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A — Affection Lewis shows affection in quiet, grounding ways that feel deeply personal. He’s not overly performative in private. Instead, his love lives in small constant gestures. He adjusts his pace to walk beside you, not ahead. He listens without interrupting, even when he’s tired. When he touches you, it’s thoughtful like a hand resting on your knee during long drives, fingers brushing your lower back as he passes or his thumb tracing absentminded circles when you’re sitting close. His affection says I’m here, and I’m not leaving.

B — Boundaries Boundaries matter to him more than people realise. His life has taught him how exhausting it is to be constantly accessed, so he never takes your emotional or physical availability for granted. He checks in instead of assuming. If you need space, he gives it without resentment, however he always leaves the door open. Clear communication makes him feel safe, and he respects your “no” as deeply as your “yes”.

C — Comfort Lewis is intuitive about comfort. He notices the subtle signs. For instance, when you’re quieter than usual, when your movements slow, when you seem overstimulated. He creates calm intentionally - softer lighting, familiar music, warm blankets. Sometimes comfort looks like action. Proving food, tea or a bath drawn for you. Other times, it’s just his presence. Sitting close enough that you don’t feel alone, saying very little but meaning everything.

D — Devotion His devotion isn’t loud, it’s steady. He shows it by remembering details you once mentioned in passing, by checking in before big moments, by staying consistent even when life is chaotic. Lewis is someone who values loyalty deeply like when he chooses you, he builds his life with you in mind. You feel his devotion in the way he makes space for you without ever making it feel like a sacrifice.

E — Emotional Intimacy Lewis opens up slowly, carefully. Trust is earned, not rushed. But once you’re inside his emotional world, he lets you see him fully including the doubts, the pressure, the quiet loneliness that comes with living in the public eye. Late nights are when he talks the most, voice low, honest. He listens just as deeply when it’s your turn, holding your vulnerability with care.

F — Flirting When his flirting turns more intimate, it becomes quieter. He leans in a little closer, lowers his voice, lets moments linger. A light brush of his hand against yours, a smile meant just for you. He flirts through presence - noticing your reactions, meeting your gaze, making you feel seen. It’s gentle, intentional and leaves you with the sense that this moment matters to him.

G — Generosity Lewis is generous in ways that matter. He gives you his time even when it’s scarce. He gives reassurance when you need it, without making you feel weak for asking. When he gives gifts, they’re thoughtful. Normally tied to memories, emotions or things that bring you comfort. His generosity feels intentional, never obligatory.

H — Hugs His hugs are grounding and unhurried. Full‑body, arms wrapped securely around you, chin resting gently against your head or shoulder. He holds you like he’s anchoring himself, like the world slows down when you’re in his arms. He doesn’t rush to let go, he waits until you pull back first.

I — Intensity Lewis feels deeply. When he’s with you, his attention is complete. He doesn’t multitask your presence. Conversations with him feel focused, meaningful and unbroken. His intensity isn’t overwhelming more so it’s reassuring, like being chosen fully rather than partially.

J — Jealousy His jealousy is quiet, controlled and rooted in care rather than insecurity. He won’t raise his voice or cause a scene. Instead, he reasserts closeness by stepping nearer, resting a hand on your waist, meeting someone’s gaze calmly but firmly. It’s protective, not possessive.

K — Kisses There’s a quiet reverence in the way he kisses, as if he’s fully present with you. His thumb traces slow, absent patterns along your jaw, grounding you in the moment. Each kiss feels intentional, never rushed like he’s communicating affection without words. When he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, it’s instinctive - a gentle promise of care, reassurance and devotion that lingers long after he pulls back.

L — Love Language Quality time is everything to him. Being near you matters more than what you’re doing. Reading side by side, working quietly, sharing silence - that’s intimacy to him. Physical touch follows naturally, always gentle, always reassuring.

M — Motivation He believes in you fiercely. Lewis encourages your ambitions with genuine excitement, reminding you of your strength when you doubt yourself. He doesn’t push. He supports. He wants you to chase what lights you up and he’s there every step of the way.

N — Nurturing

When you’re vulnerable, Lewis doesn’t hesitate, he softens instinctively. His voice drops without him realising it, movements slower, more careful, like he’s afraid of startling you when you’re already raw. He checks in quietly rather than constantly, sending simple messages throughout the day just to remind you you’re not alone. He never frames your vulnerability as something to be fixed or overcome. Instead, he stays.

O — Openness

With you, Lewis doesn’t perform strength. He’s honest about when he’s overwhelmed, tired or mentally stretched thin. He doesn’t hide behind silence - he communicates, even when it’s uncomfortable. If he needs reassurance, he asks for it directly, trusting you with that truth instead of burying it. He values emotional clarity and gives it freely, believing that transparency is how real connection is built. Being open with you feels like relief to him, where he doesn’t have to filter himself or carry everything alone.

P — Protection

Lewis’s protection is quiet, deliberate and respectful. He doesn’t hover or control. He simply positions himself where he’s needed. Walking on the outside of the sidewalk. Keeping a steady hand at your back in busy spaces. Checking the room without making it obvious. He remembers your sensitivities of what overwhelms you, what makes you uncomfortable and adjusts without announcing it. His protection never makes you feel smaller or dependent, but it makes you feel safe enough to be fully yourself.

Q — Quiet Moments

These are where Lewis feels most at peace. No expectations. No noise. Just shared presence. Your head resting against his chest while he absentmindedly traces patterns on your skin. Comfortable silence that doesn’t need filling. He loves moments where time feels suspended. For instance - early mornings, late nights or slow afternoons. With you, quiet isn’t empty - it’s grounding. It’s where he exhales fully, where the world finally softens.

R — Romance

Romance, for him, is thoughtful rather than showy, meaning over spectacle. Dinners cooked together at home (you doing most of the cooking, because he’s terrible), candles lit for warmth and closeness, not display. Handwritten notes tucked away for you to find when you least expect them. Playlists built slowly, each song chosen because it holds a memory of you. With him, romance lives in presence and intention. The quiet certainty of being chosen, desired, and deeply known.

S — Support

Support, for Lewis, is consistency. He shows up even when it’s inconvenient. When you stumble, he doesn’t rush you back to your feet but he stays beside you until you’re ready. He checks in after difficult days, remembers what weighs on you and never makes you feel like a burden for needing him. With him, you know you don’t have to carry everything alone.

T — Touch

Touch is one of his most natural forms of communication. It’s grounding, reassuring, never demanding. A hand resting on your thigh during long drives. Fingers laced with yours absentmindedly. His palm warm at the small of your back in public spaces. Touch, for him, isn’t about possession - it’s about connection. It’s his way of saying I’m here without interrupting the moment.

U — Understanding

Lewis understands you because he pays attention. He notices the subtle shifts when your energy dips, when your silence means more than words, when your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He doesn’t push for explanations when you’re not ready. He knows when to ask questions and when to simply stay close.

V — Vulnerability

Letting you see his vulnerability is a quiet act of trust. He talks about the pressure he carries, the expectations placed on him, the loneliness that sometimes comes with being constantly seen but rarely known. He doesn’t dramatize it but shares it honestly, in fragments, in moments when he feels safe enough to let the mask drop. When he’s vulnerable with you, it’s sincere and deeply personal and you understand how much it means for him to let you hold those truths.

W — Worship (SFW)

Lewis treats you like you matter in the ways that count. He values your thoughts, your resilience, your emotional intelligence. He compliments your mind as often as your appearance, reminding you of your strength when you forget it yourself. He doesn’t idealise you, he appreciates you as a whole person, flaws included. His care feels affirming, steady and sincere.

X — X‑Factor

There’s a calm confidence about him that draws people in, but with you, it softens. His presence feels grounding rather than overwhelming. When he’s with you, the world narrows in the best way as distractions fade and you feel like the only person in the room. He makes you feel chosen not through grand declarations, but through consistent attention and care.

Y — Yearning

Distance never dulls his connection to you. When he’s away, he reaches out in small but meaningful ways with voice notes, photos of quiet moments, messages sent just to say he’s thinking of you. Hearing your voice before bed centres him, reminding him where his heart is. Even when he’s far, you remain his constant.

Z — Zeal

Lewis loves with intention. He doesn’t rush commitment, but when he gives it, it’s complete. Passion balanced with patience. Loyalty grounded in choice. His love isn’t fleeting or impulsive. It’s steady, thoughtful and built to endure. When he commits, he does so with his whole self, choosing you again and again through action, not just words.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You wake to a silence so complete it feels almost sacred. The kind of hush that only settles over the world when snow has fallen in the night, thick enough to soften every sound and blur every hard edge. It’s a silence that feels intentional, reverent, as though the whole cabin is holding its breath with you, unwilling to disturb the moment.

Pale blue light filters through the frost-laced windows, scattering across the wooden floorboards in soft, shimmering patches. The world outside is transformed with snowdrifts curved like gentle waves against the porch, untouched and impossibly pure, the landscape smoothed into something dreamlike. Even the pines seem to stand a little taller beneath their heavy white crowns.

For a long, suspended moment, you simply breathe in the crisp bite of winter air that sneaks in through the old windowpanes, the faint resin-sweet scent of pine logs stacked neatly by the fireplace, the lingering warmth of the duvet still clinging to your skin. It feels like waking inside a held breath.

Lewis is still asleep beside you.

Forty-one today.

He lies on his back, one arm thrown loosely above his head, the other resting exactly where your waist had been before you slipped away. In sleep, he looks unguarded in a way he rarely allows himself while awake. Almost softer, younger somehow, the faint crease between his brows smoothed into nothing. His lashes rest against his cheeks, dark and delicate, and his mouth is parted just slightly, as though he’s mid-thought even in dreams. Time hasn’t sharpened him…if anything, it has worn him gentler, more open, more deeply himself.

You watch him longer than you should, your chest tightening with that familiar, steady ache that love so constant feels like its own quiet pulse beneath your ribs. The kind that doesn’t demand attention, only settles deeper with every year. Carefully, you lean in brushing a stray curl from his forehead. You press a soft kiss there, as if feather-light barely a whisper of contact only for him, only for mornings like this. He exhales, a tiny shift, but doesn’t wake. You ease out of bed, moving slowly so the mattress doesn’t dip too sharply. You tug the duvet back around him, tucking it near his shoulder the way he always does for you, smoothing the fabric with a tenderness that feels instinctive.

His jumper waits draped over the chair, oversized and soft, smelling unmistakably like him in a clean, warm, comforting way nothing else ever manages to be. You pull it over your head, the sleeves swallowing your hands and smile into the fabric as the scent wraps around you like a second embrace.

The cabin is still, the morning untouched and for a moment you stand there in the quiet, wrapped in his warmth, watching the snow light dance across the room and thinking there is nowhere else in the world you’d rather be. The hallway floor is cold beneath your feet in a sharp, bracing cold that slips straight through your skin and wakes every part of you. It anchors you in the stillness of the morning, in the soft blue hush of a world wrapped in snow. You breathe in, ready for quiet.

But the kitchen… the kitchen is anything but quiet.

It looks like a blizzard has blown through the cabin and chosen the benchtop as its final resting place. Flour lies thick and powdery across every surface, a pale second snowfall that glitters faintly in the early light. Tiny fingerprints streak through it in chaotic little trails, looping and zigzagging like the tracks of small, flour-dusted creatures. A mixing bowl sits at a precarious angle, batter dripping down its sides in slow, sticky ribbons that cling to the wood like honey.

And in the middle of it all stand two small figures on stools far too tall for them. Wobbling, swaying, utterly fearless in the way only children can be.

“Auntie!” Willow hisses when she spots you, though her whisper is bright with excitement. Her golden hair gathers into a lopsided ponytail, the ends dusted with flour like she’s been dipped in frost. Her cheeks are flushed pink, eyes sparkling with the thrill of a secret mission. Beside her, Kaiden grips a whisk with both hands, knuckles white, shoulders squared with the seriousness of a captain steering a ship through a storm. “We didn’t wake Uncle Lewis,” he declares in a whisper so loud it rattles the measuring cups. “We swear.” You press a finger to your lips, fighting a smile. “Okay. But if he wakes up and sees this mess, I’m blaming both of you.” They nod with solemn determination for all of two seconds before dissolving into giggles that bounce off the cabinets.

You step into the chaos, gently nudging Willow’s stool back from the edge, steadying Kaiden’s elbow before he accidentally launches the whisk into orbit. Their hands are small and warm in yours as you guide them. Willow pouring too much milk, Kaiden stirring too enthusiastically, both of them narrating their efforts with breathless pride.

The pancakes come out lopsided, uneven, some a little too pale, others a little too enthusiastic on the underside. But they’re perfect in the way only pancakes made with tiny hands and too much love can be. You stack them high, the tower leaning like it’s trying to escape, and Willow claps her hands, sending a puff of flour into the air like celebratory confetti.

“I wanna do the candles,” she announces, already grabbing the packet. You help her tear it open, watching as she arranges the letters with intense concentration. Ending up with a crooked happy and a slightly bent bday, leaning into each other like they’re sharing a secret. Kaiden leans in close, squinting at her work. “It’s perfect,” he decides, and Willow beams.

Around you, balloons bob gently, tied to chair legs and cabinet handles, brushing your shoulders as you move. One bumps against your cheek, soft and cool, and Willow giggles like the balloon did it on purpose. The cabin smells like butter and sugar and warmth that seeps into your bones, that feels like family, like mornings worth remembering.

Kaiden tugs at your sleeve, leaving a floury handprint behind. “Auntie,” he whispers, eyes wide with earnest pride, “Uncle Lewis is gonna love this.” You smooth his hair, kiss the top of his head, and pull Willow into your side with your free arm. “Yeah,” you murmur, looking at the leaning pancake tower, the flour storm, the two little faces glowing with excitement. “He really, really is.”

Snow‑soft warmth follows you down the hallway as you trail behind the kids, the scent of pancakes and butter still clinging to your jumper. Their excitement is practically vibrating off them in a fizzy, bubbling energy that makes your own smile impossible to contain.

“This is the best birthday ever,” Willow declares with the absolute conviction only a six‑year‑old can muster, chin lifted, curls bouncing. “It hasn’t even started yet,” you whisper back, brushing a streak of flour from her cheek with your thumb. She scrunches her nose, giggling and leans into your touch like a cat seeking more affection.

When everything is finally ready, the leaning tower of pancakes, the crooked candles, the balloons that keep drifting into your hair – you crouch in front of them. Kaiden’s jumper is half‑tucked, half‑escaping, so you fix it gently, smoothing the fabric over his small shoulders. Willow’s loose hairs have rebelled again, so you tuck one behind her ear, letting your fingers linger for a heartbeat.

“Okay,” you murmur, gathering them close like a tiny, chaotic team. “We go in quietly. Then we jump. On three.” They nod with solemn determination.

They do not wait for three…

They explode down the hallway, socked feet slapping against the floorboards, giggles trailing behind them like ribbons. You barely have time to follow before the bedroom door is flung open with the force of a miniature hurricane.

“UNCLE LEEEEWIS!”

Lewis jolts awake with a startled laugh, eyes flying open just in time to catch two small bodies launching themselves onto him. The mattress dips violently, blankets puffing into the air like startled birds. Even half‑asleep, his hands are gentle, instinctively steadying them, pulling them close.

“What—” He blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of the chaos, hair mussed, voice rough with sleep. Then he sees you.

The candles flicker softly in your hands, casting warm gold across your face. Balloons drift lazily behind you, bumping into your shoulder. Morning light spills across the bed in a soft, holy glow, painting the whole scene in warmth.

Lewis freezes breath catching, eyes widening, expression softening all at once. “Oh,” he breathes, and it’s not confusion anymore. It’s wonder.

The kids start singing loudly and most definitely off‑key, enthusiastic enough to shake the windows and Lewis presses a hand to his mouth, eyes already shining. He looks overwhelmed in the most beautiful way, like the love has hit him all at once and he’s trying to hold it, cradle it, understand it.

When they finish, he laughs a soft, breathless sound and pulls both kids into his chest. Willow squeals as he kisses the top of her head. Kaiden melts into him as Lewis ruffles his hair with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“You made this?” he asks, voice thick, eyes still glassy.

“With Auntie!” Kaiden announces proudly, puffing out his chest.

Lewis turns to you then the look he gives you is warm enough to melt every snowdrift outside. Married life has taught you to read him in glances alone and this one says everything: gratitude, affection, disbelief that this is his life, his family, his morning. His shoulders drop, the tension leaving him in a visible wave. His love has always lived in quiet spaces. Through his softened eyes, in the way he reaches for you without thinking, in the way he breathes easier when you’re near.

He leans forward and blows out the candles slowly, deliberately, making a wish you don’t ask about because you already know it’s something soft, something simple, something that includes all of you… and, if you know him at all, at least 30% of that breath was dedicated to begging Ferrari not to emotionally ruin him this season.

Pancakes are eaten right there on the bed, because the kids insisted, because Lewis didn’t have the heart to say no, because mornings like this aren’t meant to be neat or sensible. Syrup ends up everywhere… on the sheets, on Lewis’s fingers, glistening on Willow’s chin like a tiny badge of honour. Kaiden insists Lewis take the biggest bite because “it’s his birthday,” and Lewis obeys with theatrical seriousness, taking a comically huge mouthful that makes both kids shriek with laughter. He laughs too warm, unguarded, in a way that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest ache in the best way.

Eventually, you manage to herd the two sticky, giggling children toward the living room. You bundle them up in jumpers and socks, smoothing hair, wiping syrup from noses, promising snow angels later, cartoons now and hot chocolate as soon as their fingers get cold. They barrel off with the enthusiasm of small, sugar-fuelled creatures and the door clicks shut behind them.

The cabin exhales. The quiet that follows is different from the morning’s hush. Now warmer, deeper, threaded with something intimate. The kind of quiet that wraps around you rather than settles over you.

Lewis leans back against the headboard, sinking into it with a long, slow breath. His shoulders drop, the tension melting away now that the whirlwind has passed. He looks full not just from pancakes, but from love, from gratitude, from the soft, overwhelming weight of being celebrated by the people who adore him most. There’s a glow to him, a gentleness he doesn’t always let himself show.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says quietly, voice still rough from sleep and laughter. “I know,” you murmur, climbing onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. “I wanted to.”

He reaches for your hand immediately, like it’s instinct, like it’s home. His thumb brushes over your wedding ring slow, reverent, familiar. He does it when he’s grounding himself, when he’s feeling too much and needs something solid to hold onto. The gesture is small, but it carries the weight of years, of promises, of mornings just like this one.

There’s a tenderness behind his smile now, the kind of expression he saves only for you. His eyes soften, lingering on your face as though he’s memorising you all over again in the quiet glow of the snow lit morning. The cabin is warm. The world is still. And in this moment, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in it.

You reach for the small box on the bedside table, the one you’d tucked there last night with a flutter of nerves you hadn’t wanted to name.

“I have one more thing.”

Lewis’s brows draw together, that familiar crease forming with curiosity, tenderness, a hint of disbelief that you’re still finding ways to love him more. He takes the box with both hands, careful, reverent, as though he already senses the weight of what’s inside. He opens it slowly, the lid lifting with a soft whisper.

A leather‑bound photo book rests inside, simple, worn, beautiful.

He flips the first page – and Roscoe looks back at him. Tongue out. Eyes bright. Snow dusting his nose like powdered sugar. A moment you captured years ago, not knowing it would become one of the most precious memories you owned.

Lewis’s breath stutters a tiny, broken sound he tries to swallow.

You shift a little closer, your shoulder brushing his offering warmth without crowding him. “I know this year has felt… different, without him here for your birthday,” you murmur, your voice soft and steady. “I just didn’t want today to feel empty.” He turns the pages with aching care, fingertips lingering on each photograph as though touching them might bring the moments back. Roscoe as a puppy, ears too big for his head. Roscoe curled in plane seats, sprawled across hotel beds, waiting patiently in garages. Roscoe pressed against Lewis’s leg during long nights, long flights, long seasons.

Little notes fill the margins, things Lewis said in passing, quotes you tucked away quietly because you knew they mattered.

My constant. He kept me steady. Best travel buddy.

Lewis’s throat works around a breath he can’t quite release.

At the back, a pressed pine sprig is taped neatly into the corner that is delicate, evergreen, a piece of the world outside your cabin window.

“For the cabin,” you whisper. “For this year. For what comes next.”

Lewis closes the book with trembling fingers and pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you with a kind of reverence that makes your breath catch. His forehead rests against yours, eyelashes brushing your skin as he exhales shakily. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by emotion. “For loving all of me. Even the parts that hurt.”

You cup his jaw gently, thumb brushing the faint stubble along his cheek. “Always,” you whisper not a promise, but a truth. The kiss he gives you then is slow and unhurried, grateful, almost searching. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you, the warmth of you, the way you feel in the quiet morning light. His hand slides to your waist, fingers curling there, guiding you closer until you’re settled comfortably in his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him.

He looks up at you like you’re something he’s still learning how to deserve, something fragile and fierce and entirely his. “Come here,” he breathes, though you’re already close enough to feel his heartbeat beneath your palms.

You kiss him again, deeper this time, your hands sliding into his curls, his palms warm against your hips as he holds you steady. The jumper you’re wearing – his jumper hangs loose around you, sleeves brushing his wrists and he tugs lightly at the hem, smiling against your mouth. “You look better in this than I ever have,” he murmurs, voice soft and teasing, but threaded with something tender enough to make your chest ache. You laugh quietly, brushing your nose against his. “It’s mine now.”

“Everything of mine is yours,” he says simply with no hesitation, no flourish and the sincerity in it makes your heart twist, makes something inside you settle. His hands rest at your waist, thumbs stroking slow, absent circles through the fabric. The kiss deepens again still gentle, still soft, but full of a warmth that spreads through your chest like sunlight breaking through winter clouds.

Wrapped together by the fire, the world outside softened by falling snow, his hand traces absent‑minded patterns along your thigh, his lips brushing your temple in quiet intervals. “Forty‑one feels okay,” he says softly, almost surprised by it. You smile, tucking yourself closer into his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me for all of them.” His arms tighten around you just a little like that promise is the greatest gift he’s ever been given.

Outside, snow continues to fall in soft, steady and endless motion as if the world itself is blessing the moment, wrapping the cabin in a cocoon of quiet, gentle love.

The moment is warm and quiet and full until –

The door slams open with the subtlety of a marching band.

“EWWWWWW!”

You jerk back in surprise, though Lewis’s hands stay steady at your waist, anchoring you. Both of you turn toward the doorway where Willow and Kaiden stand frozen mid‑stride, clutching wrapped presents and wearing identical expressions of theatrical, world‑ending horror.

“Are you kissing?!” Kaiden demands, voice cracking with betrayal.

Willow throws a hand over her eyes, fingers splayed dramatically. “Uncle Lewis, it’s your birthday, not kissing day!”

Lewis bursts into laughter a bright, full‑bodied sound that shakes his shoulders and fills the room with warmth. He presses one last quick kiss to your cheek, a soft, secret thing just for you, before lifting you gently off his lap and settling you beside him like you’re something precious.

“Alright, alright,” he says, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “Come here, you two.”

They launch themselves onto the bed with the enthusiasm of small, determined puppies. The mattress dips violently, blankets puffing up and the photo book nearly goes flying before you catch it with a quick hand. Willow doesn’t notice she’s already thrusting her gift forward, a lumpy, unevenly wrapped package held together by what must be half a roll of tape.

“I wrapped it myself!” she declares proudly, chest puffed out. Lewis pretends to wrestle with the tape, making exaggerated grunts of effort. “I can tell,” he says, grinning as he finally tears it open. Inside is a hand‑painted mug slightly crooked, splattered with joyful chaos, the words Best Uncle Ever wobbling across the front in bright blue paint. It’s imperfect in the most perfect way.

Lewis presses a hand to his chest, eyes softening. “Willow… this is beautiful.” She beams so hard as her cheeks glow with pride.

Kaiden steps forward next, holding out his gift with both hands. A knitted scarf in mismatched colours, clearly made with more enthusiasm than technique. Some stitches are tight, others loose, but the green section is unmistakably his in an uneven, earnest, full of heart way.

“I did it with Grandma,” he says. “But I did the green part.” Lewis wraps it around his neck immediately, the ends dangling unevenly over his chest. “It’s perfect,” he says, pulling Kaiden into a warm, enveloping hug. “I’m wearing it all day.”

Kaiden’s eyes widen. “Even snowboarding?”

Lewis nods solemnly. “Especially snowboarding.”

The kids erupt into cheers, bouncing on the bed, their joy so bright it feels like another kind of sunlight. And for a moment, the room is nothing but laughter, warmth, and the kind of love that fills every corner of a life. Messy, loud, imperfect, and beautifully whole.

The drive to the ski resort is a symphony of winter chaos however the good kind, a type of kind that fills the car with warmth even as frost gathers on the windows.

Willow is in the backseat singing improvised songs about snowflakes who “have important jobs and tiny hats,” her voice lilting and earnest. Kaiden keeps interrupting to announce, with absolute conviction, that he’s going to be “the fastest skier in the whole world,” even though he’s never actually skied before. Every time the road curves, Lewis’s hand finds yours on the centre console, thumb brushing over your knuckles, his eyes flicking toward you with that soft, secret smile he saves for quiet moments.

Outside, the world is a winter postcard with towering pines bowed under the weight of fresh snow, mountains rising in soft blue shadows, the sky pale and endless like a breath held in the cold.

At the resort, the air is crisp and bright, the kind of cold that wakes every sense and paints your cheeks pink. Willow and Kaiden wobble excitedly on their skis, bundled in puffy jackets and scarves that nearly swallow them whole. They look like two overstuffed marshmallows with legs.

“You two ready?” you ask.

“YES!” they shout in perfect unison and immediately fall over like synchronized dominoes.

Lewis laughs, the sound warm enough to melt snow. He helps them up, adjusting Kaiden’s helmet with practiced ease, brushing snow from Willow’s sleeves.

“You’re naturals,” he says, even though they’re both still tangled in their own skis.

You and Lewis strap into your snowboards, the familiar click of bindings echoing in the cold air. He leans close, breath warm against your temple as he presses a soft kiss there.

“Race you,” he murmurs.

“You’ll lose.”

He grins, eyes bright. “Not today. It’s my birthday.”

You push off before he can finish, snow spraying behind you in a glittering arc. He shouts your name, laughing as he launches after you down the slope.

The world becomes motion with cold air rushing past your face, snow crunching beneath your board, the mountains stretching wide and white around you. You glance back to see Lewis gaining on you, scarf flapping wildly, cheeks flushed, eyes lit with pure joy.

At the bottom, he catches you around the waist, momentum spinning you both in a dizzying circle. You’re laughing too hard to breathe, snowflakes catching in your lashes.

“Cheater,” he says into your hair.

“You love it.”

“I love you,” he corrects softly, forehead brushing yours.

Up the hill, Willow and Kaiden are inching their way down the beginner slope, arms out, legs stiff, shouting triumphantly every time they manage three seconds without falling. Their joy is loud and unfiltered, echoing across the snow.

Lewis watches them with a smile so full it softens every line of his face. He slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“This,” he says quietly, voice warm enough to thaw the air. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

You lean into him, the cold biting your cheeks, the warmth of him grounding you. “Good,” you whisper. “Because we’re only getting started.”

Snow drifts gently around you, soft and endless, as the four of you carve your own small, perfect day into the mountainside.

And then because you can’t resist you pull out your phone, hit record, and call out, “Hey, birthday boy!”

Lewis turns just in time for you to shove him face‑first into a pile of fresh powder. He lands with a muffled oof, arms flailing, scarf flying. For a second he lies there dramatically still, like a man frozen in time.

You’re giggling so hard the camera shakes.

Then he springs up with a burst of energy, snow clinging to his curls, eyes wide with playful outrage. “Oh, you’re in trouble.”

You squeal and try to run, but he catches you around the waist with ease, lifting you off your feet and falling backward into the snow with you in his arms. You land in a soft, cold heap, both laughing breathlessly as snowflakes settle in your hair.

The video ends there – a blur of laughter, snow, and love.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

@yourusername Happy 41st to the biggest kid on the mountain ❄️❤️

Comments:

@lewishamilton I’m pressing charges. Emotional AND physical damage. Still love you tho 🫶🏾

@georgerussell63 The way he rag‑dolled into the snow 😭😭😭

@charles_leclerc I watched this 12 times. It gets funnier every time.

@lando.jpg That form? Olympic‑level tackling. Sign them up.

@ScuderiaFerrariHp We’ll be reviewing this footage for… scientific analysis.

↪ @mercedesamgf1 Our engineers have notes.

@lewiehamfanpage THE CHILDREN CELEBRATING LIKE IT’S A NATIONAL HOLIDAY 😭😭

@valtteribottas At least it wasn’t gravel. Progress.

@sebastianvettel This is the kind of environmental enrichment I support.

@alex_albon I’ve seen penguins fall more gracefully.

@danielricciardo I give it a 9/10. Lost a point for not yelling “YEET.”

@lewishamilton Next year I’m pushing YOU. Consider this a warning.

You still see it clearer than any photograph, sharper than memory should ever dare to be. That look on his face. It’s not just etched into your mind; it’s carved into the soft tissue behind your eyes, a permanent scorch mark that flares every time you close them. Like sunlight caught too long on bare skin, it stings. It lingers. It refuses to fade. No matter how many years have passed, no matter how many miles you’ve put between then and now, it returns in the quietest moments when the kettle hums in the morning, when the wind brushes against the curtains at night, when your daughter laughs in a way that sounds just like him.

He was standing there on that narrow Silverstone street, frozen in place as if the world had stopped spinning. The late afternoon light spilled across the pavement in golden streaks, casting long, trembling shadows that danced around his feet. His breath caught in his throat, visible in the crisp autumn air like a ghost trying to escape. And then his eyes those deep, brown eyes you once knew better than your own reflection found you. Or rather, found her.

Everything else fell away. You knew. Instantly.

It wasn’t the way he blinked, slow and disbelieving, as if trying to wake himself from a dream. It wasn’t the way his lips parted, soundless, searching for words that wouldn’t come. It was the way his gaze dropped. First to the wild curls that framed her face, that unmistakable blend of brown and gold that mirrored his own, then to her tiny fingers curled around your necklace, tugging gently, instinctively as if anchoring herself to you. His silence was deafening. It roared louder than any scream. You saw it all in that moment: the recognition, the heartbreak, the thousand questions he didn’t dare ask. His jaw trembled, clenched against the weight of it and you watched a man come undone.

And still, you turned away.

You told yourself it was for her. For the quiet life you’d built far from the chaos of his world - for the bedtime stories uninterrupted by phone calls, for the mornings that didn’t begin with headlines and camera flashes, for the kind of stability that couldn’t be shattered by podium speeches or broken promises. You told yourself she deserved peace, not the spotlight. A life where her worth wasn’t measured in column inches or championship points. A life where she could be a child, not a secret.

But as your boots crunched over the gravel, each step heavier than the last, the truth clawed at your chest with merciless precision: you weren’t just walking away from a man. You were walking away from a lifetime. From the possibility of something whole. From the kind of love that doesn’t come twice. From him.

You never looked back. Not once.

You didn’t dare. Because you knew if you did…if you allowed yourself even a single glance you’d unravel too. You’d run back. You’d hand him everything: the truth, the years, the child. You’d let him in. And you weren’t sure he’d stay. You weren’t sure you could survive it if he didn’t.

Even now, when the house is silent and the night presses in like a weight on your chest, you wonder. Did he stand there long after you disappeared around the corner? Did he take a step forward, then stop himself? Did he whisper your name into the wind, hoping you’d turn? Did he chase after you, even if only in his heart?

You’ll never know.

You never asked. You never reached out. You buried the moment beneath layers of routine and responsibility, beneath school runs and scraped knees and birthday cakes. But it’s still there. It always will be. A memory that doesn’t age. A wound that doesn’t scar.

And sometimes, when she laughs just like him, when she tilts her head in that familiar way, when she asks questions you don’t know how to answer but rather you wonder if he’d know what to say. You wonder if he still thinks of you. If he ever forgave you. If he ever stopped waiting.

But the memory remains sharp as shattered glass, tender as a bruise that never quite fades. It clings to you in the quiet moments, in the hush between heartbeats, in the stillness just before dawn. Some days it arrives like a whisper, soft and sorrowful. Other days, it crashes in like a wave, unrelenting and cold, dragging you back to that moment the one that split your life into before and after.

The years that followed blurred together, not in forgetfulness, but in a kind of muted rhythm. Life became a series of soft mornings and quieter nights, each one folding gently into the next. The world didn’t stop, though it felt like it should have. Instead, it slowed as if time itself was holding its breath in reverence.

And in the centre of that hush, your daughter bloomed.

She was your miracle, your tether to the earth when grief threatened to carry you away. She filled the silence he left behind with the music of her presence with her tiny footsteps padding down the hallway, her breathy giggles that bubbled up like spring water, her questions that came from a place of wonder and innocence untouched by sorrow.

She grew with a kind of light you’d forgotten existed. A light that didn’t just illuminate the room but warmed it. Her eyes, wide and curious held galaxies in them just like his. Her smile, crooked and full of mischief, could undo you in an instant. When she laughed, it echoed through the house, bouncing off the walls and into the hollow spaces of your heart. When she slept, she curled into herself like a comma as if she were still small enough to fit beneath your ribs, tucked safely beneath your heart where she once lived.

Sometimes, when the stars are out and the world is hushed, she asks about him. Not often. Just little questions, the kind that sneak up on you when you least expect them. They’re never grand or heavy. They’re soft, feather-light, but they land with the weight of a thousand memories.

“Did Daddy like pancakes?” she asks one morning, her fork paused mid-air, syrup dripping like amber sunlight.

“Do you think he could drive faster than Lightning McQueen?” she wonders another night, her eyes wide with the kind of belief only children possess.

You smile. You always smile. Because that’s what he would’ve done. You gather the pieces of him that still live in your memory like the way he used to hum when he cooked, the way he’d lift his face to the sky like he was listening to the stars and you weave them into stories. Stories of someone brave and brilliant, someone who once loved the stars more than anyone else you’ve ever known. Someone who believed in wonder, in possibility, in the magic of the everyday.

You tell her he was a dreamer. That he could name every constellation and believed the moon had secrets it whispered only to those who listened closely. You tell her he was kind. That he once stopped traffic to help a turtle cross the road and cried when he got his dog Roscoe.

But you don’t say his name. You never do. Not because you’ve forgotten. Never that.

But because saying it aloud feels like opening a door you’re not sure you can close again. Because his name is a spell and you’re afraid of what it might summon - grief, yes, but also the ache of love that still lingers, fierce and unyielding.

So, you hold his name in your chest, like a secret and like a prayer. And you carry on. For her. For him. For the love that still lives in the spaces between your memories.

Until one afternoon, everything changes. It begins with the sound.

That unmistakable whine of engines tearing through the air shrill, urgent and unrelenting. It slices through the breeze like a blade, rising and falling in a rhythm that mimics a racing heartbeat. The track hums beneath the pressure of rubber tires, each lap a blur of motion and heat. The occasional screech of brakes around tight corners sends a ripple through the crowd, followed by the collective gasp of parents pressed against the barriers, their eyes wide, their hands clenched.

The air is electric. It crackles with anticipation, thick with the scent of scorched rubber and high-octane fuel. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting molten gold across the asphalt, turning every surface into a mirror of heat and light. The breeze carries the sweetness of popcorn and the metallic tang of engine oil, mingling into something that smells like childhood and danger and dreams.

You stand among them, arms folded tightly across your chest, trying to steady your breath. Your heart pounds in your ears, louder than the engines, louder than the cheers. Sweat beads at your temples, not from the heat, but from the storm building inside you.

And then you see her.

She’s out there your daughter in her kart a streak of red and black, slicing through the track like a flame. Her helmet, a size too big, wobbles slightly with every jolt, the chin strap snug against her neck. But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Her small hands grip the wheel with a ferocity that makes your breath catch in your throat. Her tongue pokes out in behind the helmet with fierce concentration, her brows drawn tight, her knees bouncing with each curve she conquers.

She’s fearless. Wild. Precise. Like she was born for this.

She takes the corners like she’s dancing with gravity, her body leaning into the turns with instinctive grace. She weaves between competitors with a confidence that borders on reckless but never crosses the line. Every movement is calculated, every decision sharp. She doesn’t just drive…she commands.

Your heart stutters.

It’s not just pride. Not just awe. It’s something deeper. Something older. Watching her is like stepping into a memory you didn’t know you still carried. A flash of red. A streak of dirt. A boy with eyes too bright for his age and a grin that could split the sky.

Lewis…

You remember the photo he showed you once, late at night in a hotel room between races. He’d pulled it from a worn envelope tucked inside his duffel bag, the edges frayed, the colours faded. Thirteen years old, face streaked with grime, helmet too big and unmistakably red, his hands gripping the wheel like he was holding onto a dream. “That was the first time I felt like I could fly,” he’d said, voice soft, reverent, as if the memory itself was sacred.

And now your daughter.

Her helmet is red. Not the same one, of course, but close enough to make your chest ache. The way she leans into the corners, the way her eyes gleam beneath the visor it’s like watching that photo come to life. Like watching him come to life.

The final lap begins.

She’s in second place, the leader just ahead, the gap narrowing with every turn. The crowd roars, the sound swelling like a wave. You can barely breathe. She takes the inside line on the last corner, her kart skimming the edge of the track, tires screaming in protest. For a heartbeat, you think she’s lost control.

But she doesn’t. She holds it. She flies.

And then - she crosses the finish line. First.

Her kart skids to a stop in a plume of dust and triumph. She throws her arms up, victorious, her laughter ringing out across the track like music. Her helmet tilts back just enough for you to see the joy in her eyes, the fire in her smile.

You clap, hands trembling, heart pounding. You force yourself to smile, wide and bright, to match her joy. But your fingers shake. Your knees feel weak. Your pulse thrums like a drumbeat in your ears.

Because in that moment, you’re not just watching your daughter win a race. You’re watching history repeat itself. And something inside you knows everything is about to change.

You tell yourself no one will notice. That this moment of her victory, her laughter, her joy is yours and hers alone. That the past is buried deep enough to stay quiet, tucked beneath years of silence and deliberate distance. You tell yourself that the world is too busy, too distracted, too far removed to connect the dots.

But you were wrong.

It starts as whispers online. A grainy video, posted by another parent, captioned with admiration: “Future champion in the making!” The footage is shaky, but her red helmet gleams in the sunlight, her kart slicing through the track with impossible precision. Her smile, wide and wild, flashes across the screen for just a moment.

And that’s all it takes.

Comments trickle in, then flood.

“That little girl looks just like him.” “Same curls, same smile.” “Is she…?”

You watch it unfold in real time, helpless. The algorithm does its job too well. The video spreads. The speculation grows teeth.

Then a journalist picks up the thread.

They dig. They stitch together fragments of old photos, race footage, social media posts you thought you’d buried. They find the picture. You at Silverstone, laughing in the paddock, your hand on Lewis’s shoulder. Another of you in the stands, eyes locked on him as he crossed the finish line. Smiling. Glowing.

They find Monaco. The kiss. The moment you thought was private, sacred, yours.

And then the article drops.

The Woman Who Walked Away From Lewis Hamilton.

The title alone makes your stomach drop. It’s cruel in its simplicity, heavy with implication. You click the link, heart pounding, eyes scanning the screen with dread.

They mention your name.

Your daughter’s.

They quote anonymous sources, speculate on timelines, dig up captions filled with pity and half-truths. “Still waiting for the ring that never came,” one reads, beneath a photo of you in Monaco, your hand on his chest, your eyes closed, lips pressed to his in a moment that now feels stolen.

You close the laptop before you finish the paragraph. Your breath comes in shallow bursts, your chest tight, your pulse roaring in your ears like the engines on the track. The walls feel too close. The air too thin. You press your palms to your eyes, trying to block out the noise, the memories, the ache.

And then her voice. “Mum, can I go again next weekend?”

She’s standing in the doorway, clutching her toy car, her curls damp with sweat, her cheeks flushed with joy. Her eyes are bright, her smile untouched by the storm gathering just beyond the walls of your home.

She’s radiant. Unaware. Untouched.

You swallow the lump in your throat. You nod. You smile, weakly but with conviction. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Because you promised yourself long ago, in the quiet aftermath of everything that she would never carry the weight of your past. That her life would be hers alone, unshadowed by fame, untouched by the ache of what was and what could have been.

You remember the night you left. The silence in the car. The way the city lights blurred through the windshield as you drove away. Lewis asleep in the hotel room, his arm draped across the pillow where you used to lie. You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t say goodbye. You just packed your things and disappeared.

But fate has a cruel sense of humour.

Because not long after the story breaks, after the whispers turn into headlines and the headlines into speculation you run into her. Lewis’s mother.

It happens in the most ordinary way, as these things often do. A Tuesday afternoon. A café just outside Stevenage, tucked between a florist and a bookshop, the kind of place you stop at after work when you need a moment to breathe. The bell above the door jingles as you enter, your daughter skipping ahead, her curls bouncing, her toy car clutched in one hand.

You’re halfway through ordering when you see her.

She’s standing by the counter, waiting for her tea, elegant as ever. Her coat is camel wool, her scarf a soft shade of lavender, her posture regal without effort. But it’s her eyes that stop you cold - warm, familiar and impossibly kind. Eyes that once looked at you with affection, with hope. Eyes that now cut through all the years and distance like they were never there.

She turns and the moment she sees your daughter, her breath catches.

You see it happen the way her shoulders stiffen, the way her hand trembles around the porcelain cup. Her gaze locks onto the little girl beside you, and something inside her shifts. The resemblance is undeniable. Hauntingly so. The same curls, the same cheekbones, the same spark in her eyes when she smiles.

You watch her blink hard, as if trying to clear a fog of memory. Then she steps forward, slowly, gently, as though afraid the moment might shatter if she moves too quickly.

“She’s beautiful,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Just like he was.”

You can’t speak. Your throat tightens, your heart thuds painfully against your ribs. You nod, because it’s all you can manage.

She reaches for your hand, her fingers warm and trembling. She squeezes gently, like she used to when you were nervous before a race, before a press conference, before a decision that felt too big.

“Does he know?” she asks, her voice breaking on the last word.

You shake your head. “No. I I didn’t think he’d want to know. We have seen each other once, so maybe he suspects but I never gave him a reason to ask.”

Her expression fractures. Not in anger. Not in judgment. But in sorrow the kind that comes from watching two people destroy themselves in slow motion. The kind that knows love doesn’t always survive the weight of dreams.

She looks at your daughter again, who’s now seated at a table, drawing a picture of a race car with a red helmet. You see her smile, wide and proud, and you know exactly what she’s thinking. You’ve seen that smile before. On podiums. In paddocks. In hotel rooms lit by moonlight.

“May I…see her sometimes?” she asks, her voice trembling. “Just quietly. I won’t say a word. I promise.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t trust her, but because the past feels so close now, like it’s pressing against the glass of the present, begging to be let in. But then you look at her this woman who once held your hand like a daughter, who once whispered encouragement into your ear when the world felt too loud and you nod.

And so, you let her.

Once a month, sometimes less. Quiet visits. Tea and laughter. Stories and drawings. She brings little gifts like hand-knitted scarves, tiny books about stars and engines, a necklace with a charm shaped like a steering wheel. Nothing extravagant. Just the kind of love that doesn’t need to be announced.

She listens. She watches. She laughs at your daughter’s jokes, marvels at her sketches, asks about her favourite drivers and her favourite colours. She never pries. Never pushes. She simply exists in the space you allow her, grateful for every moment.

And she keeps her word. For months, she never tells him.

Not even when his name comes up in conversation. Not even when your daughter asks, innocently, “Do you think Daddy would like my drawings?” She just smiles, her eyes glassy, and says, “I think he’d be very proud.”

You wonder, sometimes, what she tells herself at night. Whether she writes letters she never sends. Whether she watches his interviews and sees the shadow of what he doesn’t know.

But she never asks again. She simply shows up, quietly, like a prayer whispered into the wind. And you let her. Because in a world that’s already taken so much, this this quiet, sacred thing is something you can still give.

When the story finally reaches him, when the speculation turns to certainty, when the headlines stop asking and start declaring it all comes undone.

It begins with a phone call. Then another. Then ten more.

He calls his team first, voice tight, clipped, barely holding together. He demands names, sources, locations. He wants to know who leaked what, when, how. He wants to know if it’s true. If it could be true. If the girl with the red helmet and the impossible smile is really is his.

But nothing they give him brings peace. No denial soothes the ache. No confirmation quiets the storm.

So he drives.

Not because he knows where he’s going, but because sitting still feels unbearable. The car becomes a vessel for his restlessness, the hum of the engine the only thing steadying his breath. He drives through the night, headlights slicing through the misty dark, past familiar signs and unfamiliar turns, chasing something he can’t name. Not a destination. Not even a hope. Just a need.

To Stevenage. To the outskirts of London. To the narrow street in Silverstone where he saw you once just a flicker of you, years ago.

You were stepping out of a bookstore, a paper bag tucked under one arm, your head held high. Your daughter - your daughter - was nestled against your hip, her cheek resting on your shoulder, her curls haloed by the late afternoon sun. You looked older. Softer. Stronger. He’d frozen in place across the street, heart in his throat, the world narrowing to the shape of you.

And then your eyes met. Just for a second.

And then you turned away.

You disappeared into the crowd, your daughter’s small hand clutching your coat, your pace steady, unhurried. Like you’d made peace with the decision long ago.

Now he isn’t so sure.

He walks that street again, heart pounding, scanning every face, every window. The bookstore is still there, its windows fogged with condensation, a display of paperbacks and poetry in the front. He lingers outside the bakery next door, the scent of warm bread and cinnamon thick in the air, wrapping around him like memory. He waits. Watches. Hopes.

But you’re not there.

He drives to old haunts - the café where you used to sit with your notebook, scribbling thoughts between sips of tea. The park where you once watched him teach a group of kids how to race toy cars down a hill, your laughter echoing louder than theirs. He even goes to the hotel where you last stayed together, years ago, the one with the view of the river and the creaky floorboards that made you laugh every time you crossed the room barefoot.

The receptionist doesn’t recognise him. That feels like a betrayal in itself.

Eventually, he ends up at his mother’s house.

It’s late. The sky is bruised with clouds and the rain has started to fall in soft, steady sheets, tapping against the windshield like a lullaby for the brokenhearted. He doesn’t knock. Just sits in his car, engine off, staring at the porch light like it might offer answers. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, replaying every moment he let slip through his hands.

She finds him there, hours later, a mug of tea in her hand, her robe pulled tight around her, slippers soaked from the rain. “Lewis?” she says softly, stepping out into the drizzle.

He looks up, eyes rimmed red, jaw clenched. He takes the tea without a word, his hands shaking slightly as he brings it to his lips. It’s chamomile. She always remembers. They sit in silence for a long time, the rain tapping gently on the roof of the car, the steam from the mug curling between them like breath shared in the cold.

Then, finally, he speaks. “I think…I think I have a daughter.” His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “They’re saying it in the press. That she looks like me. That she’s hers. And I -” He swallows hard. “I think they’re right.”

His mother doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at him, really looks at him and sees the boy beneath the man the one who once chased dreams so fast he didn’t notice what he left behind.

“She’s yours,” she says at last, her voice breaking. “And she’s wonderful.”

He stares at her, stunned. “You knew?”

“I did,” she says, tears welling in her eyes. “She told me months ago. Asked me not to say anything. Said she’d tell you when she was ready. I wanted to respect that. I thought…I thought there was time.”

He sets the mug down, his hands suddenly too heavy. His voice cracks as he speaks again. “I had a ring,” he says. “I bought it the week after Monaco. I kept it in my travel bag, tucked in the lining where no one would find it. I was going to propose.”

His mother’s breath catches.

“I kept waiting,” he continues, voice thick with regret. “Waiting for the right moment. For the perfect race. For the right words. I thought I had time. I thought she’d always be there. And then she was gone.”

He presses his palms to his eyes, breath shuddering. “I was so foolish. I didn’t see what she needed. I didn’t see what I was losing.”

His mother reaches for his hand, squeezes it like she used to when he was small and scared. “You have a chance now,” she says gently. “If you want it.”

He looks at her, eyes wide, desperate. “Where is she?”

She hesitates. Her eyes search his face, weighing the pain against the hope. Then she nods, quietly and disappears inside. When she returns, she slips a folded piece of paper into his hand. Her handwriting is careful. Familiar.

An address. A second chance. And that’s how it happens. That’s how he finds you again. Not through fame. Not through racing. Not through the roar of engines or the flash of cameras.

But through a mother’s heart and a daughter’s laughter.

When you open the door that night and see him standing there older, worn, rain clinging to his curls like tears you don’t know whether to slam it shut or collapse into his arms.

He looks like he’s been driving for hours, maybe days. His coat is damp, his shoes muddy and his shoulders sag beneath the weight of something unspoken. His eyes those same eyes that once looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth slowing down for are rimmed red, glassy with exhaustion and something deeper. Something raw. Something that makes your breath catch.

He says your name like it’s a prayer. Like it’s been lodged in his throat all these years, waiting for the moment it could be spoken again.

And you foolishly, bravely step aside.

He doesn’t rush in. He moves like he’s afraid the floor might give way beneath him. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on the couch where she sleeps.

She’s curled up in a nest of blankets, one leg dangling off the edge, her stuffed bear tucked beneath her chin. The television hums softly in the background, casting flickers of light across her face. A half-finished drawing of a race car lies on the coffee table, crayons scattered like confetti.

He sinks to his knees beside her, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he blinks. His fingers tremble as he brushes a curl from her cheek. She stirs slightly, murmuring something in her sleep and he freezes watching her breathe, watching her exist.

“She’s…” His voice breaks. “She’s mine.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

He stays there for a long time, silent tears tracing down his face, his hand resting gently on the edge of the couch like he’s anchoring himself to her. And in that moment, you know the man who once couldn’t make room for a family now carries the weight of one in his hands.

The next weeks are quiet.

Not silent never that but hushed in the way healing often is. No grand declarations. No dramatic confrontations. Just small moments, stitched together like a patchwork quilt of second chances.

A few days after that night, you sit her down. She’s perched on the edge of the couch, legs swinging, her stuffed bear tucked beneath one arm. The television hums in the background, but she’s focused on you, sensing the weight in your voice before you even begin.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” you say gently, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Someone very special.”

She tilts her head, curious. “Is it the man I heard half asleep a few nights ago?”

You nod. “His name is Lewis. And…he’s your dad.”

She blinks, wide-eyed, absorbing the words like sunlight. Then, after a long pause, she whispers, “Really?”

You nod again, your throat tight. “Really.”

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t ask why it took so long. She simply smiles a soft, tentative thing and says, “Okay.”

And from that moment, he begins.

He doesn’t demand. Doesn’t rage. He shows up softly gently weaving himself into the edges of her world, never pushing, never rushing. He learns her rhythms, her routines, the way she likes her sandwiches cut into triangles and how she hums when she concentrates. He memories the names of her stuffed animals, the exact way she likes her bedtime stories told, the songs she sings when she thinks no one’s listening.

He starts picking her up from school.

The first time, he waits nervously by the gate, hands in his pockets, heart thudding like a drum. When she spots him, her face lights up and she runs to him with a grin that nearly knocks him off his feet. He crouches down, arms open and she barrels into him like she’s known him forever. He lifts her easily, spinning her once and the sound of her laughter makes something inside him break and mend all at once.

He attends her go-kart race.

He stands at the edge of the track, cap pulled low, sunglasses hiding eyes that shimmer with pride. She’s in her red helmet again, tongue poking out in concentration, knees bouncing with every turn. He cheers louder than anyone, his voice cracking as she crosses the finish line, triumphant. Later, he kneels beside her kart, showing her how to check the tire pressure, how to listen to the engine like it’s speaking a secret language. She watches him with wide eyes, soaking in every word.

He reads her bedtime stories.

He stumbles over the voices at first, but she giggles and corrects him, and soon he’s doing impressions that make her laugh so hard she snorts. He tucks her in with a gentleness that surprises even him, brushing her curls back and whispering, “Sweet dreams, little racer.” Sometimes, after she’s asleep, he lingers in the doorway, watching her breathe, his hand pressed to the frame like he’s afraid she might disappear if he looks away.

He tells her about cars, about courage, about how sometimes the hardest race you’ll ever run is toward forgiveness. He shows her old photos him at eleven, dirt-streaked and grinning, helmet too big and heart even bigger. She listens with reverence, her eyes wide, her fingers tracing the edges of the pictures like they’re relics.

And every now and then, his gaze finds you across the room filled with an ache you can’t quite name. Regret. Hope. Something in between. You catch him watching you when you’re not looking, his expression soft, unreadable. Sometimes your hands brush when passing plates or folding laundry and the air between you shifts charged, uncertain.

You talk, but only in fragments. About her. About school. About the way she’s growing so fast it’s dizzying. Sometimes you laugh together, and it feels like slipping into an old song. Sometimes you argue, quietly, about things that still sting. But mostly, you exist in the same space, orbiting each other like planets that once collided.

It’s not perfect. It’s not easy.

There are moments when you flinch at his presence, when the past presses too close. Moments when he hesitates, unsure if he’s allowed to reach for her hand, to kiss her forehead, to call her his. Moments when you both retreat into silence, unsure of the rules of this new world you’re building.

But then one evening, as the sun dips low and the house is bathed in golden light she says it.

“Daddy, can you help me with this?” The word hangs in the air, soft and sacred.

He freezes. You do too.

She’s holding a crayon, pointing at a half-finished drawing of a race car. Her voice is casual, unaware of the seismic shift she’s just caused.

He kneels beside her, hands trembling, eyes glistening. “Of course,” he whispers.

And then he breaks. You do too.

Because in that single word in that quiet, unassuming moment something cracks open. Something long buried. Something that had waited years to be spoken.

And in the days that follow, you begin to believe tentatively, cautiously that maybe love doesn’t always arrive on time. Sometimes, it stumbles in late. Disheveled. Uncertain. Carrying the weight of missed chances, fractured promises, and the kind of silence that used to ache in your bones. But still miraculously it shows up.

It doesn’t come with fireworks or sweeping declarations. It arrives quietly, like a soft knock on a door you weren’t sure you’d ever open again. It’s in the way Lewis starts showing up with your favourite pastries from the café down the road the ones with the golden, flaky crust and raspberry filling that always left sugar dust on your lips. He remembers the exact brand of tea you used to drink when life felt too loud, too fast he places it on the counter without a word, just a soft smile and a glance that says, I remember who you were when you were hurting. I see you still.

He spoils you in reverent, unspoken ways. Not with grand gestures, but with the kind of quiet devotion that lingers in the corners of everyday life. He tightens the loose screws on the cupboard door that’s been hanging crooked for months, his brow furrowed in concentration, forearms flexing with each twist of the screwdriver like he’s trying to fix more than just wood and hinges. He replaces the porch light bulb that flickered like a dying star, casting a warm glow over the threshold he hopes to cross again and again. He leaves wildflowers - daisies, cornflowers, tiny sprigs of lavender on the kitchen counter with no note, just the memory of what once made you smile, what still does.

And sometimes, when the afternoon sun is high and the house is quiet, he finds reasons to be outside. Fixing the gate latch. Cleaning out the gutters. Repainting the porch railing with slow, deliberate strokes. He wears a singlet top or sometimes nothing at all - his skin bronzed and glistening with sweat, catching the light like honey. Muscles ripple beneath the surface with each movement, effortless and precise. His tattoos peek through the fabric, curling over his shoulders and down his arms like stories written in ink some bold, some faded, all intimate.

You catch glimpses from the kitchen window, pretending not to look, but he knows. He always knows. He catches your eye once, mid-motion and smirks lazy and knowing. Then, with deliberate ease, he wipes his brow with the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his abdomen, the trail of ink that disappears beneath his waistband. Your breath stutters. The spoon in your hand stills.

“Need anything else fixed?” he calls out, voice low and teasing, the kind that curls around your spine and settles there. You shake your head, cheeks warm, heart thudding. “You’re just showing off.”

He sets down the wrench, leans against the porch railing and tilts his head. That grin slow, crooked, dangerous spreads across his face like heat. “Maybe,” he says, eyes sweeping over you with deliberate intent. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you curving into a smile you can’t quite suppress.

He flirts like that. Not like before, when it was all charm and bravado. Now it’s softer. Slower. Like he’s relearning the rhythm of you, one heartbeat at a time. Every glance, every touch, every word measured, meaningful. A man who knows he’s on sacred ground and treats it as such.

“You always did look better in my clothes than I ever did,” he murmurs one morning, leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching you stir oatmeal in a hoodie that once lived in his suitcase. It’s faded now, stretched at the sleeves, but it still smells faintly of him cedar wood, clean linen and something warm and familiar.

You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow. “It’s mine now.” He steps closer, voice low and teasing, eyes dancing with mischief. “Everything that’s yours…” His gaze drops to your lips, then lingers on your collarbone, exposed just enough to make your breath catch. “I want back.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “You’re impossible.” He shrugs, that grin never fading. “And yet, here I am. Still trying to win you over with pastries and charm. And maybe a little bit of nostalgia.”

But he never pushes. He’s careful. Respectful. He’s just…there. Always. Even when he’s away for race weekends, he calls every night. Sometimes just to hear her voice. Sometimes just to ask how your day was. He sends videos from the paddock him waving, blowing kisses to the camera, telling her to “be brave and fast and kind.” She watches them over and over, giggling, cheeks flushed with joy.

She adores him. She draws him into her world like he’s always belonged there. She asks him to braid her hair, to help her build Lego castles, to watch her twirl in the living room like she’s on a podium. He’s patient, impossibly gentle. You catch him once, sitting cross-legged on the floor, letting her paint his nails with glitter polish while he reads her a story about dragons and girls who save kingdoms with kindness.

And you - well, you start to soften. You laugh more. You lean into him when he’s near. You save him a seat at dinner. You leave the porch light on when he’s running late. You catch yourself watching him when he’s not looking, wondering how someone who once felt so far away could now feel so close.

But one night, after she’s asleep and the house is wrapped in quiet, you sit together on the porch. The air is cool, the stars scattered like spilled sugar across the ink-black sky. You hand him a mug of tea and he takes it with a grateful nod, his fingers brushing yours warm, familiar, grounding.

He watches you for a moment, eyes soft, then smirks. “You know, if you keep making tea like this, I might never leave.” You smile, but there’s something heavier beneath it. “I need to ask you something,” you say, voice trembling slightly. “And I need you to be honest.”

He straightens, sensing the shift. “Always.”

You take a breath, the words catching in your throat. “Why didn’t you put the ring on my finger? Why didn’t you stay?”

His brow furrows. Slowly, he sets his mug down, the ceramic clinking softly against the wood. The silence stretches, thick and fragile. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says quietly. “I thought you needed space. I thought I was the problem since I was so indecisive.”

You blink, heart thudding. “You were never the problem. You were just…afraid.”

He nods, eyes glistening. “I was terrified. Of failing you. Of not being enough. Of loving you so much it hurt.”

You reach for his hand, fingers brushing his knuckles. “You didn’t have to be perfect. You just had to be there.”

He swallows hard, then lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

And then, with a crooked smile and a spark in his eyes, he adds, “But just so we’re clear I’m still claiming that hoodie. And the kid. And you.”

You laugh, leaning into him, the stars above bearing witness to something that feels like a beginning.

Eventually, the tension between you shifts no longer taut and uncertain, but something softer. Warmer. Like gravity pulling you back into orbit. It’s no longer just glances and lingering touches. It’s something deeper. Something inevitable.

One night, after she’s tucked in and the house has settled into its hush, you find yourselves in your bedroom just the two of you. The air is thick with summer warmth, the lights low and golden, casting soft shadows across the walls. The hum of the ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, a quiet rhythm that matches the beat of your heart.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you, and Lewis is beside you close enough that the heat of him seeps into your skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath syncing with your own. The room is quiet, wrapped in the hush of late evening, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. The air is thick with summer warmth and the golden lamplight casts soft shadows across the walls, painting everything in amber.

He’s freshly showered, the scent of soap clinging to his skin, subtle but unmistakable like memory. His curls are damp, tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a loose white tee that clings to the curve of his chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink that winds down his arms bold lines, delicate symbols, stories etched into muscle. His thigh brushes yours and the contact is electric familiar, but new. Like a spark reigniting something long dormant.

He turns toward you, eyes searching, and reaches out. His fingers graze your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. They linger there, warm and gentle, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw like he’s relearning the contours of someone he never truly forgot.

“I missed this,” he whispers, voice low and rough like gravel softened by rain. You swallow, heart thudding, and meet his gaze. There’s something in his eyes uncertainty, reverence, longing.

He leans in slightly, his breath brushing your lips. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Like I used to?” The question hangs in the air, fragile and full of history. You nod, slow and sure, and he closes the distance.

The kiss is slow. Tender. Then deeper. Like remembering a language you used to speak fluently, one syllable at a time. His lips move against yours with reverence, then hunger. His hand slides to the small of your back, grounding you, pulling you closer until your bodies align. The other tattooed and warm trails up your thigh, fingers curling just beneath the hem of your sleep shorts, his touch featherlight but deliberate.

You gasp softly against his mouth, and he takes it as invitation, his tongue brushing yours in a kiss that’s both apology and promise. It’s the kind of kiss that speaks in unfinished sentences, in the spaces between breaths. The kind that says I remember you. I still want you. I never stopped.

Your hands tangle in his curls, fingertips grazing the nape of his neck. His body is solid beneath you warm skin, taut muscle, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm. For a breathless moment, the world narrows to the shape of him - his mouth, his hands, the quiet sound of your name murmured against your skin.

And then -

“Mummy?”

You both freeze.

Her voice is sleepy, muffled, coming from the hallway like a soft echo. You pull back, breathless, hearts racing, foreheads pressed together in stunned silence. Lewis groans softly, burying his face in your shoulder with a laugh that vibrates against your skin.

“She’s got timing,” he murmurs, voice still husky from the kiss. You laugh, brushing your thumb across his cheek before slipping off the bed. She’s standing in the doorway, clutching her bear, eyes half-closed and cheeks flushed. Her curls are wild from sleep, her little feet bare against the hardwood floor.

“I had a bad dream,” she says, voice trembling. Before you can move, Lewis is already up, crossing the room in three quiet strides. He kneels in front of her, scooping her into his arms with practiced ease. “Come here, little racer,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Let’s chase the monsters away.”

You watch them curl up on the couch together, her small body tucked against his chest, his hand stroking her back as he hums quietly a lullaby you don’t recognise but somehow feels like home. Her breathing slows, her fingers clutching his shirt and your heart aches in the best way. In the way that makes you want to cry and laugh and hold onto this moment forever.

It happens again. And again.

Every time you and Lewis try to steal a moment - on the porch before he leaves to go back to his own home, in the kitchen when you’re washing dishes and he sneaks up behind you, in bed when the air is thick with longing - she appears. A nightmare. A question. A sudden need for water or a story or a hug. It becomes a running joke between you.

“She’s got a sixth sense,” you say one night, laughing as you both collapse onto the bed after yet another interruption. “She’s our chaperone,” he grins, flopping onto his back, arm thrown over his eyes. “Strict one, too. No kissing past bedtime.”

You nudge him playfully, curling into his side. “She’s just making sure you earn it.” He turns his head, eyes meeting yours, raw and real. “I’ll earn it,” he says quietly. “Every day.”

And you believe him.

Because the truth is, this messy, interrupted, imperfect thing is yours. It’s laughter in the kitchen and glitter nail polish on his hands. It’s stolen kisses and bedtime stories and the way he looks at you like you hung the stars he’s always chased.

It’s late again. The kind of hush that only arrives after a day overflowing with laughter, spilled juice and the joyful chaos of childhood. The house exhales in the quiet, its walls still echoing with giggles and the patter of tiny feet. The living room is bathed in the soft, flickering glow of the television, where an animated movie plays in muted colours. The soundtrack hums low, a gentle lullaby of distant voices and swelling strings.

Lewis lies stretched out on the rug, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped protectively around your daughter, who’s curled into his side like a sleepy kitten. Her beloved bear is nestled between them, its fur matted from years of love. Her lashes flutter like moth wings, her breath warm against his chest, her fingers absently tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Daddy?” she whispers, barely louder than the rustle of the curtains. “Mm?” he murmurs, brushing a stray curl from her forehead with a tenderness that makes his chest ache.

“Are you gonna marry Mummy?” He stills. The question lands like a pebble in still water small, but rippling deep. Her voice, though drowsy, carries a quiet certainty. “She’s like…like a princess. You should marry her.”

Lewis swallows hard, his heart thudding against his ribs. He looks down at her this tiny, wise soul who sees everything. “You think so?” he asks, voice hushed. She nods, eyes fluttering closed. “She’s the best. And you love her. I know.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead, his voice thick with emotion. “Yeah, little racer. I do.” She’s asleep before he finishes the sentence, her breath soft and steady, her fingers still tangled in his shirt.

That night, the idea takes root not loud or dramatic, but quiet and insistent, like a heartbeat. Lewis lies awake long after the credits roll, staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning with memories and missed chances. He thinks of the years he spent chasing deadlines and accolades, the moments he let slip through his fingers. And he knows - he’s ready now. Not just to love you, but to show it. To prove it.

In the days that follow, he begins sketching plans in the margins of his notebooks, between meetings and errands, in the quiet moments when the world slows down. He doesn’t want extravagance. He wants meaning. Magic. Something that feels like home.

He enlists your daughter as his co-conspirator. She’s thrilled, of course her eyes wide with wonder, her imagination alight. She helps him choose the ring, declaring, “It has to sparkle like Mummy’s eyes!” Together, they craft a day wrapped in whimsy and mischief, a secret stitched with love.

It’s a Saturday. The sun spills golden light across the backyard, and the sky stretches overhead in a brilliant, endless blue. Lewis suggests a picnic just the three of you. You smile, unsuspecting, as he packs a basket with your favourite treats and spreads a blanket beneath the old gum tree, its branches swaying gently in the breeze.

Fairy lights twinkle between the limbs, casting soft glimmers like fireflies. A trail of glittery paper stars winds from the back door, catching the sunlight like tiny constellations. Your daughter bounces with excitement, dressed in a tutu that flutters with every step and a crown of daisies perched atop her curls. She hands you a folded piece of paper, her handwriting shaky but proud: “Follow the stars, Mummy. They lead to something sparkly.”

You laugh, heart light and curious, and follow the trail. Each star crunches softly beneath your feet as you walk, the breeze lifting your hair, the scent of jasmine and fresh-cut grass swirling around you.

At the end of the trail, Lewis stands barefoot in the grass, his curls wild, his shirt charmingly rumpled. He holds a small velvet box in trembling hands. But it’s his eyes that stop you brimming with tears, raw and open, full of everything he’s never said.

He drops to one knee, voice shaking. “I need to say something before I ask you anything.”

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry for pushing you away. For burying myself in work and not seeing what was right in front of me. I was so focused on building a future, I forgot to live in the present - with you. I should’ve put this ring on your finger years ago. I should’ve seen that you were ready for a family long before I was brave enough to admit I was too.” Tears spill down his cheeks now and he doesn’t try to stop them.

“I was stupid. And selfish. And I thank you for letting me back into your life. For letting me love you again. For letting me be part of this.” He opens the box, revealing a ring that catches the light like a promise.

“I love you. I love our messy mornings and glitter-covered afternoons. I love the way you laugh, the way you hold us together when everything feels like it’s falling apart. I want to spend every day earning this. Earning you. Will you marry me?”

Your daughter claps her hands, bouncing beside him like a spark of joy. “Say yes, Mummy! Say yes!”

You drop to your knees, tears streaming down your face, and wrap your arms around both of them. “Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Yes, a thousand times.”

The backyard erupts into celebration. There are hugs and laughter and twirls beneath the gum tree. Lewis lifts your daughter high into the air, spinning her around as she shrieks with delight. “We’re gonna be a real family!” she cries, her voice ringing like a bell.

“You already are,” you whisper, watching them through tears, your heart full to bursting.

Later, as twilight deepens and the stars blink awake, the fairy lights glow golden and soft. You sit curled together on the blanket, Lewis’s arm around you, your daughter asleep between you, her daisy crown slipping sideways. The night wraps around you like a lullaby, warm and gentle.

And in that moment, you know this is your forever. Not perfect. But real. Beautifully, gloriously real.

A life stitched together with forgiveness and laughter, with sticky fingers and sleepy whispers, with wild curls and paper stars. A love that weathered silence and seasons, that bent but never broke. A bond that waited patiently, quietly, through the ache of uncertainty and the weight of unspoken hopes.

And now, here you are wrapped in twilight and fairy lights, barefoot in the grass, hearts finally aligned.

After all that time waiting, everything remained just as it was.

The gum tree still sways gently in the breeze. The blanket still holds the warmth of shared stories. The stars still blink above, unchanged. And love - love never left. It simply waited for the moment you were both ready to see it clearly.

Your happily ever after isn’t a castle or a ball - it’s this. A backyard, a blanket, a family. A man who found his way back. A child who believed in magic. And you, who held the door open all along.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊