”

You do.

It takes effort.

Your vision is a little unfocused, your body still trembling faintly, your pulse loud in your ears. His expression is steady—completely focused on you, not on anything else. Not on anything but how you’re doing.

“You with me?” he asks quietly.

You nod, but it’s shaky.

“Words, baby, I need words.”

“Y-yes .”

“I need you to stay here,” he says, it's not quite given as a command, but more of a grounding point.And something about that—about the way he’s prioritizing you inside this instead of just the moment—cuts through the overwhelm just enough for you to reach for him properly.

Your hand slides up, finding his wrist.

Then his hand.

Your fingers curl around his first.

And then you lace them together.

He responds immediately, tightening his grip—not restricting, just anchoring you back into the present through touch.

You exhale sharply, some of the tension in your chest loosening as your hand stays firmly in his.

“Better?” he murmurs.

You swallow.

“Yes.” 

But you don’t let go.

And neither does he.

When he is sure you’re still with him, he starts again, mouth meeting you again, tongue lapping at you with slow confident strokes, like he had already processed all the information he needed to make you tick, to make you whimper. 

His thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles, steady and repetitive, like he’s reminding your body how to settle even while everything inside you is still humming. The intensity doesn’t lessen, it burns through you like a slowly creeping fire, your hips twitch up as his mouth moved over you, tilting you towards the edge.

But now it’s different.

Contained.

Shared.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, before doubling down. Your breath started coming out in sharp pants, legs trembling, threatening to close around his head, but he forced your legs apart with one strong hand. 

Your back arched off the bed, “Fuck! I--Lewis, I’m gonna come--I’m--.”

Your high tore through you with a sharp pulsing heat that rattled through your body, a sharp whine escaping you as you shuddered. Lewis held you down through it, continuing to devour you through your waves and just as you were coming down you were going up again. 

“Lewis! Lewis-fuck!”

Your second high detonated through you, a loud sob leaving your mouth as you tried to scramble up the bed, your free hand leaving the sheets to push at his head. “Too much! Too much!” 

Lewis lips left your clit with a slick, filthy pop that skittered through your body so hard you sobbed, pushing yourself up the bed, only then did he let you scramble away, still holding your hand, so you didn’t get far. 

He followed you up the bed, pressing open mouthed kisses up your sternum, chest and neck until his mouth met your in deep kiss that seemed to short circuit your system, your entire body softening and going lax. You could taste yourself on his tongue, it made you kiss him harder, arm coming up to wrap around his shoulders. 

He pulled away just enough to look at your face, a grin pulling at his mouth, “Still thinking about it, baby?”

You blinked, perplexed and dazed, still clinging to him like you needed him to breathe,  “About what?”

He laughed and kissed you again, “Good girl.” 

Tabloids--That Evening

“Explosive Paris Showdown: Star Calls Out Ex For CHEATING in Her Apartment.”

“ “I Threw Up”: (Name)’s Devastating Public Confrontation With Driver Ex.” 

“Tony Winner Leaves Ex Stunned After Street Argument in Paris.” 

~~~~~~

Charles calls while you’re still asleep, early in the morning, the sun having just risen. Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand, then stops. A minute later, it lights up again. Then again.

By the fourth call, Lewis finally reaches over with a quiet exhale and picks it up, glancing at the screen before his expression shifts into something unreadable.

Charles.

He looks down at you.

You’re draped on him, dead asleep, wearing his oversized team sweater from the night before because the hotel room had been too cold and he’d tugged it over your head without waking you. The hem barely covers your thighs. One of your hands is curled against his chest, your face tucked into the side of his neck as if that’s where you naturally belong.

His mouth curves up at the thought of it, because you do. 

The phone starts ringing again.

This time, Lewis answers.

He doesn’t move you off him. Doesn’t even straighten from his position against the head board, just keeps one arm around your waist and lifts the phone to his ear. “Good morning, Charles. A bit early don’t you think?”

There’s a split second of silence.

Then Charles’s voice explodes through the speaker loud enough that even you stir slightly against Lewis’s chest.

“Why is her phone with you?”

Lewis’s hand slides lazily up your back, soothing when you shift but don’t wake, your breath warm against his neck. 

He speaks evenly, almost bored. “A better question might be why you’re calling my lady’s phone this early.”

The silence on the other end is so sudden it’s almost comical.

Then Charles absolutely loses it.

“Your what?” he snaps. “Are you out of your mind? Lewis, what the hell are you doing?”

Lewis says nothing.

Charles keeps going, his voice rising with every word.

“This is about me, isn’t it? You think because your season’s been rough you get to pull some stunt like this? Taking advantage of her just to get under my skin? She was drinking, she—”

Lewis pulls the phone away from his ear as Charles rants. 

Not to hang up.

To open the camera.

Still holding you with one arm, he angles the phone just enough.

The photo is almost offensively intimate.

You’re asleep in his lap, wearing Ferrari red but no longer Charles’s. Lewis’ number printed across the back. Your legs are folded over either side of him, your face hidden against his throat. His hand is spread across the small of your back. The hotel sheets are tangled around both of you, sunlight spilling over the bed.

There’s no room for misinterpretation.

You look completely at home.

Lewis sends it.

Then lifts the phone back to his ear.

A beat passes.

Another.

Finally, he asks, calm as ever, “Did you get it?”

Charles doesn’t answer at first.

When he does, his voice is shaking with anger.

“You son of a—.”

“Let’s not resort to name calling, mate,” Lewis cuts him off, not loudly, but with a quiet finality that somehow lands harder. “She is with me now.”

The room stays silent except for your breathing.

Lewis’s fingers move once against your back, absent and almost possessive.

He continues, voice smooth, unhurried, “And she seems very comfortable where she is.”

The sound on the other end is ragged breathing.

Charles says nothing.

Then the line goes dead.

Lewis pulls the phone back from his ear and chuckles slightly to himself, putting your phone back on the nightstand, before pressing a kiss to your head. 

~~~~~

In a hotel across the city, Charles stares at the photo for exactly three seconds before throwing his phone hard enough that it smashes against the wall of his apartment and drops to the floor in pieces.

His chest is heaving.

That image won’t leave his head.

You in Lewis’s clothes. Sleeping on him. Wearing his number. The quiet intimacy of it is worse than the tabloids. Worse than the car. Worse than the gala photos.

Because those could have been explained away.

A drunken kiss. A reckless night. A bad decision.

But that picture?

That picture looks like something settled.

Like you woke up in Lewis’s bed and never thought twice about it.

Charles drags both hands through his hair, pacing so hard he nearly kicks over a chair.

He hates the jealousy crawling under his skin.

Hates that Lewis sounded so calm. So smug. Not even taunting — which somehow makes it worse. Like he doesn’t feel threatened by Charles at all.

Like he’s already won.

And what tears at Charles the most is the awful, humiliating suspicion that Lewis might actually mean it.

That he is already that gone over you.

That while Charles was busy convincing himself you’d eventually come back, Lewis simply reached out and took the place Charles left empty — and did it without a second of hesitation.

ZANDVOORT 

The next race weekend arrives under a storm of gossip.

Every paddock screen, every entertainment blog, every sports panel has spent the entire week cycling through the same grainy photos of you and Lewis Hamilton in the back of that car. Analysts pretend to talk strategy and lap times, then somehow end up discussing your lipstick on his collar.

And Charles has spent the whole week preparing.

Not for the race.

For you.

He tells himself it’s because closure matters. Because there are things left unsaid. Because if you show up in the paddock — if Lewis brings you there like some statement — Charles is going to pull you aside and say everything he should have said months ago.

That he was sorry.

That he was stupid.

That he still loves you.

That none of this with Lewis means what it looks like.

He rehearses versions of it in hotel mirrors, in the driver gym, walking from engineering to the garage. He builds entire conversations in his head where you look uncertain, where maybe you admit you’re confused, where maybe there’s still some opening.

Then Friday morning comes.

And Lewis arrives alone.

No you.

No dramatic entrance.

No hand at your back. No flash of cameras catching you stepping out beside him.

Just Lewis in team kit and sunglasses, walking into the paddock with a coffee in one hand, looking so calm it borders on offensive.

He looks rested.

Content.

Absolutely stable.

That is what throws Charles off.

Because Lewis should at least look irritated by the circus.

Instead, he looks like a man who slept eight solid hours and woke up with exactly what he wanted.

~~~~~~

The team meeting is tense enough to make the mechanics go silent.

 Fred doesn’t even wait for the door to close, before he slaps a tablet onto the conference table. Your face flashes across the screen in a tabloid collage.

“Would anyone care to explain,” Fred says tightly, “why one of my drivers ignored six calls from communications while the entire internet watched him devour his teammate’s ex in the back of a car?”

Silence.

Charles stares at the table.

Lewis, meanwhile, takes off his sunglasses and smiles like he’s being asked whether he’d like cream in his coffee. Then he reaches into the leather bag he set by his chair and places a polished cedar box in front of Fred.

The room goes still.

Fred narrows his eyes.

He opens it.

Inside is a pristine set of rare Cuban cigars, he stares at them for a long moment, then the team principal--with all the fiend composure of a squirrel caught in a trap-- closes the lid slowly and exhales through his nose.

The expression on his face says he knows exactly what this is: an apology wrapped in expensive, utterly unapologetic smugness.

Lewis folds his hands on the table.

“My phone was unavailable.”

Charles nearly chokes.

Fred glares at him for a full five seconds. Then, against every expectation, he tucks the box under his arm and moves on to race strategy. The meeting continues. Charles says nothing.

He forces himself not to look at Lewis. Forces himself not to ask the one question tearing at him:

Where are you?

~~~~~~~

By media hour, the press pack is feral. The first few questions are about tires, upgrades, and the new aero package. Then one reporter grins and asks the obvious.

“Lewis, are the romance rumors true? Are you and (Name) together?”

Lewis leans back in his chair. There’s a beat where he could dodge. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. A slow, smug smile spreads across his face — not flashy, not performative, just deeply pleased. “Yes.”

The room erupts. Camera shutters fire like machine guns. Another reporter jumps in.

“Are you concerned this relationship could create tension with your teammate, given (Name) previously dated Charles?”

Lewis’s expression barely changes as he folds his hands and answers in the same calm tone he uses to discuss tire degradation.

“I don’t feel guilty for treating a woman the way she deserves to be treated.”

The room goes dead silent.

It is such a smooth answer that it takes everyone a second to realize what he actually said. Then every journalist in the room starts talking at once. Across the media line, Charles’s face goes white. Lewis doesn’t even look at him.

“Where is (Name) this weekend? Was she expected in the paddock?”

That same small smile returns, softer now.

“She’s in Los Angeles working on a few projects she’s been excited about for a while.”

The way he says it changes everything. He sounds proud.

Genuinely proud.

“She won’t be around for the rest of the season,” Lewis continues. “Her schedule’s full, and I’m looking forward to seeing what she’s building.”

No possessiveness.

No annoyance.

Only open admiration. 

Charles feels sick. Because Lewis says it like supporting you is the most natural thing in the world.

~~~~~~

When it’s Charles’s turn, the room turns predatory. The first question is polite.

“Charles, how do you feel about the public confirmation of Lewis and (Name)’s relationship?”

Charles gives a practiced smile.

“I wish them both well.”

“Were you aware of their relationship before the photos surfaced?”

He shrugs.

“People have private lives. It’s not my concern.”

He’s doing well, too well.

Then someone from the back asks:

“Do you regret cheating on (Name), given Lewis’s comments suggesting she’s being treated better now?”

The air leaves the room, Charles’s jaw tightens. The PR manager in the front row visibly straightens.

Charles smiles — but only with his mouth, “That’s a private matter.”

“Do you think (Name) left because of the infidelity, or because she had already developed feelings for Lewis while you were still together?”

That does it, The chair scrapes sharply as Charles leans forward.

His voice cuts hard enough that several cameras jerk toward him.

“You people don’t know anything about what happened between us.”

The room freezes. His PR manager is on their feet immediately.

“Last question,” they cut in quickly, stepping toward the podium, but Charles is already halfway standing, anger flushing up his neck.

“You take one photograph and build an entire story out of it—”

“Charles,” the PR manager says sharply.

The warning in their tone finally reaches him. He stops, but only barely.

His hands are shaking, and every camera catches it.

Tabloids--that evening. 

“Lewis Hamilton confirms romance with teammate’s ex — responds with quiet class amid media storm.”

“Charles Leclerc visibly rattled after ex goes public with older teammate.”

“One Man in Love, One Man Unraveling: F1 Paddock Drama Reaches Boiling Point."

“(Your Full Name) Spotted in Los Angeles While Romance Headlines Explode Overseas.”

And the photos from LA spread just as quickly.

You wearing oversized sunglasses outside a dance studio in North Hollywood Arts District, carrying a garment bag and iced coffee, completely unaware that half the motorsport world is dissecting your love life. Smiling, busy, moving forward.

While in the paddock, Charles sits alone in his driver room, staring at the article comparing his outburst to Lewis’s composure. The worst part isn’t the headlines. It’s the comments under the photos. Thousands of them. And the one repeated over and over:

She looks happier

MONACO 

The café is small and tucked away from the main streets of Monaco, the kind of place you only find if someone brings you here once and you remember it by instinct after that. Quiet enough that conversations don’t carry. Quiet enough that you can breathe without feeling watched. You chose it on purpose.

Neutral ground.

Not Charles’ world. Not yours in any official sense either. Just somewhere in between, where nothing feels like it belongs to him.

You’re already seated when Arthur arrives.

He spots you immediately and slows for half a second at the door, like he needs to confirm you’re actually here before he commits to walking in. Then he does, and you watch him take in the room as if it might change on him halfway across it.

He looks different. Taller than you remember, though you know he has been for a while now. Broader in the shoulders too, the kind of growth that happens when you stop noticing someone every week and start seeing them in snapshots instead.

But his face still gives him away. Still Arthur. Still the same boy who used to trail after you in paddocks, stealing chips from your bag and asking you questions like you had all the answers.

When his eyes land on you, relief softens everything immediately.

“(Name).”

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Hi, bébé.”

It slips out naturally, like it always has, and you see it hit him in real time. He crosses the room and sits across from you, pulling his coffee closer like he needs something to hold onto. His hands are a little too tight around the cup.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Then Arthur exhales, too fast, like he’s been holding it in since the moment he decided to come, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t even hesitate,“No.”

He frowns immediately. “(Name), I should’ve said something earlier. I should’ve—.”

“Arthur,” you cut in gently, but firmly, you lean back slightly, studying him. “You are not responsible for what Charles chose to do.”

His jaw tightens at the name anyway, “He hurt you.”

You nod once, “Yes.”

The honesty lands between you both without embellishment. Arthur looks down, “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t fix it,” you say simply. “It’s not yours to fix.”

That makes him go quiet again. A heavier silence settles.

Then, softer, almost reluctant, he says, “I thought you’d stop talking to me too.”

That one actually stings. Your expression shifts immediately,“Never.” It comes out so fast it almost interrupts his thought entirely.

Arthur looks up sharply, you don’t look away.

“You don’t get to disappear on me just because your brother lost his mind.”

His eyes flicker, emotion catching before he can hide it properly, you reach across the table without thinking and cover his hand with yours.

“And for the record,” you add, because you need him to hear it properly, “you’re stuck with me.”

That earns a shaky breath of laughter from him, “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

“It is,” you say seriously. “For both of us.”

That gets a real laugh out of him this time. Tension loosens slightly around his shoulders. Arthur glances down at your hand over his, “I just didn’t know what to do,” he admits again, quieter. “He’s my brother.”

“I know.”

“And you’re…” He hesitates, searching for something that doesn’t quite exist. “You’re you.”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s vague.”

“It’s accurate.”

You sigh, amused despite everything, “You’re terrible at emotional arguments.”

“I’m not having an emotional argument.”

“You are absolutely having an emotional argument.”

Arthur huffs out a breath, finally relaxing a fraction more. For a while, the conversation drifts into easier things. Racing schedules. Travel complaints. The usual nonsense that makes up most of your shared history.

At some point, you lean back in your chair, watching him more than the table, “You know,” you say casually, “I always wanted a little brother.”

Arthur immediately narrows his eyes.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The part where you pretend you’re significantly older than me.”

You blink, “I am significantly older than you.”

“You’re three years older.”

“Which is basically a decade in emotional development.”

Arthur groans and drops his head into his hands. “Oh my God.”

You smile into your drink. “It’s not my fault you’re permanently seventeen in my head.”

“I am twenty-four.”

“A child.”

“I race cars.”

“A child with a dangerous hobby.”

That finally pulls a laugh out of him despite himself.

He shakes his head, still smiling now.

“I regret coming here.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You absolutely don’t.”

“You buy me expensive birthday presents and then talk to me like I need supervision.”

“You do need supervision.”

“I really don’t.”

“You once tried to microwave pasta in a hotel kettle.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

Arthur groans again, but there’s no real frustration in it now. Just familiarity.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you say lightly, “you’re still here.”

You both go quiet and smile softly at one another. Arthur sighs, and hooks his ankle with your under the table, and your grin at the familiar gesture. 

“Okay, enough emotions," he declares dramatically and you laugh, “Tell me about it, you and Lewis.”

You raise your brows, “Do you really want to hear about it?”

“I want to know that he’s making you happy.” 

You smile, “He is.”

Arthur nods, “Good. Because I’ll kick his ass.”

“You’re too French and delicate to kick anyone’s ass.”

He gasps in offence, “I am not French, first of all, second, I’m taller than him--!”

You can’t hear him over your laughter.

~~~~~~

The winter break changes everything. It starts quietly.

One photo from a ski lodge in Switzerland — your face hidden in Lewis’s scarf while he takes the picture, both of you snow-dusted and laughing.

Then another from Christmas: you standing in the kitchen of his family home in France beside his mother, flour on your cheek, Lewis in the background pretending not to watch you with the kind of soft expression that sends the internet into a frenzy.

New Year’s in Monaco, your hand in his, fireworks blurred overhead.

Then his birthday.

A candid shot posted to Lewis’s account — a rare thing in itself — of him seated at a restaurant table, looking up at you like there is nowhere else he would rather be. Your hand is in his hair, his smile small and private.

No caption.

He doesn’t need one.

By the time pre-season testing starts, no one is calling you a rumor anymore.

You are simply understood.

Lewis’s girlfriend.

And somehow, that still feels too small for what the photos show.

AUSTRALIA 

The new season opens under fresh regulations and an entirely reshuffled grid.

Lewis should, on paper, be struggling to adapt. Older drivers are supposed to take longer to settle into new machinery. The younger field is hungry, the car is radically different, and the paddock has spent all winter speculating whether his best years are behind him.

Instead, Lewis is in his element.

From the first practice session, he looks terrifyingly composed.

Every lap is precise. Controlled. Like he and the car came to an agreement long before anyone else.

And on Thursday morning, just as the paddock begins to fill—

There you are.

For the first time in months.

In person.

Charles sees you before he registers his own reaction.

You’re standing just outside Lewis’s garage, sunlight catching in your hair, laughing at something one of the engineers says. You’re wearing Lewis’s team jacket, his number stitched large across the back, sleeves slightly too long so the cuffs cover part of your hands.

You look bright and completely unmoved by the fact that half the paddock is staring.

Charles stops walking, actually stops, right in the middle of the hospitality corridor, because for one awful second he forgets how to breathe.

You should look awkward. At least a little uncertain. Instead, you look like you belong there.

And then Lewis walks out of the garage, catches sight of you, and without breaking stride presses a casual kiss to the top of your head before continuing toward engineering.

No performance, just the kind of unconscious affection that only comes from repetition.

Charles feels something inside him drop.

He tries to talk to you that afternoon.

He catches you near the hospitality terrace, alone for the first time all weekend, iced coffee in one hand and Lewis’s paddock pass around your neck.

You turn when he says your name.

And smile.

That is what destroys him, because it’s not forced, not cold, not even angry.

Just polite, almost friendly, like he’s someone you used to know.

“Hey, Charles,” you say easily. There is  no trace of the woman who once kicked him out of your apartment, screaming and crying. 

He swallows, “I— I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

You glance toward Lewis’s garage and shrug lightly.

“Lewis asked if I wanted to come for opening weekend.”

The way you say Lewis’s name is casual and warm and practiced.

Charles hates it.

He searches your face for something — resentment, nostalgia, anything. There’s nothing.

You ask him how winter training went. As if you are making conversation with a coworker. As if he did not break your heart. And before he can figure out how to steer the conversation anywhere meaningful, someone calls your name.

Arthur jogs over, carrying two coffees.

The second he sees Charles, his face hardens.

He hands one drink to you.

“Lewis’s looking for you,” Arthur says, pointedly ignoring his brother.

You thank him, then give Charles a perfectly pleasant smile.

“See you around.”

And just like that, you leave.

Arthur lingers long enough to level Charles with a look that says you did this to yourself.

Then he follows you.

Charles stands there feeling like he’s been erased.

The whole weekend is like that.

You spend time with Noah. With team staff. With Lewis’s family who flew in for the opener.

You laugh in the garage. Sit on the pit wall with headphones too big for your head. Post a blurry picture of Lewis’s helmet to your story with a single heart. And not once do you look at Charles like he matters.

Race day arrives with Lewis starting P2.

Charles starts P4.

The new regulations suit Lewis perfectly. The car rotates the way he likes, stable on entry, aggressive on traction. By lap twelve he’s hunting the leader. By lap twenty-three he takes the overtake in a move so clean the commentators lose their minds.

And once he’s in front, he never gives it back.

The checkered flag falls.

Lewis wins.

After the difficult previous season, after months of questions about decline and retirement and whether the younger generation had finally pushed him out—

He wins the first race of the new era.

The garage erupts.

Charles crosses the line in fourth and barely hears his engineer.

Because on the giant screen above parc fermé, Lewis is climbing out of the car, helmet in hand, grinning with a kind of open joy no one has seen from him in years.

And then he spots you.

You’re already waiting beyond the barriers, wearing his team number, eyes shining.

Lewis doesn’t hesitate.

He walks straight to you, takes your face in both hands, and kisses you in full view of every camera broadcasting live around the world.

The crowd screams.

The commentators stumble over themselves.

You kiss him back without a second of shyness, smiling into it, one hand fisted in the front of his race suit as if you don’t care who’s watching.

Charles goes cold.

Because it hits him all at once.

Not the jealousy, not even the humiliation. The finality. You are not his anymore. You are not waiting for closure or apology or one last conversation and what hurts most is the realization that you were never like this with him.

You had loved him privately. Carefully. Like something to protect.

But with Lewis?

You are loud about it.

Unashamed.

Proud.

As though being loved by him makes hiding unnecessary.

Charles has to look away from the screen because suddenly he cannot stand the sight of it.

By the end of the weekend, the headlines write themselves.

“Lewis Hamilton Returns to Winning Ways Under New Regulations — and Celebrates with Girlfriend (Your Full Name)”

“LOVE AND VICTORY: Lewis Kisses (Name) Live on TV After Stunning Season Opener Win.”

“One Ex Thriving, One Spiraling: Charles Leclerc Overshadowed by Teammate’s Comeback Weekend.”

“(Your Full Name) Returns to Paddock After Winter Romance with Lewis Hamilton — Couple Appear Inseparable.”

The photos are brutal.

Lewis, triumphant, arm around your waist, smiling like the world has aligned.

Charles in the background of another frame, helmet off, expression dark and hollow as he walks away from the podium celebrations.

The contrast becomes the story.

~~~~~~

That night, none of it matters.

The hotel room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside.

You’re curled against Lewis in bed, his arm tucked beneath your shoulders, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. He’s fresh from the shower, hair still damp, one hand absentmindedly moving through yours where it rests on his chest.

The winning trophy sits on the dresser across the room, forgotten.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

He’s already watching you.

That same calm, steady expression he wore stepping out of the car after winning, except now it softens in a way no cameras ever catch.

“You were brilliant today,” you murmur.

A small smile touches his mouth.

“You flew in for one weekend and I suddenly remembered how to win.”

You laugh quietly and tuck closer, your leg sliding over his.

He kisses your forehead, then your temple, then just rests his mouth there for a moment.

Nothing pressing in from the outside. 

Just the quiet weight of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.You close your eyes, warm and content beyond measure, and let yourself sink into him. Across the world, headlines are still dissecting the kiss in parc fermé. But here, in the dark, with Lewis’s fingers tracing lazy circles over your back and his body curved around yours like he can’t sleep any other way—It feels wonderfully simple.

He won.

And at some point, without either of you saying it out loud, so did you.

MONACO

THE EMBARRASSMENT HIT YOU SO HARD IT ACHED. You sat quietly in the middle of your apartment, curled up on the floor, your trembling hand clenched around your phone with a force that made your fingers ache. It wouldn’t stop lighting up, buzzing constantly like something alive, frantic, feral-- a beast you couldn’t control. Headline after headline, your name stitched to his, to betrayal, to humiliation. You had stopped reading after the first dozen, after that the words had blurred into a single ugly truth. 

Three years. Three years of your life, your love, your time reduced to a trending topic. 

You would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much, you curled up tighter knees pulled up tight to your chest, still dressed in an oversized hoodie you had thrown on three days ago. 

The Tony you had won less than two weeks ago sat on the shelf across from you, gold, gleaming and ridiculous, overshadowed by this. It felt like it belonged to someone else now, someone stronger. Someone who had done more than just sit frozen in her apartment, someone who hadn't made a spectacle overnight. 

You heard the knock but didn’t move, your phone vibrated again. 

Another knock. Slower, more patient. 

“(Name),” came a voice through the door, low, warm and unmistakable. “I know you’re in there.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. 

“Go away!”

There was a moment of silence, “No.” 

Of course not. Stubborn bastard. 

The sound of a key in a lock--you forgot that he had one. One time too many of Charles letting your plants wilt after leaving him with a key to water them when you weren’t in Monaco. A quiet interjection from the man opening your door. “I live close by, I can water them for you, just leave me some instructions.” 

And now he had access, access that he used shamelessly. Lewis Hamilton stepped into your apartment like he had always belonged there. He didn’t look like the chaos that followed him on track. No helmet, no fireproof suit, just a black sweater, tucked perfectly into a pair of black slacks, sleeves pushed up his tattooed arms, his presence controlled and deliberate. But there was something coiled under the surface with him. Precision. intent . 

He closed the door behind him and took in the state of the apartment, dark, stale, smelling a bit too heavily of bleach and other cleaning products, your plants beginning to droop, a quiet mirror of your own disposition. And you, curled up into yourself, small. 

His jaw clenched, just briefly, before he gave you a soft look. 

“Darling, you look terrible,” he said at last. 

You let out a humourless laugh, “Thanks. Genuinely, Lewis, that’s exactly what I need today.” 

He didn’t smile, didn’t soften it. 

“Good,” he said, kicking off his shoes and stepping further into your space, “Because I’m not here to tell you what you want to hear.”

That got you to finally look at him, take in the expression on his face. It was that same steadiness that he carried on the track. The same one that had unnerved you the first time you had met him three years ago in a paddock lounge on Charles’ arm. He had introduced you to Lewis like it meant nothing. 

Lewis had looked at you like it had meant everything, his dark brown eyes sparking as they flicked down your figure. 

You’d ignored it. Carefully. 

“I don’t want to hear anything,” you muttered petulantly, looking away again, “I want everyone to stop talking about me.” 

“They will,” he said simply, offering you what he held in his hand, a bag of chinese food, you could smell the soy sauce and the honey. 

“Because that's how it works,” you grouched sarcastically, as you eyed the take out.  Your stomach rumbled.  You took it with a quiet muttering of gratitude. 

But before you could pull away entirely, he stopped, stilled like something had suddenly struck him. “What’s that?”

You blinked up at him in confusion, “What?”

“Your hands, what happened to your hands?” 

You go to pull away quickly, but Lewis was quicker, taking hold of your wrist in a firm but gentle grip. Turning your palm up for his observation. Something in his expression shifted, “Baby, what did you do?” 

“Nothing,” you try to pull away, but he doesn’t let you. “I didn’t do anything.” 

“It’s not nothing,” he says, more firmly now, though his grip stays careful. His thumb hovers just above your skin, not quite touching. “What did this?”

You looked away. “Cleaning stuff.”

His jaw tightens. He exhales slowly through his nose, reining something in.

“Come on,” he says, standing and guiding you up with him before you can argue. “Bathroom.”

“I’m fine,” you insist weakly, stumbling after him anyway.

“You’re not,” he replies, already turning on the tap.

He positions you at the sink, adjusting the water until it runs cool, then gently brings your hands under the stream. The initial contact makes you flinch, but then the sting starts to ease, just slightly.

“There,” he murmurs. “Leave them there.”

You do.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The sound of running water fills the space, softer than the noise in your head, quieter than the world outside. Lewis reaches for a towel, then a small first aid kit from the cabinet like he’s done this before, like he’s catalogued your space in ways you hadn’t noticed.

He dries your hands carefully, then begins applying ointment with slow, deliberate movements.

You watch him.

The contrast feels surreal. The chaos of everything else, and then this—his focus, his steadiness, the way he treats your hands like they matter.

Like you matter.

You don’t realize how tight your chest is until it starts to loosen.

For a while, you say nothing.

Then the words slip out.

“He brought her here.”

Your voice sounds small. Not sharp, not angry, but worn thin. 

Lewis’s hands still for half a second before continuing.

“In my apartment,” you add, swallowing. “In my bed.”

The words feel heavier out loud.

“I walked in and she was wearing my robe,” you continue, your breath catching. “My things. Like it was nothing.”

Your fingers twitch under his touch.

“Like I was nothing.”

His expression shifts, something darker passing through it, contained but unmistakable.

“I told him to leave. I shoved him out. I got him out, but it didn’t fix it.” You shake your head. “It didn’t make it go away.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I tried to clean it,” you admit, quieter now. “I thought if I just scrubbed hard enough…” Your voice cracks. “It would stop feeling like that.”

You look down at your hands, wrapped now in careful bandages.

“But it didn’t.”

The words barely make it out.

“I still feel…” You hesitate, then force it out. “Dirty.”

Silence settles between you.

Lewis finishes wrapping your hands, slower now, more deliberate, then lets them rest in his for a moment.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You don’t look up.

“That feeling doesn’t belong to you.”

You let out a faint, disbelieving breath. “It feels like it does.”

“I know,” he says. “But it doesn’t.”

He waits until you finally meet his eyes.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he continues. “You didn’t cause it. You didn’t deserve it.”

Something in your chest tightens painfully.

“And you’re not carrying it,” he adds, his voice steady. “Not for him.”

You swallow hard.

He leans back slightly, still close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

“If it helps,” he says, quieter now, “we can get rid of it.”

You blink. “What?”

“The bed. The sheets. Everything,” he says simply. “We start over.”

A breathless sound escapes you, almost a laugh. “That’s extreme.”

“So is what he did.”

You don’t argue with that.

“But not tonight,” he adds. “Tonight we make it hurt less first.”

Your gaze lingers on him.

“Tonight,” he continued, shifting tone just slightly, something more purposeful threading through it, as he moved out of the bathroom, tugging you by the wrist to follow after him, “you’re coming with me.”

Your brow furrows. “I’m not—”

“Finish eating. Shower. Pack a bag.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” You questioned. 

Instead of answering, Lewis moved through your space like he had already decided something. Opening your curtains letting sunlight flood in, too bright, too honest. You flinched back like it burned you. 

“Lewis--.”

“Eat, then pack a bag,” He repeated, turning to face you, his expression bright with a sudden boyish excitement. 

You stare at him. “Lewis, have you lost your mind--?” 

“A bag,” he echoed, “Clothes, shoes, whatever you think you need to make yourself comfortable. I’ll give you an hour.”

Your pulse kicked up, irritation slicing through the fog. “Are you insane? I’m not going anywhere. Have you seen what they’re saying?!”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I can’t just--just parade like--like--.”

“Like what?” He tilted his head, “Like you didn’t do anything wrong?” 

You faltered. 

“I’m not the one--.”

“Exactly,” his voice dropped, sharper now, “You’re not the one. So why are you hiding like you did something wrong?”

You blinked, opened your mouth and closed it. 

“I don’t,” your voice cracked. “I don’t want people looking at me like--.”

“Like what?”

“Like I wasn’t enough.” 

Lewis went still. For a moment, something flickered across his face--anger, not at you, but for you. Controlled but there. 

Then he walked back over, his steps slow and measured, he stopped in front of you. “(Name),” he started quietly, “you just won one of the biggest awards in your industry.”

Your gaze dropped, your eyes refusing to stray towards the evidence of it. 

“You built something people are calling revolutionary. You’ve spent years being exceptional,” he leaned in slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes. “And you think one man’s lack of judgement changes that?”

You felt your lips tremble, “It wasn’t just any man,’ you whispered. 

Charles Leclerc, Monaco’s golden boy, Monaco’s unofficial prince. Lewis’ friend, Lewis’ teammate. 

Lewis’ jaw clenched. 

“I know exactly who he is,” he said evenly, “that doesn’t make him right.” 

Silence stretched between you.

“You’re not hiding,” he continued, “I won’t let you.” 

Your breath hitched, “Since when did I fall under your jurisdiction?”

A flicker of something almost amused crossed his face. 

“Since I decided you do.” 

Your heart skipped a beat, annoyance, disbelief…something else. 

“You don’t get to just decide things about me.” 

“Watch me.”

You huffed out a breath despite yourself, tension cracked down the middle.

“You are unbelievable, Lewis.”

He smiled innocently, “I’m effective,” he corrected.

Another pause, softer this time.

“Why do you even care?” You asked quietly.

The question lingered in the air longer than the others. Lewis continued to study you, like he was weighing how much truth to give you. 

“Because I’m your friend and because I have been watching you let yourself be small for three years,” he said finally. “And I’m done with it.”

Your chest tightened, “That’s not--.”

“And because,” he added, voice lower now, more dangerous in its honesty. “I’ve wanted you for just as long.”

You went still, breath catching your throat, he didn’t waver, didn’t look away, didn’t try and take it back. 

Your mind inadvertently casts back. 

“Come, I want you to meet someone,” Charles dragged you through the crowd, hand clocked around your wrist. His stride is a bit too fast, your heels a bit too tall. “Lewis!”

The crowd seemed to part around the man’s presence. Your breath hitched. You had been following F1 for as long as you could remember, you had watched this man for years, but nothing, nothing had prepared you for seeing him in real life.

Lewis Hamilton commanded attention like he had choreographed it, the crowd moving and swaying with his movement. He looked over his shoulder, spotted Charles first, smiling warmly. 

“Charles, how’s it going, mate?”

“Good, good, I wanted you to meet someone,”Charles tugged you forward and suddenly Lewis’s attention was on you, his dark brown eyes steady in a way that made you bite back the urge to squirm. 

Your breath hitched as his eyes raked down your figure, eyes lingering on the red dress you had let Charles pick out for you that night, tight, restricting movement. He cocked his head and smiled charmingly, his eyes sparking like something had finally become worth his time. 

Charles was casual with your introduction, almost flippant, “Lewis this is (Name)--.”

“The dancer, right?” He held out a hand. 

You blinked in shock, reminding yourself to smile and take his hand. His hands were warmer than you thought they’d be, calloused from years behind the wheel, but gentle in a way you hadn’t expected. “Yes , the dancer,” you giggled gently. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Hamilton, I'm a huge fan.” 

“Just Lewis,” he squeezed your hand gently, “It’s nice to meet you too, (Name),” he drew out your name like it was something worth savouring, you shivered, convinced yourself it was the cold. His gaze sparked knowingly. 

“I didn’t act on it then,” he went on, calm but unyielding. “Because you were with him. Because I don’t cross lines like that,” he took a deep breath, “ But that line is gone now.” 

Heat crept up your neck, equal parts shock and something far more unsettling.

“Lewis…”

“I’m not asking you for anything,” he said, “Not now, not like this,” His gaze sharpened. “But I am telling you that you don’t get to disappear.” 

Your heart was pounding now.

“Start eating, take a shower, pack a bag,” he repeated, softer this time, before he turned and began to move around your apartment, turning his attention to your plants already preparing to water them with the familiarity of man who had done it too often. 

“Okay,” you whispered, sitting down to eat. 

He shot you a smile over his shoulder, nodding softly. 

BARCELONA 

THE FIRST FEW DAYS WERE QUIET. He didn’t push. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t touch you beyond the occasional steadying hand at your back as you moved through airports and unfamiliar streets. Phones off. No headlines. No noise. Just movement. Bordeaux, then somewhere along the coast of Portugal, then Barcelona. 

You slept a lot at first, then you started noticing things again. The way the light hit the water. The rhythm of footsteps on cobblestones. The way Lewis existed in a space, never rushed, always certain. 

He watches you the way he always does, quietly, attentively, like he’s been tracking something subtle and important. You have found a little table at a small cafe, sunlight spilling over the table top, a cup of espresso, slowly cooling between your palms. 

“You’ve been frowning at that croissant for ten minutes,” he said.

“I’m thinking,” you hum.

“Dangerous.”

You sent him a flat look, huffing but there was less weight behind it, “I used to choreograph in cafes like this.”

He tilted his head, curious, attentive, “Used to?”

You shrug, brown eyes drifting across the square to the street performers across the square. A guitarist. A dancer improvising beside him, messy, untrained…free. 

“I don’t know how to explain it,” you admitted as you continued to watch the street performers. “Somewhere between opening night and…everything else, it started feeling like work. Like pressure, like if I stopped being good, I’d disappear.” 

The confession took the wind out of your lungs as you sat there.

Lewis leaned back in his seat, studying with his calm steady eyes. “You didn’t stop being good.”

You sighed, eyes still fixed on the dancer, “I don't feel like it.”

“You just started performing for the wrong audience.” 

You risked a glance at Lewis, there is no pity there , no softness that feels like condescension, just certainty. 

You exhale slowly, looking back at the dancer, you watch her spin, unbalanced but joyful. You watch her for a second longer…then, almost unconsciously you mirror the movement with your wrist, a small flick, a correction against the grain of the table. 

Lewis notices. 

Of course he does. 

He doesn’t say anything, just lets the corner of  his mouth lift like he’s seen proof of something he already knows. 

Tabloid-- 48 hours later 

“From Scandal To Spark? Tony Winner Spotted Having Coffee With Seven Time WDC Lewis Hamilton.”

“Teammate Betrayal? Paddock Insider Steps In Where Ex Failed.” 

LAKE COMO

IT'S QUIETER THERE. STILL WATER. SOFT WAVES. NO CROWDS PRESSING IN. You stand at the edge of the dock, barefoot, the hem of your dress brushing your calves. The world feels slower, like it has finally stopped running away from you. It felt safer. But it wasn’t enough to stop the hesitation in your throat. 

Lewis stands a few feet behind you, leaning against a post, arms crossed loosely, dressed in soft linen. 

“You’re thinking again,” he called. 

You rolled your eyes, glancing over your shoulder to peer at his curious expression. “You say that like it's a crime.” 

“It depends,” he started stepping towards you. “Are you spiraling or creating something?”

You look back at the water with a low sigh, “You’re not going to like my answer.”

“Try me.”

“Niether,” you admit with a sigh. “Just existing.”

He stopped beside you, not touching but close enough that you felt his body heat, “That’s fair. Existing is good.”

‘Is it?”

“Its better than spiralling.”

“Spiralling is productive.” 

“Spiralling is counter productive and you know it,” he huffed in amusement. “Spiralling is what loses people championships.” 

“Speaking from experience.”

He nodded slowly, “Twenty years of it.” 

“Just existing, then.”

He nodded again, “I’ll allow it for today.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you turn back to the water, body swaying to the rhythm of the lake. He stays with you, quiet, present, solid. 

Tabloids--the next day.

A blurry photo of you and Lewis standing side by side on the dock. Another of you and him sharing laughter on a boat. 

“Sunsets and Secrets: Are They Just Friends? Inside The Rumored Romance Heating up Lake Como.” 

“Exclusive: Sources Say Team Is Not Thrilled As Driver Ignores Calls Amid ‘Getaway’  With Teammate's Girlfriend.” 

BARBADOS 

THE MORNING IN BARBADOS FEELS LIKE ITS ALREADY IN MOTION BEFORE THE SUN FULLY RISES. Music travels before light does--low, insistent drums rolling through the streets, gathering people like a tide. Colour follows. feathers , beads, gold and crystals catching early sunlight, bodies already moving as if the day has no beginning and no end. 

You stand at the edge of it, watching the thrumming anticipation begin to build from your place on the balcony, a cup of coffee in hand. You stand for a long moment, long enough to feel that old instinct rise--the hesitation, the awareness of being seen. You hadn't been home on the island for a very long time and it was slowly dawning on you that you might never belong to it properly again. 

Behind you Lewis leans against the door frame connecting your rooms, arms loosely crossed, button down fully open, revealing the tattoos on his chest. You force yourself not to stare. You fail spectacularly. 

“You’re thinking too much again,” he says.

You roll your eyes as you exhale, still staring down at the parade forming. “I don’t think this is my scene.”

“Your scene is movement,” he retorted, “That’s all this is.” 

“That’s not all it is,” you refute, turning to look at him fully, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “This is…confidence. These are people who don’t have a hundred cameras waiting for them to slip or to suddenly break--.”

“You’ve had cameras on you, your entire career.”

“That’s different, that’s controlled. I chose what the camera saw, the movement it followed. This--,” you gestured vaguely, “This is chaos.”

He watches you quietly for a moment as you place your coffee down on the table. 

“And I don’t know how to be in it without looking like I’m trying too hard, or that I’m not enough,” something in your voice falters at that. 

He nods, because he no doubt finally sees it now. It’s not fear of dancing, it's fear of being perceived.

Lewis shuffles closer, “You’re not performing for them,” he states, “You’re existing with them.” 

You shake your head,  “You make it sound easier than it is--.”

‘It is that easy,” he insisted, “You just forgot,’ he tilted his head. ‘And I’m gonna remind you.”

You frowned at him, “And how do you plan on doing that?”

Before he can answer there is a knock at the door, sharp, loud expectant, familiar in a way that makes your stomach clench in dread. 

You frowned, “Who is that?”

Lewis smiled sheepishly and moved towards the door, opening it to reveal--.

“You bitch! Why have you not been answering my fucking calls!”

“Shit!” You make a run for it, just barely dodging the shoe hurled your way. You duck into Lewis’ room. 

“Absolutely not!” Rhianna’s voice (yes that Rihanna) is sharp and scolding as she marches after you. Hurling another shoe in your direction that actually hits you, right in the gut. You double over with a low wheeze. “Been calling your phone for weeks! Had me thinking that you had died. Then you have the audacity to come to my island looking all pathetic and sulky bringing down the atmosphere--I swear I could feel your ass down the block!” 

“You bitch,” you groaned, shooting her glare. “First of all, I’m not sulking--second, that shit hurt.” 

“Oh you think that hurts, wait till I put my hands on you--.”

“Wait! Wait!” You shriek, running across the room onto the bed as she raises a perfectly manicured hand to smack some sense into you. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” 

Rihanna glared at you, pointing at you threateningly, “Get down here!”

“No! You’re going to hit me!” You whined.

“If I don't, who will, hmm? Get down--.”

“No!”

“(Name),” she said sharply, accent thick, “Get your ass down here! Because if I go up there I promise you it will be so much worse--.” 

You looked at Lewis in betrayal, he smiled innocently, like he hadn’t thrown a grenade in your direction. 

“Get down here so I can beat your ass, and get you dressed.”

You blinked, “Get dressed? Get dressed for what?” 

Rihanna looked back at Lewis who had the sense to step back before she swung on him too, “You didn’t tell her?”

“Tell me what?” 

She looked back at you, eyes narrowed, “You’re dancing in the parade.” 

You stared in disbelief. “No.”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“No!”

“Yes!” she lunged for you, but you were too slow to evade her hands, she grabbed you by the leg and dragged you down with a strength that stunned Lewis who made a sound of sympathy as you went toppling off the bed with a thunk. 

“Nooo!” You shrieked, clawing at the ground as she dragged you by the leg towards the bathroom. 

“Yes! You’re getting dressed!” the Bajan woman ordered, nodding sharply, “Yes--beacuse you’re going out there and you’re shaking ass--yes!”

“No, I’m not!” 

‘Yes you are!” She snapped, “Lewis, bring me my bag!” 

Lewis stepped forward obediently, handing her the handle of a rolling suitcase. You glared up at him as you slowly disappeared into the bathroom. 

“Traitor!”

“I prefer ‘effective collaborator’,” he called after you, “I’ll see you later!” 

“No, don't blame him! He’s trying to help you!” The older woman scolded, smacking you sharply, you whined as she slammed the door behind you. “Stupid girl! Tying your self worth to a man. A white man no less! Didn’t mommy and I teach you better?!”

“Ow! Ow! Okay! I’m sorry, sorry,” you winced as she got one more harsh smack to the back of your head. “No more.” 

She huffed at you, turning around and lifting the suitcase up onto the sink. “I told you that he was a bad idea,’ she scolded, opening the bag with an aggression that made you weary as you curled up on the tiled floor, pulling your knees up to your chest. “But you didn’t listen to me, now look at you, heart broken, forgetting who are--I could kill him with my bare hands.” 

“Robyn--.”

“I told you,” she said again, looking down at you with a stern expression, “That boys like him don’t know how to keep women like us, did you listen to me? No.” 

You didn’t mean to linger as you watched him walk away with a slow confidence in his stride that intrigued you. Brown hair, green eyes that looked almost puppy-like. 

“That one is a bad idea, babygirl,” Rihanna tutted as she came up beside you, throwing an arm over your shoulder. 

“I’m just looking.”

“Uh -huh,” she said doubtfully, “Just looking she says--then you’ll be just bouncing on it--.”

“Robyn!”

“You can bounce on it all you want, but don’t go too far with someone like him,” she warned. 

You frowned curiously, “Why not?”

“Little rich, white boy, french--.”

“Monegasques,” you corrected, she waved you off. 

“Same thing,” she huffed. “They don’t know how to handle people like us.”

“Us?”

“People who’ve had to hustle to get where they are,” she informed you, “People who had to work three times as hard to get even a fraction of what they have handed to them. Now he looks at you like you’re worth it, like you’re interesting, soon you’ll find yourself walking a step behind him for the rest of your life. Your accomplishments? The ones that you bled for? They won’t hit the same when he’s used to things being handed to him.” 

You glanced down the way he left, “He’s not like that.”

Rihanna looks unconvinced, “Maybe he’s not, just don’t shrink yourself down to stand next to him, don’t betray yourself like that.” 

“I won't."

You did. 

You looked down at your hands, shame curdling in your gut. “I thought he was different.” 

She softened, "I know you did, baby, and I’m sorry he wasn’t. Okay, but he doesn’t get to dictate you. Alright? So, you’re gonna get ready, get out in those streets and shake your ass until you remember just how bad of bitch you are, then your choreographing my fucking commercial.”

“Robyn--.”

“No! I don’t want to hear it!” She scolded, pulling a new razor from the bag, “Strip!”

You stared at the razor in horror, “I am not stripping, last time I let you near me with a razor you cut me!”

She clicked her tongue, “That wasn’t on purpose, you sneezed! Strip!” 

~~~~~~~

The costume was…a lot. It wasn’t bright and colourful, it was white, which in itself would be enough to draw people’s eyes for miles. Crystals in place of beads, silver wire, feathers that spread out almost an entire foot aside from you,  strings of pearls drooping from your neck. There was almost nothing left for the imagination, the silver and the crystals barely covering your breast, instead almost choosing to cup and accentuate you in all the right places--or the wrong places, for someone who didn’t want to be seen. 

To add to her masterpiece, Rihanna sprayed you with glitter. 

“Fuck you look hot,” she said proudly, taking in her work with an appraising eye. “The poor man won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

“Robyn--.”

“You and I both know that man is obsessed with you,” she said, adjusting her own costume.

You sighed, holding your head piece, it was too large to put on inside. “He may have said he has feelings for me.”

‘And what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she shot you a look through the mirror, “You have feelings for him too.”

“I literally just got cheated on--.”

“You’ll get over it by tonight, trust me.”

You glowered at her, “Oh, no, what did you do?”

She winked at you through the mirror, “Nothing yet.” 

‘Robyn!”

“Baby!” she turned to you, “you’re allowed to move on, you’re allowed to be happy! He understands you, I can see it.”

“You don’t know that--.”

“He called me, didn’t he?” 

That stops you, you stare at her. 

“He knew you needed me,” Rihanna continued, “you didn’t even have to say anything,” she motioned to your costume, “And this? You really think this costume just magically fits you like this?”

You looked down at yourself. 

“He chose it for you, and knew exactly what would suit you. Nothing flashy just for the sake of it, but something to move how you move. To highlight you instead of swallowing you.” 

You swallow thickly, breath hitching, heart hammering in your chest. 

“He sees you, has been watching you like he’s needed you to breathe for years-- and you, you’ve been looking at him like you’ve been trying not to for a very long time.” 

You don’t deny it. 

She grins triumphantly. “Now let's blow his mind.”

~~~~~~

When Lewis sees you in your costume his brain quite literally detonates and he freezes, blinking at you as he tries to find the words. You were stunning. He knew when he picked out the pieces that they would reflect you in a way that would make you look ethereal, but this--this was almost blasphemous. 

His eyes flicked down, back up and down again, eyes raking down brown skin that he wanted nothing more than to touch and stain with his hands. He swallowed thickly, unable to say anything for a moment. 

“It's too much isn’t it?” The doubt in your voice is enough to snap him out of his stupor. 

“No, no,” he shook his head, his eyes shamelessly trailing down your figure again. “It's exactly enough. You look absolutely phenomenal, darling. You look so fucking beautiful.” 

For a moment he wondered how you'd look shedding glitter in his sheets as you writhe underneath him, moaning his name, he is quick to shut the thought down as he adjusts his shorts by shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“People will stare.”

“That’s the point, baby,” Rihanna cooed, poking you on the nose.

“People will stare anyway,” he said roughly, clearing his throat, stepping closer, getting a whiff of your perfume, something so sweet it makes his mouth water. “The only difference is whether you give them something worth looking at.” 

Your eyes meet him finally instead of darting around the room for escape. You take in his expression with steady eyes. “You already know how to do this, you’ve just been pretending you don’t.”

Rihanna claps once, “Exactly. Now stop over thinking and let's go shake some ass!”

You sigh at her and Lewis bites back a grin of amusement.

“Fine.” 

~~~~~~

You almost allow the feeling of embarrassment to swallow you whole as you step into the crowd, onto the street. 

“Don’t over think it, baby, just move!” Rihanna reassures, already dancing to the beat. 

For a moment, you hesitate, it's too much, too loud, too bright. There’s too much skin too little covered, every movement is amplified. The atmosphere demands presence. There is nowhere to hide inside of it. 

You force yourself out of it, let the drums take over before you talk yourself out of it. 

It starts small, a shift in your hips, a roll through your shoulders. Then the rhythm finds you like an old friend--or maybe you find it first. The crowd isn’t watching you like you thought they would. No sharp attention, no dissecting gaze. Just shared movement, shared energy, everyone feeding off the same pulse. 

Rihanna spins beside you, laughing, and you follow without thinking. 

For the first time in weeks your body doesn’t feel like it's bracing, it's finally responding. 

You laugh brightly as you move, bright, surprised at yourself and you let it carry you. 

~~~~~

On the sidelines, Lewis watches you, sunglasses perched on his nose. 

He doesn’t step in right away.

He leans back against a barrier, sunglasses low, arms loosely crossed, but there’s nothing detached about him. His focus is fixed, steady, entirely on you.

He tracks the moment it happens. That shift. The second you stop holding yourself back.

He sees it in the way your movements deepen, grow more confident. In the way your smile stops being cautious and becomes something real, something that reaches your eyes. It settles something in him. Not relief. Recognition. He knew it was there. He just needed you to remember.

Tabloids--Midday

“Heartbreak to Heat: Star Choreographer Dances Through Barbados Carnival with Rihanna at Her Side.” 

“Moving Too Fast? Lewis Hamilton Watches from The Sidelines As Someone Special Takes the Streets”

The parade spills into something bigger as the day stretches on. A massive, chaotic, sun-soaked party, the music louder now, bass heavier, the air thick with heat and movement. This time Lewis doesn’t stay back, he steps into it. You don’t notice him immediately, mid laugh with Rihanna, breathless, your hair a dark cloud around your head, tight curls reaching out for the setting sun. 

Then you turn and there he is. He’s shirtless, shorts hanging perfectly low on his hips, warm skin glistening, tattoos stark against the warmth of him. His braids were down, framing his face with a precision that made you forget to breathe.

You move towards him without hesitation. “You made it,” you say, still breathless, still smiling, “I thought I lost you in the crowd.”

“You didn’t,” he assured, “I was there the entire time.” 

Your grin widened, “Liar.”

“Selective truth,” he decided. 

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling when you reach for him, pulling at his arm. “Dance with me.” 

He shakes his head, “That’s more your forte--.”

“Dance with me,” you insist with a pout, “Please.”

You tug him again, this time he doesn’t resist the pull following you into the crowd. The music is louder there, heavier, the kind you feel rattling in your bones. You move first and he follows, allowing himself to be pulled into your orbit. 

The space grows tighter, the crowd pressing in, bodies close enough that there is no room for distance. Lewis’ hands gravitate towards your hips like second nature, anchoring you against the slope of his body. 

You shiver at the feeling of his warmth so close. You don’t pull away, if anything, you lean in. 

The rhythm moves through both of you, shared and unspoken. Your bare back brushes his chest, then settles there, your movement syncing with his without effort as you sway to the music. Lewis exhales a quiet laugh low in your ear. 

“You’re enjoying this,” he murmured, lips brushing the jut of your jaw. 

“How can I not?” You ask, tilting your head back slightly, just enough to glance at him. “Like you said, this is my forte.”

The crowd surges around you, music rising, bodies moving as one. 

Lewis’ grip tightens slightly pulling you closer. The heat of you is unmistakable now, the rhythm of your body something he feels as much as he sees. For a moment, it’s not about anything else.

Not the headlines. Not the team. Not the past. Just this. Your laughter, light and unrestrained.

The way you lean into him without thinking. 

He dips his head slightly, his mouth close to your ear. “There you are,” he says, quieter now.

You don't respond in words. You just turn in his hold, arms sliding up around his shoulders, hands finding the back of his neck and then finding his hair pulling him closer as the music shifts, body rolling into his. And he lets you. Easily.

Tabloids--That Evening 

“From Scandal to Carnaval: Star Seen Dancing ‘Without a Care’ In Barbados.”

“New Romance Heats Up---Insiders Say Driver ‘Can’t Take His Eyes and Hands Off Her’.”

Somewhere far away from the music and the cameras Charles Leclerc is staring at his phone like it might just decide that it's playing a joke on him. It started with instagram, he had been stalking your page the days following the first drop of tabloids. Neither you nor Lewis had posted anything on your pages, and so he found himself scrolling through your mutuals (you were Lewis’ only mutual, that should have put alarm bells in his head sooner). 

The post pops up on Rihanna's page--which shouldn’t have surprised him, the two of you were close--but it was the brutality of it, clarity that the tabloids couldn’t produce. You dressed--that was being generous--you done up in a carnival costume, white, silver, crystals and pearls,  dripping off your body like water, emphasizing every curve and motion captured by the camera. Lewis is all but wrapped up in you, his hands splayed wide on your hips like he had any right to be touching you like that, attention solely on you. 

The worst is the caption. 

A Queen and her King blessing the streets--that’s what i’m fucking talking about.

“This is ridiculous,’ he muttered, pacing the length of his bedroom. 

He finds your number with frantic fingers, he hits the call. It doesn’t even ring, it goes straight to voicemail. 

“Cheri, call me back please--this is--call me, we can talk, please.” 

He hangs up, paces some more, running a hand through his hair before he calls gain. The same. 

“Of course,’ he snapped, accent thickening with frustration. “Of course she ignores me now.” 

He pulls up Lewis’ contact, hesitating for half a second before he calls. It rings, no answer.

Charles lets out a short disbelieving laugh, pacing after now, tossing his phone across the room with a frustrated groan. “They think this is funny. This is a game to them.”

Under his frustration there was something else, something sharp and nagging. A creeping realization that he was being left behind. 

~~~~~~

To say the party had ended would be a lie. It never really ended, the three of you had just decided to call it a night-- well morning. The sun was already beginning to rise by the time you had made it back to the hotel. You had barely stumbled out of the shower dressed in an oversized crew neck before you collapsed in bed, making yourself comfortable with your head cushioned on Rihanna’s lap before you were out like a light. 

Rihanna didn’t seem bothered as she stretched out on your bed, dressed down comfortably, back against the head board as she held one of your hands, observing the scabs over the chemical burns on your palm and fingers. 

Lewis sat crosslegged at the foot of your bed, hands resting on his thighs as they both watched you sleep for a moment. 

“Chemical burns," he said and the woman glanced at him, brown eyes sharp and contemplative. 

“I know,” she said simply, running a finger over your palm. 

Lewis looked back down at you, a dip in his brows. “She--she told me that he brought them to her apartment. She found them in her bed, the girl wearing her clothes. Thought that if she scrubbed hard enough it would get rid of the violation of it’ he looked back at Rihanna, “said she still felt dirty.”

Rihanna exhaled slowly, leaning her head back against the headboard. “It’s not the first time she’s done something like this.” 

“No?”

“No," she confirmed, she looked down at you before looking back at him. “You probably already know this because she’s talked about it before--she didn’t have the best childhood. Alcoholic father, absent mother. What she doesn’t talk about is just how much that impacted space. Living in a house with no structure, children make their own. The house she grew up in was filthy,’ Rihanna sighed. “I remember it, down the block from our house across the street. The children used to make fun of her for living in a place like that. But what they didn’t notice was how clean she was. Her uniform was pressed, her shoes polished, hair and skin untouched. So I got curious, invited myself over and she took me to a room at the very top of the house, locked with a padlock and key. Her bedroom. And when I tell you that it was so clean existing in it felt like a sin, I’m not lying.” 

Lewis felt his expression open up in understanding, “I noticed it before. When I’d go water her plants, at first I thought it was because she wasn’t around enough--.”

Rihanna shook her head, “No that is just her. Cleanliness is her structure. Everything has a place and everything is in its place. It’s safe. She had gotten better, not as highstrung as she used to be, but every once and while when things get hard or don’t turn out she relapses. So imagine coming home expecting that structure, that safety and instead finding a bitch in your bed, wearing your clothes, fucking your man,” the older woman clicked her tongue. “This is not surprising. I’m more shocked that she let him walk away unscathed. That ‘s not like her.” 

“She loved him.”

“No,” Rihanna denied, “She loved the idea of him, sold herself to have it.”

“That’s not fair --.”

“It is,” she retorted. “If she loved him, truly loved him she wouldn’t have been looking at you like she has for the past three years.” 

Lewis’ breath hitched, he flicked his eyes between you and her, “Like what?”

“Like she can’t have you.” 

Lewis’ eyes found you again. 

“I’m only gonna say this once, little boy--.”

Lewis’ face scrunched up, ‘I’m older than you--.”

“Shut up and listen,” she waved him off. “If you hurt her I will hunt you down and make you disappear. I know people who know people, who know people, are we clear?”

Lewis forced himself not to smile, convinced she’d kick him off the bed if he did. “Crystal clear.”

Rihanna nodded firmly, “You make her happy. Don’t mess it up.”

“I swear.” 

He meant it. 

MILAN 

THE BOUTIQUE IS QUIET ENOUGH THAT EVERY SMALL SOUND FEELS AMPLIFIED. The faint click of hangers. The distant murmur of a sales associate somewhere out of sight. The private dressing room was curated to perfection, soft lighting, mirrors that flatter, racks of clothing chosen specifically for you that looked more like art than something meant to be worn. 

You stand in front of one of the many mirrors in a silk dress that drapes like it was made for you. You hesitate. 

“It’s too much.” 

Lewis doesn’t look up immediately, eyes on his phone as he scrolls through an email, brows furrowed as if debating if it was worth a response. He’s seated comfortably, one arm draped along the back of the chair. 

When he does look, his gaze is slow and appreciative, measured in a way that makes heat rise along your skin. He abandons his phone immediately, tossing it onto the cushion to give you his full attention. 

“It's not.” 

You shift on your toes, “It’s expensive.”

“Yes.”

He admits it casually. 

You frown at him, “Lewis.” 

He waves a hand lightly, already dismissing the concern before it fully forms. “I’m rich and I want to spoil you.” 

You stare at him, “You can’t just say that like it's a normal sentence.”

Lewis smiles innocently, “It is for me.” 

A smile flickers at the corner of your mouth before you can stop yourself, “That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,’ he gestured to you, “You’re still here.”

You look back at yourself in the mirror, you observe how it drapes over you, how it skims over your curves in a way that feels effortless and deliberate all at once. It should make you feel beautiful, powerful. Certain. Instead you feel yourself shrinking. 

Your fingers trace lightly over the fabric at your waist, then still. You gaze lingering on the woman in the mirror like you’re trying to find yourself. 

“Too much,” you murmur again, softer this time. 

Behind you Lewis moves. You hear him before you feel him, before you see him, his steps unhurried, controlled until he’s directly behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. 

He doesn’t speak for a moment as he takes you in, you watch him observe you through your shared reflection, reading the tension in your shoulders, the way you hold yourself slightly back. 

Then he touches you, his hands settling on you hips, firm, grounding, familiar now in a way that makes your breath catch just slightly. 

“(Name),” he says quietly.

You meet his eyes in the mirror, uncertain. “I don’t know--.”

“Stop.”

Not sharp. Not harsh. Just enough to stop the spiral in its place. 

“Look at yourself,” he says, his voice quieter now, steady in a way that draws your attention instead of demanding it. “Actually look.”

Your instinct is to deflect. It always is. Your gaze flicks up to the mirror, quick and practiced, just enough to register your reflection before you move on. You’ve done this so many times it barely feels like a choice anymore.

His hands, resting at your hips, tighten just slightly. Not enough to restrain you, but enough that you feel the intention behind it.

“Not like that,” he murmurs. “Not the way you do when you’re trying to find something wrong.”

You inhale, the breath catching faintly before settling. His voice doesn’t push, but it doesn’t leave room for dismissal either.

“Look the way I do.”

There is something in the way he says it that makes you pause. No teasing, no challenge, just a quiet certainty that lingers.

So you try.

You lift your chin slightly and let your shoulders settle back, not forcing the posture but allowing it to happen. When your eyes meet your reflection this time, you don’t skim past it. You stay.

You take in the line of your shoulders, the way the fabric of the dress follows your shape instead of fighting it. You notice the way you hold yourself, even now, even with doubt sitting just beneath the surface. There is strength there, whether you acknowledge it or not.

You don’t rush to dismantle it.

Behind you, Lewis watches your reflection, but his focus is on you noticing it.

After a moment, one of his hands leaves your hip. The absence is subtle, but you feel it. You watch him in the mirror as he turns slightly toward the display beside you. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, his attention narrowing as he selects something with care.

When he lifts it, the light catches.

A diamond necklace. Simple in its design, clean and precise. It doesn’t overwhelm, doesn’t try to command attention. It simply exists, catching the light in quiet flashes.

Your breath softens when you realize what he’s doing.

“Lewis—”

“Stay still.”

His voice is gentler now, but just as certain.

You do.

He steps closer, closing the space between you until you can feel the warmth of him behind you. He lifts the necklace and brings it around your neck. His fingers brush lightly against your skin as he fastens it, the touch careful and deliberate. The cool metal settles against your collarbone, a contrast to the warmth of his hands.

His fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary, enough that you feel it fully before he lets go.

When he does, his hands don’t disappear. They return to your hips, thumbs resting lightly against the fabric of your dress as if grounding you there.

“Now,” he says quietly, his voice close to your ear, “look again.”

You do.

This time, your gaze is drawn to the necklace first. It catches the light when you move, not as a distraction but as something that belongs. It doesn’t feel separate from you. It feels like part of the whole.

Your expression shifts, subtly but undeniably. The tension in your features eases. The uncertainty softens.

“You see it?” he asks.

You hesitate, your hand lifting slowly to brush against the necklace. Your fingertips graze the cool surface before falling back to your side.

“I think so,” you say softly.

His hands at your hips tighten just slightly, steadying, you bite back a whimper.

“Not ‘I think,’” he corrects, his voice calm but firm, lips brushing the side of your neck, “You do.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror again. This time, you don’t look away.

“You’re stunning,” he says.

There is no exaggeration in it. No performance, but a certainty.

Something in your chest shifts, settling into place in a way that feels unfamiliar but right.

And this time, it isn’t just because he said it.

It’s because, as you look at yourself, you believe it too.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Milan feels nothing like Barbados.

The air is sharper here, the energy more contained. Everything is curated down to the smallest detail. The streets hum with purpose, and inside the venue, that intensity sharpens into something almost electric.

You sit beside Lewis in the front row, surrounded by a sea of carefully composed faces and calculated indifference. Cameras flash intermittently, but not enough to disrupt the illusion that everyone here is above needing attention.

The dress you wear tonight is different from the one in the boutique, but it carries the same intention. It fits you perfectly, the lines clean, the fabric structured in a way that holds its shape while still moving with you. The diamond necklace rests at your collarbone again, no longer unfamiliar, no longer something you keep reaching for to make sure it is still there. It feels like it belongs now.

The lights dim, and the music begins to build.

The first model steps onto the runway, and your focus shifts instinctively. You lean forward slightly, your attention sharpening in a way that is second nature to you. This is not your exact world, but it is close enough that you understand it immediately. Movement, design, the way fabric tells a story when placed on the right body.

Beside you, Lewis notices the change.

He does not look at the runway at first.

He watches you.

He takes in the way your gaze tracks each look with precision, the subtle changes in your expression when something catches your interest. There is a quiet honesty in the way you react, an unfiltered appreciation when something truly lands.

Then the dress appears.

You still.

It is subtle enough that most people would miss it, but Lewis does not. The fabric moves like it has no weight, catching the light with each step. It is structured, but not rigid, soft without losing shape. It breathes as the model walks, shifting and settling in a way that feels almost alive.

Your gaze lingers.

Your lips part slightly, the smallest shift in your expression softening into something unmistakable.

You do not say anything.

You do not need to.

Lewis’s attention shifts to the runway just long enough to take in the details. The cut, the designer, the sequence in the show. He commits it to memory with the same precision he applies to everything else.

Then he looks back at you.

You are still watching.

Still just a little caught in it.

Something in his expression settles, quiet and certain.

A decision made without announcement.

You do not notice the cameras.

Not really.

But they notice you.

Tabloids--The Next Morning 

‘Front Row Fixation: Race Car Driver and Tony Award Winner Turn Heads At Milan Fashion Show.” 

"Style and Scandal: New Power Pair Steal Spotlight From Runway."

He does not mention the dress.

Not that night, not the next morning, and not when Milan fades behind you and the two of you move on to somewhere quieter. Somewhere warmer, where the air is softer and the pace slows just enough to breathe.

Time fills in the space. New cities blur into one another, each one marked by shared meals and quiet mornings. You get used to his presence in a way that surprises you, the steadiness of it, the lack of demand. He is simply there, consistent in a way you had not realized you were missing.

The dress slips from your immediate thoughts. Not forgotten, exactly, but no longer at the front of your mind. There are too many other things taking up space now.

It shows up three days later.

There is no buildup. No hint.

You walk into the hotel room and notice the garment bag laid carefully across the bed, positioned with intention rather than carelessness.

You pause.

Something about it feels deliberate.

“Lewis?”

He is by the window, his attention on his phone, posture relaxed in a way that feels almost too casual.

“Open it.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, already suspicious, but you step closer anyway. Your fingers find the zipper, and you pull it down slowly.

Then you stop.

It is the dress. The one from the runway.

For a moment, you do not move. You just look at it, your fingers brushing lightly over the fabric as if you need to confirm that it is real and not something your mind has constructed from memory.

“You didn’t,” you say quietly.

“I did.”

You turn to him, something unsteady flickering across your expression.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He sets his phone aside and walks toward you, his attention settling fully on you now. “You liked it,” he says, as if that alone explains everything.

Your throat tightens, and it catches you off guard.

Not because of the dress.

Because he noticed.

Because he paid attention without being told, without needing it spelled out.

“I…” You exhale softly, shaking your head. “This is too much.”

“It’s a dress.”

“It’s not just a dress,” you reply, quieter now, your gaze drifting back to it. “It’s thoughtful. It’s intentional. You chose it.”

He stops a step away from you, his expression steady.

“Then it is exactly what it should be.”

You look at him, then back at the dress. A slow smile pulls at your lips, small but real.

“I can’t remember the last time someone got me something I didn’t have to ask for,” you admit.

He does not react the way most people would. He does not make it bigger, does not soften into something overly sympathetic.

He simply nods once, like the statement makes perfect sense.

“That sounds like a them problem,” he says.

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound softer than it has been in days. But the feeling that settles in your chest stays. Warm. Unexpected. Yours, without needing to earn it.

“Try it on for me,” he prompts, voice a low whisper. 

You do. 

Tabloids--That Afternoon 

“Gifting Glamour: Insiders say Driver Spoiling Star with High Fashion and Getaways.”

“From Heartbreak to Haute Couture: Has she Found Something Real?”

Somewhere else, far removed from the warmth of your hotel room, the reaction is far less composed.

Charles paces the length of his room, agitation radiating off him in sharp, restless movements. His phone is clutched tightly in his hand, the screen still lit with images he cannot seem to stop looking at.

“This is insane,” he snaps. “He is buying her dresses now? This is not normal.”

Pierre sits across from him, leaning back in his chair, unimpressed by the display.

“It is not for show if she likes it,” he says evenly.

Charles throws his hands up in frustration. “Of course she likes it. Anyone would like it. That is not the point.”

“What is the point, Charles?”

“The point is—” He stops, searching for something that makes sense even to himself. “He is doing this to get at me. The trips, the photos, all of it.”

Pierre watches him for a moment, then speaks plainly.

“You cheated on her.”

Charles stills.

“It was a mistake,” he insisted immediately. “A stupid one.”

“And she is supposed to what?” Pierre asks. “Pause her life while you figure yours out?”

“That is not what I said.”

“It is exactly how you are acting,” Pierre replies. “You do not get to decide how long she stays hurt.”

Charles’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping briefly before snapping back.

“She is not like this,” he says. “She does not just move on.”

Pierre shrugs slightly. “Looks like she does.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escapes Charles as he drags a hand through his hair.

“This is not her,” he mutters. “This is him.”

“Or,” Pierre says calmly, “this is her without you.”

Charles goes quiet, the words settling heavier than anything else.

His gaze drops back to his phone. Another headline refreshes. Another image.

You, smiling.

Lewis beside you, close, steady, unaffected by the noise surrounding you both.

Charles exhales slowly, but there is no relief in it. Only pressure. 

Because for the first time, it no longer looks temporary. It no longer looks like something that will pass. It looks like something real. And something real is a lot harder to undo.

VENICE 

He doesn’t make an announcement about the premiere.

There’s no buildup, no careful lead-in. He mentions it the way he mentions everything else, casually, as if it’s just another item on an already full list.

You’re halfway through breakfast when he says it.

“I need you with me tomorrow night,” Lewis tells you, glancing up from his coffee.

You pause, setting your fork down slowly. “That sounds suspiciously like an order.”

“It is,” he replies without hesitation. “Black tie. You’ll like it.”

You study him for a moment, narrowing your eyes slightly as if that will make him elaborate.

“Is this where I find out you’re secretly starring in something?” you ask.

“God, no,” he says dryly. “I was invited. You’re coming with me.”

There’s a brief pause, something quieter settling in the space between you.

“As your date?” you ask, your tone lighter than the question feels.

His gaze lifts to meet yours, steady and entirely unbothered.

“Yes.”

The answer is simple. Direct. No hesitation.

Something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it, unfamiliar enough that you notice it immediately.

“Alright,” you say, softer now.

He nods once, like there was no other outcome. There wasn’t. 

~~~~~~~

You know which dress you’re going to wear before you even open the garment bag.

You still open it anyway, fingers brushing over the zipper, a small, unnecessary ritual.

The fabric reveals itself slowly, and there it is.

The dress from the runway. The one you never said a word about. The one he noticed anyway.

You lift it carefully, the material falling into place with an ease that feels almost intentional, like it remembers you. When you step into it, it settles against your body with the same quiet precision it had the first time, no adjustments needed, no second guessing.

The first time was just for him, this time--this was for you. 

The diamonds find their place at your collarbone again, cool at first, then warming against your skin as you fasten them. You look at yourself in the mirror. This time, there’s no hesitation. No instinct to rush past it or pick it apart. You recognize what you see.

Not just the dress. Not the way it fits.

You.

Behind you, Lewis adjusts his cufflinks, his focus momentarily elsewhere. Then he looks up, really looks, and stills.

The pause is brief, but it’s there.

“Good choice,” he says.

Your lips curve slightly. “I didn’t have to think very hard.”

“No,” he agrees, with a slow smile. “You didn’t.”

~~~~~~

The premiere is exactly what you expect it to be.

Bright lights cut through the evening, cameras flashing in rapid bursts. The red carpet stretches ahead, lined with people who understand exactly how to be seen, how to move, how to hold attention without appearing to try.

As you step out of the car, your instinct is immediate, you fall half a step behind him. It’s subtle, almost automatic. A familiar reflex to let someone else take the lead, to exist just slightly out of the direct line of focus where it feels safer.

Lewis notices.

He doesn’t comment on it.

His hand settles at your lower back as you step forward, not pushing you, not pulling you, just there. The contact is steady, grounding, a quiet reminder that you are not navigating this alone.

When the first introductions begin, he shifts.

“Have you met her?” he says easily, guiding you forward with a light pressure at your back.

Not presenting you.

Introducing you.

Like you are someone they should already know.

“This is the choreographer I mentioned,” he continues to a producer, his tone casual but intentional. “Tony Award-winning. She’s completely changed the way people think about movement on stage.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second.

Then something in you straightens.

You step forward, offering your hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say, your voice steady again.

The conversation turns toward you.

It doesn’t feel forced. It doesn’t feel staged.

It just… shifts.

Lewis stays beside you, but he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t redirect attention back to himself. He lets you hold it. It happens again with the next introduction, and the one after that. Each time, he gives you just enough to stand on before stepping back, letting you take the space fully on your own.

When photographers call his name, you feel the pull of instinct again, the urge to step aside and let him handle it.

He doesn’t give you the chance.

His hand finds yours, fingers closing around yours with quiet certainty as he guides you forward with him.

“Together,” he murmurs.

The flashes come quickly, one after another, bright and relentless.

This time, you don’t shrink from it.

You stand beside him, composed, your posture steady, your expression calm. In one frame, your hand rests lightly against his chest. In another, his arm settles securely at your waist.

He doesn’t hide you.

He doesn’t minimize you.

He makes it clear that you are meant to be there.

Tabloids--That Evening 

“Red Carpet Reveal: Driver Debuts New Romance With Tony-Winning Choreographer." 

“Not Just a Plus One: Inside The Woman Stealing The Spotlight Beside Him.”

“Power Pair Alert? Sources Say He “Couldn’t Stop Talking About Her.” 

Inside, the atmosphere shifts.

The noise of the carpet fades into something more contained, more conversational. People cluster in smaller groups, voices lower, attention less performative.

You find yourself speaking with the film’s director almost by accident. What begins as polite conversation shifts quickly into something more engaging.

“You staged that sequence like a continuous shot,” the director says, studying you with interest. “It felt fluid. Almost cinematic.”

Your expression brightens instantly.

“That was the intention,” you reply, leaning in slightly. “I wanted the transitions to feel invisible, like the audience was moving with the performers instead of watching them.”

The conversation deepens from there.

You talk about movement, about framing, about how choreography translates through a camera lens. Your hands move as you explain, mapping out space and timing, your voice lifting with a natural energy that doesn’t need to be performed.

You’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re not thinking about who’s watching.

You’re just in it.

Across the room, Lewis watches.

He doesn’t interrupt or step in. He doesn’t need to.

He sees the shift clearly, the same way he has before, in different cities, in quieter moments.

This is where you thrive.

The way people lean in when you speak. The way you hold attention without asking for it. The way you forget to be self-conscious entirely.

Something like pride settles in his expression, quiet but unmistakable.

When your gaze drifts across the room and lands on him, he doesn’t look away.

He gives you a small nod.

He sees you.

Your smile deepens, just slightly, before you turn back to the conversation.

~~~~~~~

Charles paces the length of his hotel room, his phone pressed tightly in his hand. The silence from you has stretched longer than he expected, longer than he is willing to accept.

He calls again, any one, anybody just willing to talk.

This time, someone answers.

“What?”Arthur answers flatly.

Charles exhales sharply. “Finally.”

“I picked up because I thought this might be important,” Arthur replies. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

Charles ignores that. “Have you spoken to her?”

A pause.

“No.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Charles’s jaw tightens. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” his brother says. “You already did that when you cheated.”

“It was a mistake,” Charles snaps. “A stupid one.”

“And?”

“And it doesn’t change how I feel about her.”

There’s a short, disbelieving silence on the other end.

“You think that matters right now?”

“She won’t even answer me.”

“Why would she?”

Charles stops pacing. “Because we were together for three years.”

“And you still managed to ruin it.”

Silence settles heavily between them.

Arthur’s voice sharpens slightly.

“You know I liked her,” he says.

Charles frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I loved her,” he replies. “She was good to you. To all of us.”

Charles looks down, his jaw tightening.

“And now she won’t even talk to me,” his brother continues, something in his voice trembles, not quite rage, something far more hurt. “Not because of anything I did. Because of you.”

The words hit harder than anything else.

“You don’t get to be surprised that she moved on,” he adds. “You gave her a reason to.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, frustration giving way to something less certain.

“He’s doing this on purpose,” he mutters. “All of it.”

“Or,” his brother says plainly, “he just treats her better.”

Silence stretches.

This time, Charles has nothing to say.

Because beneath the anger, beneath the insistence that this is all calculated, all intentional, there is a quieter truth pressing in.

It might not be a strategy.

It might just be real. And that was so much worse. 

~~~~~~

The noise of the premiere fades faster than you expect.

One moment it is all light and motion, cameras flashing, voices overlapping, hands reaching, and then it is gone. Replaced by something quieter, more contained. The low, steady hum of the jet fills the space instead, a constant undercurrent that feels strangely calming after the chaos.

You sink back into the seat, your body finally giving in to the exhaustion you had been holding at bay. Your heels discarded near your seat,  abandoned without ceremony the second you stepped inside. The dress still drapes over you perfectly, but it feels different now. Worn. Lived in. Like it has followed you through something.

The diamonds at your collarbone catch the dim cabin light, softer now, less about spectacle and more about presence.

Across from you, Lewis looks entirely at ease. His jacket is gone, sleeves pushed back, collar loosened just enough to soften the sharpness of him. A glass rests loosely in his hand, his posture relaxed in a way that contrasts everything from earlier.

“Where are we going?” you ask, your voice quieter now, like the outside world no longer needs to hear you.

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Wherever I feel like taking you.”

You let out a soft breath that turns into a faint laugh, shaking your head. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You study him for a moment, like you might press further, but you don’t. Instead, your gaze drifts to the window. There is nothing but darkness stretching endlessly beyond it. No cameras. No expectations. No one is watching.

Just this.

The quiet settles between you, not awkward, not strained. Easy.

Then, softer, almost before you realize you are going to say it—

“Thank you.”

His attention sharpens immediately, his gaze returning to you.

“For what?”

You hesitate, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your dress as you gather the words.

“For tonight,” you say. “For not letting me disappear into the background.” A small pause follows, your voice lowering just slightly. “For… all of it.”

Something shifts in his expression. Subtle, but there.

“You don’t have anything to thank me for,” he says.

You look back at him, more certain now. “I do.”

“No,” he replies, calm and steady. “You don’t.”

There is no dismissal in it. No arrogance. Just something firm, grounded, like he believes it completely.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him, then exhale softly.

“Then I’ll thank you for something else.”

One brow lifts, just slightly. “Oh?”

“For making me happy.”

That lands differently.

The air seems to shift, the quiet deepening around the words.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. He just looks at you, really looks, like he is taking in more than what you said, like he is measuring the weight of it.

You feel it.

The space between you feels smaller now, charged in a way that is new and not new all at once.

You shift in your seat, uncurling slowly, turning toward him. There is a flicker of hesitation in the movement, not doubt, but awareness. Of him. Of how close he is. Of how much this moment matters.

Then you close the distance.

Not rushed. Not uncertain.

Your hand lifts, settling lightly against his shoulder, grounding yourself there for just a second before you lean in and press your lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first.

Uncomplicated.

You don’t over think, you don’t hesitate--you let yourself want. 

For a brief moment, it stays that way, gentle and steady, your lips brushing his in a quiet, intentional connection.

Then he moves.

His hand comes up to your jaw, warm and firm, his thumb settling beneath your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss. He draws you back in before you can pull away, closing the small distance you left between you with a certainty that sends a quiet shiver through you.

It changes.

There is nothing hesitant in it now. Nothing careful.

It is deeper, hungrier, like something held back for far too long finally given permission to surface. His grip steadies you as he tilts your head slightly, the angle shifting, the kiss becoming something fuller, more consuming without crossing into anything overwhelming.

You feel it in the way he holds you, in the way he doesn’t rush but doesn’t hold back either. Like he has been patient, like he has been waiting, and now that he has you here, he is not letting the moment slip past him.

Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulder, your breath catching somewhere between one second and the next as you lean into him without thinking.

The world outside the jet disappears completely.

There is no premiere. No headlines. No past pressing in. Only this. Only him.

When the kiss finally breaks, it is not abrupt. It lingers, his forehead brushing yours for a brief second, his hand still at your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly along your skin.

His gaze drops to your lips, then lifts back to your eyes.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, carrying something quieter beneath it.

This time, you don’t question it.

You crawl out of your seat into his lap, knees bracketing his hips,  your lips meeting him again with a desperation that makes his breath hitch. His arm wraps around your waist, settling you on his thighs as his mouth meets yours with the same force. Your hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper into you, your tongue flicking into his mouth aching for a better taste of him. 

It’s not enough, every kiss, every caress of his hands against your neck, your waist, your thighs is enough to send bolts of desperation down your spine. 

“If we weren't on this plane,” he muttered into your mouth, hand tracing up your thigh, pushing up the hem of your dress teasingly, watching you shiver before letting the hem of it fall back down respectfully. He lifted you, adjusting your position to something less likely to cause a public incident. Still settled into his lap, still pressed so close against hom you could feel his heartbeat thumping, his mouth lingering on yours before he slowly drew away. Pressing another kiss to your forehead, your nose, your cheek, your neck. Arms settling around your waist, holding you close. 

You settled, barely, skin still thrumming, heart still running, breathing still heavy. 

He didn’t have to finish his sentence, the way he held you was statement enough. 

NORTH-EAST SARDINIA 

YOU START DANCING AGAIN, ITS QUIET AND UNANNOUNCED BUT IT FITS INTO YOUR ROUTINE AS EASY AS A BREATH. The deck of the yacht is large enough to accommodate both of your separate activities. Lewis with his airpods in concentrating on his work out, movements slow and precise. You dance not so far away with your music on a loop, your body remembering the years of discipline, instinct and expression rushing to fill the space you had pushed it out of following the break up with Charles.

You spin, arms cutting clean lines through the air, a little giggle escaping you before you can stop it. 

It takes you a moment before you realize that the movement across the deck has stopped. You fall out of your spin and turn to find Lewis watching you, with a soft expression, the barbell he had been in the midst of hip thrusting pushed to the side as he sat with his back against the work out bench. 

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for your next race, Sir?” You raised a brow and he grinned innocently. 

“I found something more interesting to look at.” 

“Did you now?”

“Mhmm, come here,” he motioned for you with two tattooed fingers. 

You hummed, crossing the deck to get to him, he pulled you down onto his lap, skimming a hand against your neck as you settled with your knees bracketing his waist, arms wrapping around his shoulders. You smiled sweetly at him. “Hi.” 

He grinned in response, “Hi, baby,’ his hand brushed your waist. “I love watching you dance.”

“It was barely anything--.”

“Doesn’t matter,’ he hummed, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose watching it scrunch. “I love it anyway.”

You hummed in response, thumbs tracing the back of his neck. “Where will we go next?”

Lewis tilted his head back slightly, a quiet encouragement to dig your thumbs deeper into his muscle tissue. “Amsterdam, we’ve been invited to a private party.”

“Sounds fun.” 

“Then Paris.”

You groaned, “Ugh, not Paris. I hate Paris.”

He chuckled slightly, “Nobody likes Paris, they just pretend they do--but there’s a specific designer I want you to meet.” 

You perked up, “More dresses?”

“Yes and unhealthy amounts of espresso.” 

“You spoil me.”

“I like to,” he said simply. “You deserve to be spoiled and I’m rich enough to do it happily.” 

“Why?”

“You know why.”

You smiled innocently, “I know, I just like hearing you say it.”

He grinned, leaning forward, his nose nudging yours, “Because I like seeing you happy.” 

You closed the distance and kissed him sweetly, smiling softly into his mouth. “You make me happy,’ you whispered before kissing him again. 

Lewis cupped your jaw and drew you closer, kissed you deeper. You sighed and pressed against him tilting your head to taste him better, he tasted like the strawberries from his smoothie. You pulled away just far enough to tell him and he giggled into your mouth as he chased your lips. 

This kiss was sweet and teasing at first, but gradually grew deeper with every brush of your lips. Soon his hands were scrambling to find skin, sliding up the back of your shirt as you buried your fingers into his hair, undoing his perfectly tied pony-tail, letting his braids fall around his head. He groaned slightly at the feeling of your fingers scraping against his scalp. His hips rolled up and you gasped into his mouth, the intense friction sending shudders up your spine.

“You like that baby?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, kissing him again, hips rolling down with the need to get even closer, he groans, mouth dragging down the side of your neck, his hands down your waist, hands gripping your  hips with a force that almost bruises.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered, guiding your hips in a slow grind, you can feel him through his athletic shorts, hot and hard against your core as you spread your knees open even more, opening yourself up more to every grind. “Take what you need.”

You whine slightly, pulling his mouth back to yours and he pulls you down on to him harder. 

It becomes a mess of heat, pleasure and desperation, you can taste nothing but him and the salt of the sea, can smell nothing but him, see nothing but him as the boat rocks to the slow waves of the sea. You grind down more desperately feeling heat crawling up your spine, you moan softly into his mouth and he groans. 

“You’re so wet I can feel it through my shorts,” he whispered trailing kisses down your throat. “Is it all for me, baby?”

You nod rapidly, biting your lip to muffle the sounds of pleasure. 

Lewis’ hand grips your jaw, his thumb pulling your lip from between your teeth, “No, I wanna hear you. Is it for me baby?”

“Yes , yes,” you whimper out, hands gripping his shoulder for balance as you grind down harder. Lewis’ hips twitch up, his breath faltering. 

“Shit,” he moans, hips rock up to meet you grinds, his thumb slipping into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue. The taste of his skin sends a jolt through you as your lips wrap around his thumb, sucking gently without further prompting.

Lewis shudders a low gasp escaping his throat, his eyes fixed firmly on your face. “So pretty, baby, you’re so fucking pretty.”

Your moans pitch, eyes rolling back in your head. He grips your hip with his free hand, keeping the rhythm as you falter. “Are you gonna cum for me?” 

You cannot answer as you focus on that sharp thread of pleasure beginning to unravel, hips rocking with desperation, your hands shake against his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his dark blue muscle shirt. Lewis drew his thumb from your mouth to grip your jaw, keeping your face angled towards his as rocked his hips up into yours, the outline of him dragging deliciously over your clit. 

You were so close--so fucking close.

“That’s it baby, cum for me,” he groaned. “You look so pretty.”

One more rock of your hips and the knot low in your abdomen snaps, you cum with a sharp sob of his name, body going rigid in his lap as your orgasm crested over you, your knees clenching against his hips, toes curling as he continues to grind up into you, his grip on your waist keeping you right there. “Fuck , Lewis!” 

He pulled you into him, kissing you deeply with a low moan as his body shuddered beneath yours, his thighs clenching under yours, his breath faltering. 

You slumped against him as the waves subsided, your kisses morphing into something slow, deep and filthy, his hands smoothing down your waist gently, almost reverently. You sighed contentedly into his mouth, your fingers tracing the nape of his neck and he giggled slightly. 

You pulled away to look at him, “What’s so funny?”

“You just made me cum in my shorts like a fucking schoolboy,” he chuckled, laying his head against your chest. You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“A bit of a waste if you ask me,” you hummed, and he tensed slightly, lifting his head to stare at you scoldingly. “What?’ you questioned innocently. 

“Don’t start, I’ll fuck you right on this deck, and I won’t give a damn who sees,” he promised, his eyes dark, a shudder ran up your spine, you went to shift back but he gripped you tightly, drew back in forced yout to feel the damp mess you had both created. You whimpered in oversensitivity, fingers digging into his shoulders scoldingly. 

“Too much.” 

“Not enough,” he argued, pulling you into another filthy wet kiss.

“Staff will be back soon,” you whispered between kisses. 

“I don’t care,” he muttered back, his hands trailing back up under your shirt to grab a hold of your breasts almost reverently, thumbs flicking your nipples, “No, bra? Are you trying to kill me?”

You moaned softly,”It would cause a public incident.”

“Good,’ he hummed, mouthing at your collarbones. “They’ll know that you’re mine.” 

“Do you really want anyone else to see me like this?” 

That brought him pause, you could see the gears behind his eyes start turning as he stared up at you with a small pout. Then almost as if the universe agreed with your sentiment the sound of the tender getting closer pierced the air. Lewis groaned in annoyance. “They’re gonna be all up in our business now,” he muttered petulantly, hands slipping from under your shirt to wrap around your waist, as he hid his face against your chest. 

“You know I can pilot a yacht, right?” You questioned, scrubbing your fingers against his scalp. 

He looked back up at you and raised his brows, “You can?” 

You nodded, “I’ve lived in Monaco since I was sixteen. I own a yacht. It was my first reckless big girl purchase. Robyn scolds me every time she’s on it. It might not be as luxurious as this one, but it's small enough to not require a staff…private,’ you punctuated your suggestion with a soft kiss to his nose. 

“You’re just mentioning this now.”

You shrugged, “You never asked.” 

He shook his head and pushed off the floor with a sudden strong motion that made you squeak, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he hiked your legs higher around his waist, you crossed your ankles against his lower back as he walked below deck, towards your shared room before any one could see you. 

“I can’t believe you have a yachting licence."

“I can’t believe you don’t have a yachting license," you retorted calmly.

“I did,” he defended, “I just forgot to renew it.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, burying your face in his neck. 

AMSTERDAM 

THE PARTY WAS A VIOLENT CLASH OF LUXURY AND DELINQUENCY HAPPENING UNDER THE BLIND EYES OF CAMERAS. Men and women dressed to the nines, alcohol flowing like a river, unmarked pills slipping from hand to hand, lines of white powder on tables,  blunts rolled with clever fingers, thick cigars being traded like dollar bills, stunning men and women dancing on poles and stages. This was part of your element. You grew up on an island that never really slept, you hustled your way to the top of your field through parties like this and it showed as you moved through the bodies, the music thumping your chest. 

The dress you wore bordered on a public incident, loose and a deep bloody red, shimmering under the lights, moving with you, complimenting the way your body moved,  its neck so low you could practically see your navel, the hem ending so high up your thighs that the thought of bending over was nonexistent. You were dripped out in gold and diamonds, fun butterfly clips in the thick fluff of your afro. 

Lewis was with the host of the party, above the chaos, looking down at the swaying bodies, like a King, looking absolutely sinful in his perfectly tailored blue three piece suit. He had discarded his coat at some point as the heat from below made its way up, his vest unbuttoned, the top three buttons of his shirt open.

You made your back to him like you’d never really left, your hand skimming over his chest possessively with your arrival, as you tucked yourself into his side. 

He smiled down at you, arm snaking around your waist, leaning down to kiss you slowly, possessively.  “Hi, baby, what have you been up to?” 

You grinned mischievously, producing a black box hidden in the folds of your dress. “What I do best.”

Lewis raised his brow curiously taking the offered box and opening it, only to whistle appreciatively at what was inside. The host leaned over curiously, gaping in disbelief.

“Are those--how the fuck did you get those?”

A box of five Cohiba Behike BHK 52 Cigars. 

You shrugged, nestling into Lewis as a blast of cool air hit your skin, “I hustled.” 

The host raised a brow, “What else did you get?”

You pulled a blunt out from where it was tucked behind your ear, and handed it over with an innocent smile. He raised his other brow as he took the blunt, “You and I both know that’s not all you got.”

Your grin sharpened, and you produced a bottle full of pills, going to hand it over, but before he could take it, you snatched back, raising a sharp brow. ‘That’s not how this works.”

“It's my party.” 

“Funny how even at your own party you can’t get the good stuff,” you retorted. “Show me how bad you want them.”

He chuckled, looking at Lewis who shrugged. 

“What do you want for them?” 

You smiled sweetly, eyes flicking to the item tucked into his front pocket, you leaned over, perfectly manicured nails crawling up his chest teasingly before you plucked it from his pocket. You took a moment to look the fountain pen over before you handed over the pills. You grinned coyly as you twirled the pen between your fingers.  “Nice doing business with you.” 

He laughed slightly, green eyes trailing down your figure,“I like you.” 

Lewis’ grip on you tightened as he shot the host a sharp glare. A quiet but effective, “mine” that had the host holding his hands up in surrender. 

“Have a nice night,” he nodded in farewell before disappearing into the crowd. 

You turned your attention to Lewis who was watching you with sharp eyes, “Did you take anything?” 

You shook your head, “I’m as sober as a judge. Partaking defeats the purpose of parties like this.” 

“And what is that purpose?” 

You held up your newly acquired pen, “Hustling.”

He took the pen and looked it over curiously, hand skimming over the red jewels inlaid into the pen’s unique pattern. “A bottle of unmarked pills for a pen?”

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck, “Baby, this is a Mystery Masterpiece by Montblanc, Van Cleef & Arpels in ruby. It’s over £ 700,000.” 

He stared at you in disbelief. “What?” 

“A bottle of unmarked pills for something worth a thousand times more, seems like quite the hustle to me.”

“How did you—.” 

“Someone gave it to him earlier, he didn’t bother to look twice at it,” you scoffed. “Sometimes the richer the person, the less likely they are to see actual luxury when it passes them.” 

“From experience?” 

You smiled as you took the pen back, tucking it behind your ear. “I moved to Monaco when I was sixteen. Do you think I did that with hopes, prayers and a pretty face?”

He laughed slightly, eyes darkening as he took in the sharp knowing look on your face. “You hustled.” 

“I hustled.” 

“That’s hot,” he whispered, leaning down to steal a kiss that stole your breath. You laughed slightly against his mouth, your mind slipping elsewhere before you could stop it.

He noticed. 

Of course he did.

He pulled away and watched you curiously,”What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

You sighed, “Charles hated when I did this,’ you looked past Lewis, to the grandeur, the luxury. “He used to say that it was distasteful, that I didn’t have to do it--or continue to.”

“Easy for him to say for someone with a safety net,” Lewis said calmly and you laughed slightly. 

“I said the same thing.”

He smiled and drew you back in for another kiss, “I like it. You did what you had to and god forbid a woman has some fun making fools of rich white men.” 

You giggled and kissed him again, something in you loosening up. “Come dance with me?”

Lewis frowned playfully, “Baby--.”

“Please! Please!” You grab his hands, intertwining your fingers and tugging him towards the stairs. 

He sighed in feigned defeat, letting you pull him with you into the crowd.  “Fine, fine, whatever the lady demands.”

~~~~

You and Lewis left the party in a careless flourish of limbs and laughter. You were leading the way to the car, your hand locked with his. There is a sea of paparazzi that linger outside the confines of the party. The moment they spot the two of you flashes go off with a liveliness that nearly blinds you. Before your impromptu adventure you would have cowered, angled your head away but you find yourself ginning as you tug him with you towards the car. They shout questions at the two of you as you pass by. 

“(Name)! (Name)! Some think that this is a rebound, what do you have to say to that?”

“(Name)! You look phenomenal sweetheart, is the dress another gift?”

“Lewis! Over here!” 

“Is this serious? Are you two together?” 

“Lewis--any comment on the tension this is going to cause in the paddock?” 

Lewis slowed slightly, face angled towards where the question came from, you didn’t quite hear his response over the yelling and the sound of Camera shutters. But whatever he says, however he says it causes the sea of paparazzi to swell with more questions. You tug on his arm and he looks back at you with a lazy, smugness that makes your stomach flip.

“Don’t encourage them.” you scold, he shrugs innocently. 

“I’m not.” 

You don’t believe him. 

The car ride is anything but innocent, you thank god for the fact that there was a partition separating you from the poor driver in the front seat . Lewis can’t seem to keep his hands off of you. 

You had been mid giggling, not because anything was funny, really, but because you had gotten a little tipsy between dances, your shoes kicked off somewhere on the floor of the car, dress hiked up high way passed appropriately and crooked from hours of dancing. Your head tips back against the leather seat, a loose grin still on your mouth as you turn to say something to Lewis you probably won’t bother to remember tomorrow. 

You never get the words out. 

Lewis kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all night and finally ran out of patience, like he hadn’t been kissing you exactly how he wanted to all night. 

It’s not graceful. His hand catches the side of your face a little bit too fast, thumb brushing your cheek as he pulls toward him, and the suddenness makes a surprised laugh slip against his mouth. He kisses you through it anyway, and before you can even think, you’re kissing him back just as hard.

The car takes a turn, and both of you slide slightly across the leather seat, bumping awkwardly into each other. It should break the moment.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes you laugh again, breathless into his mouth, and Lewis smiles — just barely, just for a second — before he kisses you deeper, like he’s determined to stop you from talking at all.

You taste like champagne and sugar from the tiny desserts you kept stealing off trays all evening. He tastes like whiskey and mint, and the combination is dizzying enough to make your head spin harder than the alcohol did.

Your hand fists in the front of his dress shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric without a second thought. At some point, you’ve shifted closer — then closer still — until you’re half in his lap, one knee braced awkwardly on the seat between his legs. Lewis’s hand slides to your waist, steadying you there, firm and warm like he has no intention of letting you move.

Not that you want to.

You kiss him harder, but the angle is wrong and you miss his mouth for a second, lips brushing the corner of his jaw instead. It’s messy enough that you start laughing again, trying to correct it, pressing another kiss to his mouth, then another, each one somehow less coordinated.

Lewis actually laughs this time, low and rough, his forehead bumping yours.

“You are impossible after two drinks,” he murmurs against your lips.

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be offended, though your mouth is still brushing his when you answer. “That was at least four. Be accurate.”

Something in his expression changes at that.

His gaze drops to your mouth, and suddenly he looks at you like the joke didn’t matter at all — like all he heard was your voice and all he can think about is kissing you again.

So he does. This time it’s quieter.

Still intense, still reckless, but slower in a way that makes your chest tighten. His hand slides up your back where your dress dips low, palm warm against bare skin, and he kisses you like he’s savoring it now. Like the rushed edge has softened into something heavier. Your fingers drift into his hair without thinking, and he makes a small sound against your mouth that sends a sharp heat down your spine.

The car slows at a red light.

the sudden stillness making everything feel sharper — your pulse, his hand at your waist, the way both of you are breathing like you’ve been running instead of just kissing in the back of a town car. Lewis rests his forehead against yours, his grip on you still firm, like he doesn’t trust either of you to pull apart now.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

You can feel his breath on your mouth, warm and uneven. His thumb moves once along your side, just beneath the edge of your dress, and when you look at him, his expression has changed. The teasing ease from the party is gone. So is the smug little smile he’s worn all night whenever someone looks too long at you.

He looks almost overwhelmed.

His gaze flicks over your face — your hair shrinking from the night , lipstick completely gone, lips swollen — and then settles on your eyes. He swallows, like whatever he’s about to say matters more than he wants it to.

“I need you tonight,” he says quietly.

The words are low, rough around the edges, and somehow more intimate because of how carefully he says them. Not demanding. Not assuming.

Asking.

His hand flexes against your waist, just enough to remind you that you’re still half in his lap, your knees pressed into the leather seat on either side of him. He looks at you like he’ll stop if you tell him to. Like for all the intensity in the way he’s been kissing you, this part is entirely yours to decide.

Something in your chest pulls tight.

You don’t make a joke. Don’t tease him for how serious he suddenly sounds. Instead, you smile, a little breathless, a little dazed, and lean in until your lips brush his.

“Yes,” you whisper, and then, because the look on his face makes your stomach flip, you say it again, clearer this time. “Please.”

The tension in him breaks so visibly it almost steals your breath. His eyes close for half a second, like he needed to hear exactly that, and when he opens them again there’s something dark and relieved in his expression that makes heat rush through you.

You kiss him before he can say anything else. It’s not soft this time. It’s immediate, your hands catching his face, his mouth opening against yours like he’s been holding himself back and your answer snapped the last thread of restraint. His hand slides up your back, pulling you fully against him, and the car turning onto the hotel drive barely registers because all you can think about is the way he kisses you now — like your yes means everything.

When the car finally comes to a stop, neither of you moves right away.

Lewis’s lips are still against yours when he murmurs, almost like he can’t help himself, “Thank you.”

The words are so sincere, so unexpectedly tender in the middle of all that heat, that you laugh softly against his mouth.

Then you kiss him again, and this time when the driver opens the door, both of you are already halfway out of your minds.

The hotel room door barely makes it shut before Lewis has you against it.

His mouth finds yours again before the latch clicks, one hand braced beside your head, the other at your waist as though he cannot quite believe you’re actually here — that the answer you gave him in the car still stands now that the elevator ride is over and the hallway is quiet and there’s no champagne left to blame for any of it.

You kiss him back before he can second-guess it.

Hard enough that he stumbles a little, and you both laugh into it, still messy, still a little drunk on the party and each other. His jacket lands somewhere on the floor. Your heels are already gone. The room is all soft lamp light and the city glows through the windows, but you barely see any of it because Lewis keeps looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every expression that crosses your face.

He pauses once, just once,  his forehead resting against yours, breathing uneven, his hands framing your face.

“You sure?” he asks quietly, even now, his patience thinner than paper. 

You answer by pulling him back down to kiss you, smiling into his mouth when he exhales sharply against your lips, like that was the only answer he needed. He lifted you up hiking your legs up his hips, pressing you hard up against the door as his tongue licked into your mouth. 

You can feel how much he wants you through the seam of his pants. There’s no pretending otherwise, the way he’s pressed against you, the heat of him, the way his breathing has already gone uneven, like he’s trying to hold himself back and failing at it. 

He rolls his hips into you and a soft broken whine escapes you when you arch into him. 

“Lewis,” you breathe against his mouth, your voice trembling with need. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, moonlight spilling through the curtains, catching the intensity of his gaze, dark, focused and completely fixated on you. 

“Tell me if you need to stop,” he whispers, adjusting his hold on you in a show of strength that sends a shudder up your spine. One hand braced to your back, the other dropping down to cup you through the thin lacy fabric of your panties. You make a sound so guttural, it feels unfamiliar. 

You shake your head immediately, fingers tightening against his shoulders, drawing him impossibly closer. “Don’t please. I want you. Now.” 

That’s what undoes him. Whatever restraint he was holding snapped deliberately, your panties paid the price of it. Ripped off in one sharp controlled motion that sends need skittering through you like an electrical current. You clench around nothing, heat building in your abdomen at the shock of it. The air feels charged as he uses that same hand to efficiently undo the clasp of his trousers, unzipping and yanking until he was free. Hard and flushed  right against your entrance. You whimpered at the heat of him resting against your slick slit. 

He groaned at the contact, “So wet for me, baby.” 

The air between you is too tight for patience, every second pulling you closer to the edge of something neither of you was trying to avoid. You reached between the two of you, taking hold of him with a trembling hand. He was so thick and long and--fuck a part of you balked at the though of taking him like this--the larger part swelled up proudly at the challenge. You stroked him once, twice, feeling him twitch in your palm before guiding him to where you needed him most.

The blunt head of his cock, notched against your slick entrance, his entire body shuddered. 

He took hold of your thigh, hitching it higher up his hip, opening you up wider, pressing you harder up against the door. He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, your thoughts scattered violently, your head dropping back against the door with a dull thud as a sky moan escaped your lips. The stretch of him was overwhelmingly beautiful, your leg kicked slightly at his waist at the absolute intensity of it, your toes curling. 

His hand tightens against your waist, steadying you, grounding you, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Breathe baby,” he cooed, “not even half way.”

You sobbed out the breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding, your hand dropped from his shoulder, pressing against his waist as he continued to sink into you, constant and relentless in his slow penetration. You gasp, sharp and involuntary, “Wait-- wait!” You push against him and the door, sliding up the wood slightly in a futile attempt to run away. “Too much!”

Your pride withered into nothingness. 

He stops just enough, to take your restricting hand braced against his abdomen and pin it up above your head, fingers intertwining with yours. A warning and a reassurance all in one. You clench around him with a whimper, tossing your head back and clenching your eyes shut, overwhelmed tears at your lashline, “Too much--.”

“No,” he interrupts, quiet and firm. Unshaken. “Look at me.”

You do, barely. 

His other hand slides up your back, anchoring you even closer instead of letting you retreat even an inch. 

“You can take it,” he says, steady and sure as he continues his relentless claim of you. 

“No I--too big--.”

“You can,” he encourages, he leaves your hand there, above your head, his eyes silently telling you to keep it there for your own good, he drops his hand, thumb circling your clit in slow relentless circles as he continues to work you open. “You can take what I give you.” 

You sob, feeling a knot building sharply in your belly. 

“You don’t have to pull away from me, baby,” he cooed, leaning forward to kiss you deeply, he tasted like champagne. He pulled away just enough to meet your hazy eyes, thumb circling your clit in fast tight circles. “I’ve got you,” he added, soft and certain. “Everything I give you is yours. I’m yours.” 

That sends you over the edge, sharp and sudden, your thighs trembling around his waist as you cry out, your walls fluttering around his length as he finally bottoms out, hips flushed against yours, hand moving back up to grip yours, grounding and firm. 

“That’s it baby,” he whispered into your mouth, “Such a good girl for me.”

The two of you stay there for a heartbeat as you come down from your high, breathing each other in. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “You feel so good for me.” 

You couldn’t answer with words, you rolled your hips into his, urging. 

Lewis started moving slow and deep, as you whined both in desperation and oversensitivity. His thrusts were steady and hard, rocking your shoulders into the door with every push. The wood creaked softly behind you, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Not with him filling you, not with the way his cock dragged deliciously over that spot inside you over and over and over again. 

Your high began to climb up once again, a bit too quickly, a bit too sharp, each thrust sending sparks racing up your spine. You tried to keep quiet, biting your lip, pressing your face into his neck but soft desperate whimpers left you with every deep stroke.

“Lewis, perfect--so perfect, right there,” you gasped, barely above a whisper. “Please don’t stop. Please.”

He groaned in response, pace picking up, hips snapping harder against yours. The door rattled dangerously at your back, your shoulders rattling against the wood. He kept one hand braced beside your head on the door, fingers intertwined with yours so tightly it almost hurt, you didn’t care, the other gripping your ass, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he drove into you again and again. The angle was deep, relentless, every thrust grinding against your clit.

Your leg tightened around his hip, back arching off the door as the coil in your belly wound tighter. You could feel your orgasm building fast, threatening to crash over you any second. “I’m close,” you whimpered against his skin. “Don’t stop…please-”

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, voice strained. He shifted just slightly, angling his hips to drag against that spot more deliberately. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

And he does.

He always does.

Everything tightens, builds, spills over — and he stays right there with you through all of it, refusing to let distance exist between you even for a second.

When it finally breaks, you’re shaking against him, clinging to his shoulders as he holds you steady through it. You buried your face in his shoulder to muffle your cry as your walls clenched rhythmically around him, pulsing hard with every wave. Your whole body trembled against the door, thighs shaking, vision whiting out for a moment as the orgasm tore through you.

He follows a moment later, a low sound breaking from him as his grip tightens just slightly at your waist,burying himself to the hilt with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he comes hard inside you. You felt every pulse, every warm spurt, his body pressed tight to yours,  breathing rough against your skin like he’s riding it out with you instead of apart from you. His forehead drops to yours as everything goes still again. For a while, neither of you moves. You just breathe, clinging to that warmth, existing in the quiet aftermath of something neither of you tried to control anymore. Then he kisses you, slower now, deeper, almost reverent. Your legs felt like jelly, but Lewis’ strong frame kept you upright, his forehead resting against 

“God, baby…you’re incredible.”

You smiled, dazed and glowing, still pinned sweetly between him and the door. “So are you,” you whispered back, fingers gently stroking the back of his neck, before drawing him in for another kiss. 

Eventually he moves, still holding you, still keeping the two of you connected as you walk towards the bed, breaths softening between kisses. 

Later, you’re half asleep on your stomach, the sheets tangled around your legs, your skin still warm from everything that happened before. Lewis is beside you, close enough that every slow breath he takes brushes your shoulder.

His fingers move lazily over your bare back, tracing absent patterns against your skin — circles, lines, the occasional pause at the base of your spine like he’s distracted by the simple fact that he can touch you whenever he wants now.

The room is quiet except for the muted city outside and the soft rustle of sheets when either of you shifts.

You should be drifting off, but one thing keeps replaying in your head.

The way his voice had gone low and certain earlier. The way he had held you and said ‘I’m yours’ like it was the simplest truth in the world.

You lift your head slightly, turning just enough to look at him. He’s on his side now, one arm bent beneath his head, hair a complete mess, all the polish from earlier gone. He looks younger like this. Softer. But his eyes are still on you, alert in the dim light. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

“Did you mean that?”

His hand stills. The lazy pattern on your back stops entirely. His gaze sharpens, and he doesn’t need you to explain.

“When I said what?”

You swallow, suddenly shy.

“That you’re mine.”

For a second, Lewis just looks at you. Then he shifts closer, enough that his hand can slide up to your face, thumb brushing gently along your cheek.

“Yes,” he says, and there isn’t even a flicker of hesitation. “I meant it.”

Your heart stutters. His thumb traces once over your lower lip, his expression steady in a way that makes everything inside you go strangely quiet.

“I’m yours,” he repeats softly. “If you want me, I’m yours. All of it. No games.”

The words settle somewhere deep, and before you can stop yourself, your face changes — something vulnerable must show because Lewis’s expression softens immediately. You stare at him for a second too long. Then the truth slips out before you can dress it up into something lighter.

“That’s dangerous for you to say.”

His brows lift slightly, not understanding. You shift onto your side to face him fully, one hand resting against his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath your palm.

“Because if you mean that,” you say quietly, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to let you go.”

The room goes very still. Lewis doesn’t smile at first, doesn’t tease. He just looks at you — really looks at you — like he knows you didn’t mean it as flirtation. Like he understands exactly how much it costs you to say something that honest. Then something in his face gives way. His hand slides to the back of your neck and he pulls you into him, not roughly, just decisively, until your forehead rests against his.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it almost sounds like relief. “Because I wasn’t planning on making it easy.”

You laugh softly, breathless, and it turns into something else when he kisses you.

This kiss is nothing like before. No impatience. No heat threatening to consume you whole.

It’s slow and deep and almost unbearably tender, like the two of you just crossed some invisible line and both of you know there’s no going back. When he pulls away, he stays close enough that his mouth still brushes yours when he speaks.

“I meant it,” he says again, quieter now. “And I’m not taking it back in the morning.”

Something in your chest tightens so sharply it almost hurts.

You kiss him first this time, because there’s no other response that feels big enough.

The minutes tick by slowly, languidly, you’re curled against him, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm heavy around your waist. His fingers resume their lazy path over your back, tracing those same meaningless patterns, but now every touch feels deliberate. Like he’s reassuring himself you’re still here.

Eventually, his breathing starts to even out, slower and deeper, but his arm stays heavy around your waist, keeping you close even as sleep starts to pull at him. You lie there for a while longer, listening to his heartbeat under your ear. Your body feels pleasantly heavy. Your hair smells faintly like his cologne. The sheets are warm, tangled around both of you like neither of you had ever intended to sleep separately.

You think, not for the first time, that this is probably insane.

Lewis is older. Guarded. The sort of man who should be impossible to read, impossible to keep. And yet tonight, he handed you something startlingly real and asked for nothing in return except your honesty. Tucked against him in the dark, his hand still loosely curved over your waist even in sleep, all you can think is: How much worse is the bliss going to get if this is only the beginning?