#chefduringwinterbreak

lewishamilton : my bug 🖤 proud of you, always

liked by ynhamilton

↳ ynhamilton : love you dad 🖤

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nicolescherzinger : the most beautiful soul inside and out 🤍 love you my girl

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↳ ynhamilton : mommy 🥺 miss you

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nicolashamilton : looking good kid! 😎

liked by ynhamilton and lewishamilton

alexandrasaintmleux : the prettiest angel in the world 🤍🪽

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↳ ynhamilton : ilysm😭

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lando : new season same slay

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↳ ynhamilton : clock it landhoe

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yourfriend123 : actually speechless rn. you're so beautiful

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f1: princess of the paddock is back! 🏎️👸🏽

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scuderiaferrari : model. future engineer. icon. we are slightly fangirling and happy to be featured

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olliebearman : 4+4

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username005 : where is isack?? ik he is lurking

↳ kimi.antonelli : girl he was the first to like the post??? he is just too scared to comment

liked by lewishamilton, olliebearman, lando and others

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

📍ausgp 2025

The paddock always knows when you arrive. It’s subtle at first—the way conversations stutter, the way heads turn just a fraction quicker than usual. Then the cameras notice. The shutters start clicking faster, louder. Someone calls your name, and then another voice joins it, and another, until the sound follows you like a tide as you step through the gates at Albert Park.

Red corset cinched at the waist. Heels steady against the concrete. Hair loose, effortless, like you didn’t spend an extra ten minutes making sure it fell just right.

“YN—over here!”

You smile without breaking stride. You’ve learned how to do that. Learned how to exist in this space without shrinking, without apologizing.

A few drivers peel off from their conversations as you pass. A quick hug from Lando. A grin and a kiss on the cheek from Charles. George raises a hand and calls out something about finally being back. You greet them all easily, warmly—like this isn’t a world that has watched you grow up, like you aren’t one of its constants.

Ahead of you, the Ferrari garage is already buzzing. And right at the front of it, arms folded, sunglasses perched low on his nose, is your dad.

Lewis doesn’t move when he sees you—he just smiles. Wide and soft and proud in a way that still makes your chest ache a little, no matter how old you get. When you reach him, he opens his arms and you step into them without hesitation.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “You good?”

“Always,” you say, squeezing him once before pulling back. “You?”

He nods, glancing briefly at the car behind him, the red still unfamiliar but thrilling all the same. “Feels right.”

You believe him.

He takes you through the garage slowly, one hand resting at the small of your back as he introduces you around—engineers, mechanics, some people you’ve known forever and a few new faces who look at you with quiet reverence. You listen, ask questions, make jokes. You belong here just as much as he does.

From a little further back, near the edge of the neighboring garage, Isack Hadjar watches.

He doesn’t mean to stare. He really doesn’t. But it’s hard not to.

You move through the space like you’ve always been part of it—like the noise, the pressure, the legacy doesn’t weigh on you at all. Like being Lewis Hamilton’s daughter is just another fact, not a headline.

He’s met your dad already. Shaken his hand. Nearly short-circuited when Lewis smiled at him and asked how he was settling in. That alone had been enough to make this weekend feel unreal.

And now you’re here.

Isack stays quiet, hands tucked into the pockets of his team gear, eyes following you with something dangerously close to awe.

Eventually, you peel away toward hospitality, slipping into a seat beside Alexandra. She lights up the second she sees you.

“There you are,” she says, pulling you into a hug. “I swear, every camera in Melbourne just turned at once.”

You laugh. “I was hoping to sneak in unnoticed.”

“Impossible,” she replies fondly.

The two of you talk easily—about travel, about fashion, about how strange it feels seeing you in Ferrari red this year. It’s comfortable. Familiar. Safe.

Later, when you drift back toward the garage, you spot your dad mid-conversation with a young driver in a VCARB suit. He’s listening intently, head tilted, hands animated as he speaks back.

Then he sees you.

“YN,” Lewis calls, beckoning you over. “Come here.”

The driver beside him straightens instantly.

“This,” Lewis says, resting a hand on your shoulder, “is my daughter.”

Your smile is immediate. Warm. Curious.

“And this is Isack,” your dad continues. “Rookie this year. Very fast.”

Isack swallows. “Hi,” he says, voice steady despite the way his heart is trying to escape his chest.

“Hi,” you reply, eyes bright. There’s something about him—something earnest and sweet that makes your lips curve just a little more. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” he says, then winces internally because likewise feels painfully formal, but it’s too late to take it back.

You don’t seem to mind. If anything, you look… amused.

“He’s been very polite,” Lewis adds with a grin. “Even when I tease him.”

Isack laughs nervously. “You started it.”

You laugh too, soft and genuine, and for a second he forgets where he is.

“Well,” you say, glancing between them, “I won’t steal him. Good luck this weekend, Isack.”

“Thank you,” he says quickly. “I—yeah. Thanks.”

You give him one last smile before stepping away, and Isack stands there for a moment longer than necessary, watching you disappear back into the crowd.

That night, your hotel room is quiet.

You’ve kicked off your shoes, curled up in one of the armchairs with a mug of tea balanced between your hands, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Melbourne hums faintly outside the window.

There’s a knock at the door.

You frown slightly, setting your phone down as you stand. When you open it, Isack is there.

He looks… distressed. Hair a little messier than earlier. Shoulders tense. Like he’s been pacing for a while.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies, then immediately grimaces. “Sorry. I—this is really random. I just—do you know where your dad is?”

You think for a moment. “Probably the gym. Or out on a run. That’s kind of his thing.”

“Right,” Isack says, nodding, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He hesitates. “I’m just… nervous. And I thought maybe he’d—never mind. Sorry to bother you.”

You tilt your head, studying him.

“I don’t have very good advice,” you say honestly. “But I do have tea. And a lot of funny stories about him.”

He looks at you, surprised.

“…Really?”

You smile. “If you want.”

There’s a beat. Then he nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Inside, he relaxes almost instantly. You talk—about racing, about school, about how intimidating your dad can be when he’s focused. You tell him about the time Lewis got lost on a run and refused to admit it. He laughs, shoulders loosening, nerves fading. By the time he leaves, he’s smiling again.

Race day comes quickly.

Before heading out, your dad pulls you into a quiet corner. He presses his forehead to yours for a moment, a habit from when you were younger.

“Wish me luck?” he asks.

“Always,” you say. “Go show them.”

He smiles and squeezes your hands once before letting you go.

You watch the race from the garage with Anthony, your grandfather steady beside you. When the formation lap begins, everything feels normal—until it doesn’t.

Isack’s car jolts.

You gasp before you can stop yourself. “Oh my god.”

The crash happens in an instant. You’re on your feet, heart in your throat, as the cameras swarm. Anthony stands too, jaw set, eyes sharp.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ll be back,” he says, already moving.

Later, he returns, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’s shaken, but he’s okay.”

You nod, but you can’t sit still.

You excuse yourself quietly and make your way down the paddock, past garages and security, until you’re standing outside a familiar door. You knock lightly.

“Go away,” comes Isack’s muffled voice. “Please.”

“It’s me,” you say gently.

The door opens immediately.

Inside, Isack sinks onto the couch, head in his hands. You sit beside him without asking, close enough that your shoulders touch.

“I feel like I failed,” he says, voice cracking. “First race. Formation lap. I didn’t even get to race.”

You listen. Let him speak.

When he’s done, you turn to him. “You didn’t fail,” you say quietly. “You showed up. You got here. One moment doesn’t erase that.”

He looks at you, eyes glassy. “What if it does?”

“It doesn’t,” you say firmly. “And it won’t.”

Something steadies in him at that.

Later, back in the Ferrari garage, you spot him talking with your dad. Lewis’s hand rests briefly on his shoulder, his expression kind and serious.

Isack looks up and sees you watching. You smile. And he gives you the biggest smile back.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

📍miamigp 2025

Miami feels like a big change. Not the hum of engines or the clipped focus of the circuit—but heat, music, color. The paddock feels looser here, sun bleached and buzzing, like everyone has collectively decided to exhale for a moment.

You’re sitting in the Mercedes garage, legs tucked beneath you, a notebook balanced on your knee. The silver and black feels familiar in a way Ferrari red still doesn’t—not yet, at least.

Bono leans over your shoulder, pointing at your page.

“See here,” he says, tapping the diagram. “If you think about the load transfer this way, it makes more sense.”

You hum thoughtfully, scribbling a note. “So the instability I’m seeing isn’t actually the suspension—it’s how the energy’s being redistributed?”

“Exactly,” Bono replies, pleased. “You’ve got a good instinct for this.”

Across from you, Kimi Antonelli is spinning slowly in his chair, entirely uninvited and deeply committed to being a menace.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “Do we think she’s going to notice or are we letting this continue indefinitely?”

You don’t even look up. “Notice what.”

Kimi grins. Bono clears his throat and pretends to be deeply fascinated by a monitor.

Before Kimi can elaborate, a familiar presence appears at the edge of the garage.

Isack.

He’s holding a cardboard cup and a small paper bag like they’re precious cargo. His eyes find you immediately, softening as he walks over.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “I brought you this.”

You look up, surprised—and then smile when you see the order. Exactly right. Down to the milk.

“You remembered,” you say.

He shrugs, suddenly shy. “You only mentioned it once.”

You take it from him, fingers brushing, and that tiny contact sends something warm and dangerous through your chest.

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely.

“No problem,” he replies, lingering for half a second longer than necessary before nodding at Bono and Kimi. “Good luck with… whatever this is.”

Homework,” Kimi supplies cheerfully.

Isack laughs and disappears back toward his garage.

The second he’s gone, Kimi swivels toward you fully.

“He likes you,” he says flatly. “Obviously.”

You choke slightly on your coffee. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He brings you coffee,” Kimi continues, counting on his fingers. “Remembers your order. Finds you in other garages. Asks about you constantly. Looks like a kicked puppy when you’re not around.”

Bono makes a very deliberate show of adjusting his headset.

“Kimi,” you warn.

“What?” he shrugs. “I’m right.”

“You’re not,” you insist, even as your pulse betrays you. “He’s just nice.”

Kimi raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

Across the paddock later, your dad is leaning against a table, listening as Isack talks.

“…and then she explained it in a way that actually made sense,” Isack is saying, animated. “Like, she doesn’t make you feel stupid for asking questions. She just—she gets it.”

Lewis watches him with careful neutrality, the way only a father can.

“YN?” he asks casually.

Isack nods quickly. “Yeah. Sorry. I talk about her a lot.”

Lewis smiles into his water bottle.

“I’ve noticed.”

Isack flushes slightly but doesn’t deny it. He just smiles too, softer now, like the thought of you alone is enough to steady him.

Lewis doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He’s already cataloging it—every look, every question, every unconscious pull toward you.

Qualifying comes and goes in a blur of heat and tension.

That evening, there’s a knock at your hotel room door.

Isack stands there, hair still damp from a shower, holding his laptop.

“Hey,” he says. “I was wondering if you still wanted help studying? Or—I can leave. I just—”

“No,” you interrupt quickly. “Stay. Please.”

You spread your notes out across the bed, the two of you leaning over them shoulder to shoulder. He asks questions—real ones. Thoughtful ones. When you explain your research, he listens like it matters.

Like you matter.

Later, room service arrives. You eat perched on the edge of the bed, laughing quietly, before carrying your plates out onto the balcony.

The Miami skyline glows below you.

“So,” Isack says, setting his fork aside. “What exactly is it you’re researching?”

You blink. “You really want to know?”

“Of course.”

No one ever does.

You talk for a long time. About systems. About data. About the future. He listens without interrupting, eyes focused, absorbing every word.

“That’s incredible,” he says when you finish. “You’re incredible.”

Your chest tightens. When he finally leaves, you lie awake staring at the ceiling. The truth settles heavy and undeniable in your chest. You’re falling for him. And suddenly, all you want to do is run.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

📍canadiangp 2025

The first thing Isack notices is your absence. Not just from one race—those happen. People get busy. Lives exist outside the paddock. But then it becomes two races. Then three. No familiar figure tucked into the garage. No quiet wave from across hospitality. No late-night texts asking how practice went.

Your replies grow slower. Shorter. Sometimes nonexistent. He tells himself you’re busy. That you warned him school was intense. That this is normal. Still, it sits heavy in his chest.

During a lull in the Canadian paddock, he finds himself beside Lewis. They’re watching mechanics work, the air sharp with fuel and focus.

“Hey,” Isack says carefully. “Is… um. Is YN coming this weekend?”

Lewis glances at him, face perfectly neutral.

“She’s been busy with school,” he says lightly. “You know how she is.”

Isack nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

“She’ll be here,” Lewis adds. “Don’t worry.”

Isack smiles, relief flickering briefly through him.

What he doesn’t know—what Lewis doesn’t say—is that he knows exactly where you’ve been. Avoiding him. Avoiding yourself.

Lewis knows the signs. He always has. The way you disappear when something matters too much. The way you bury your feelings under responsibility and reason and self-control. He both hates and loves that he can read you so easily.

The moment he gets confirmation that you’ve arrived in Montreal, he’s at your hotel door.

“Get dressed,” he says when you open it, already smiling. “We’re going to brunch.”

“Dad—”

“No excuses,” he interrupts gently. “I already booked us a private room.”

You sigh, knowing better than to fight it.

The café is quiet and sunlit, tucked away from the chaos. The private room feels like a cocoon. Lewis waits until your food arrives before speaking.

“So,” he says, casually stirring his coffee. “You’ve been busy.”

You nod. “School.”

“Mmhmm.”

You can feel it—the way he’s circling, patient and deliberate.

“You haven’t been around much,” he continues. “People miss you.”

“I miss them too,” you reply carefully.

Lewis studies you for a long moment. Then he nods, letting it go.

“Alright,” he says. “Eat. Tell me about your classes.”

Relief washes over you, mingled with guilt. You talk about assignments, deadlines, stress. He listens. He always does.

In the paddock later, you finally feel like yourself again.

You’re sitting with Alexandra, Kika, Carmen, and Rebecca, legs crossed, sunglasses perched atop your head. The conversation is easy—travel plans, outfits, inside jokes.

It’s warm. Normal.

“God, it’s so good to have you back,” Carmen says, nudging you. “We missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you admit.

Before you can say more, Kimi and Ollie appear like coordinated and perfectly timed chaos.

“Can we borrow her?” Ollie asks politely.

“No,” Kika says instantly.

“Please?” Kimi adds. “It’s important.”

Alexandra laughs. “Go. But bring her back alive.”

They drag you a few steps away.

“Where have you been,” Kimi demands, arms crossed.

“You ghosted the paddock,” Ollie adds. “That’s illegal.”

You laugh. “I didn’t ghost anyone. I’ve been busy.”

“With what,” Kimi presses. “Avoiding?”

“Avoiding who,” Ollie asks pointedly.

You roll your eyes. “You two are ridiculous.”

They exchange a look.

“Just saying,” Kimi says, softer now. “You don’t disappear unless something’s wrong.”

You squeeze his arm affectionately. “I’m fine.”

They don’t look convinced—but they let it go.

Qualifying is rough.

Isack leaves the car frustrated, helmet still on, shoulders tense. That night, he hesitates for a long time before texting you.

hey would you maybe want to watch some race reruns together? i miss you

Your chest tightens. You stare at the message, thumb hovering. Every instinct tells you to retreat. You don’t.

yeah i can come by

His reply is instant.

When you arrive, the lights are low. The race replay is already queued up. Your favorite snacks sit neatly on the table like he’s been planning this all along.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You curl into his side, head resting on his shoulder. He feeds you snacks absentmindedly, careful and gentle, like he’s afraid you might disappear again if he moves too fast.

Your phone buzzes.

dad: where are you?

You hesitate, then type honestly.

with isack

Somewhere across the city, Lewis Hamilton smiles to himself. These idiots, he thinks fondly.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

📍hungariangp 2025

By the time you reach Budapest, things have settled into something almost normal. Almost.

You and Isack have found your rhythm again—texts returned, smiles shared, late-night conversations slipping back into place like muscle memory. But there’s an undercurrent now. Something unspoken that hums between you every time your eyes meet, every time your fingers brush.

You both feel it. You both pretend you don’t.

Sunday morning finds you in your dad’s motorhome, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the air calm in that pre-race way that always feels suspended in time.

A deck of Uno cards is spread across the table.

“This is ridiculous,” you say, staring at your hand. “There’s no way you have four plus-twos.”

Lewis grins unapologetically. “Skill issue.”

Isack laughs, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure this game is rigged.”

You glance at him. He looks relaxed, hair a little messy, shoulders loose—but his eyes flick to you more often than he probably realizes.

Lewis notices everything.

“So,” he says casually, laying down a card. “Summer break’s coming up.”

Isack nods. “Yeah.”

“You got any plans?” Lewis asks.

Isack shrugs. “Not really. Probably just training. Maybe a little travel.”

Lewis hums, like he’s considering something.

“Well,” he says, almost offhand, “YN and I are heading to the Maldives. Just us and a few close family friends.”

You pause mid-shuffle.

Isack looks up sharply.

Lewis continues, entirely too calm. “You should come.”

The room goes quiet.

Isack blinks. Once. Twice. “I—sorry?”

You look at your dad. Then at Isack. Then shrug, like this is no big deal at all.

“If you want,” you add lightly.

Isack’s brain short-circuits.

Vacation. Maldives. Lewis Hamilton. You.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “I mean—yeah. If that’s okay.”

Lewis smiles, satisfied, and places his last card down.

“Uno.”

Later, as Lewis gets ready for the race, you linger by the door, arms crossed.

“Can I ask you something,” you say.

“Mm?” he replies, adjusting his suit.

“Why did you invite Isack?”

Lewis glances at you, eyes warm. “He’s a good kid.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course.”

He grins. “Wish me luck.”

“Always,” you say, pulling him into a quick hug.

After the race, true to form, Lewis disappears almost immediately.

You find out why when a driver informs you your car has been… reassigned.

“He already left?” you ask, incredulous.

“Yes,” the driver replies. “But he sent another car for you two.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Unbelievable.”

Isack, beside you, just smiles. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

At the airport, it only gets worse.

“Mr. Hamilton already departed,” a staff member tells you. “But there’s a jet waiting for you.”

You laugh quietly. “Of course there is.”

The jet is quiet and dim, the kind of luxury that feels unreal. You sit beside Isack, talking softly—about nothing, about everything.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

Your head tips onto his shoulder. He freezes for a moment, then relaxes, careful not to move.

By the time you wake, his head is resting against yours.

Neither of you pulls away.

Somewhere ahead, the Maldives wait. And Lewis Hamilton is chuckling to himself right about now.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

ynhamilton

liked by lewishamilton, olliebearman, isackhadjar, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,780,000 others.

ynhamilton : the maldives diaries 🌴⭐️

tagged : isackhadjar and lewishamilton

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𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

The Maldives feels unreal in the way only places like this do. Everything is too blue. Too warm. Too quiet. The air smells like salt and sunscreen and something expensive you can’t name. Your villa opens directly onto the water, glass doors pulled wide so the sound of the ocean never really leaves.

Lewis is in his element. You should have known something was up the moment he handed you both a printed itinerary over breakfast, sunglasses already on, grin far too innocent.

“Couples snorkeling?” you read aloud, blinking.

Isack chokes on his coffee.

“Sunset paddleboarding,” you continue. “Private boat excursion. Couples massage—Dad?”

Lewis is already standing. “Have fun!” he says cheerfully, patting Isack on the shoulder before disappearing down the boardwalk.

You stare after him. “He did this on purpose.”

Isack laughs, a little breathless. “I think so.”

The snorkeling is… intimate.

Too close. Too many accidental brushes of hands underwater, the quiet awareness of each other amplified by the stillness. Isack keeps glancing over at you through his mask like he can’t quite believe you’re there, sunlight breaking across your hair.

Later, on the paddleboards, he insists on steadying you even though you absolutely do not need help.

“Just in case,” he says.

You catch him staring at you more than once throughout the day. Not in a way that feels invasive—just soft, distracted, like his thoughts keep drifting back to you no matter how hard he tries to focus.

Every time you notice, your chest tightens.

At dinner, Lewis watches the two of you over the rim of his glass, eyes bright with mischief.

“So,” he says casually. “You two having fun?”

“Yes,” you say quickly.

“Very,” Isack adds, just as fast.

Lewis hums. “Good. You both deserve it.”

The teasing is constant. Gentle comments. Raised eyebrows. Little smiles exchanged when he thinks you’re not looking.

By the third night, it’s impossible not to feel it.

The moment comes on the beach.

It’s late. The sand is cool beneath your feet, the sky clear and endless. You sit side by side, knees almost touching, the ocean lapping quietly nearby.

Isack exhales. “I’m really glad I came.”

“Me too,” you say softly.

There’s a pause. He looks at you, really looks at you, and something in his expression shifts—vulnerable, hopeful, terrified.

“I—” he starts.

Your heart jumps.

But then he stops.

You swallow. “What?”

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Nothing. Just… happy.”

You nod, even though you know that wasn’t all of it. The silence settles back in, heavy but warm. Later, as you walk back toward the villa, your hand brushes his. Neither of you pulls away. And somewhere behind you, your father is already patting himself on the back.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

📍dutchgp 2025

Coming back from summer break always feels strange. Like the world snaps back into focus too quickly—routines resuming, expectations settling heavily on shoulders that haven’t quite adjusted yet. Zandvoort is loud, different colors bleeding into every corner of the circuit, the air buzzing with anticipation.

You’re back where you belong.

You find yourself pacing more than usual during the race, heart hammering every time Isack’s car flashes past on the screen. He’s driving brilliantly—clean, confident, hungry.

When the checkered flag waves and his name flashes P3, you forget how to breathe.

Your scream tears out of you before you can stop it.

“Oh my god—”

The crowd goes wild. You don’t remember how you get down there—only the blur of movement, the press of bodies, the rush of adrenaline. Isack spots you immediately.

He doesn’t hesitate. He drops his helmet, grabs you by the waist, and lifts you clean off the ground, spinning you around as you laugh breathlessly, hands clutching at his shoulders.

“We did it,” he says, laughing, eyes bright and almost disbelieving.

“You did it,” you correct, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

He sets you down slowly, hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Across the chaos, Lewis watches—pride blooming despite the frustration of his own race. When Isack turns and spots him, Lewis opens his arms.

Isack steps into the hug without thinking.

“Well done,” Lewis says firmly. “That was special.”

“Thank you,” Isack replies, voice thick. “For… everything.”

Lewis squeezes his shoulder. “Enjoy it.”

That night, Lewis insists on celebrating. The dinner is warm and intimate—family, a few close friends, other drivers, laughter flowing easily despite the disappointment of the day. Lewis moves through the room like a proud host, making sure Isack is at the center of it all.

You sit beside him, close but careful, knees brushing beneath the table.

Later, outside under soft lights, Isack steps closer.

“Today meant a lot,” he says quietly. “Having you here.”

You look at him, heart aching. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

The moment stretches. He leans in slightly. Almost. Then footsteps. You pull back, laughing softly to hide the disappointment. Inside, Lewis catches your eye from across the room, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Soon, he thinks.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

isackhadjar

liked by ynhamilton, lewishamilton, olliebearman and 1,505,000 others.

isackhadjar : celebrated p3 in the best way possible :)

tagged : lewishamilton and ynhamilton

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olliebearman : JUST KISS HER ALREADY

liked by lewishamilton, lando, kimi.antonelli and others.

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𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

several weeks later...

ynhamilton

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ynhamilton : when in...colorado?

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𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

The air is crisp and clean, the mountains stretching endlessly in every direction, snow dusting the peaks like something out of a postcard. You arrive wrapped in layers, cheeks already cold, heart light in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.

Lewis is in his element.

He laughs louder here. Moves easier. The weight of the season seems to lift from his shoulders the second you step off the plane.

Isack follows close behind, eyes wide, taking everything in.

“This is insane,” he says softly, looking up at the mountains. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“You get used to it,” Lewis replies with a grin. “Or at least, you learn to appreciate it.”

Skiing happens the next morning.

Lewis is infuriatingly good at it, carving down the slope like he’s been doing this his whole life. Isack is… determined.

You help him adjust his gloves, laughing when he nearly tips over before even pushing off.

“Relax,” you say gently, hands steadying him. “I’ve got you.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and nods.

On the slopes, there are moments where it’s just the three of you, the world quiet except for the crunch of snow beneath skis. Lewis keeps glancing back, making sure you’re both okay, occasionally shouting teasing encouragement.

“Careful, Isack!” he calls. “I need you in one piece!”

Later, in the lodge, you sit shoulder to shoulder, sipping something warm, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“You were good,” you tell Isack.

He laughs. “That’s generous.”

“I’m serious.”

Your eyes meet. The moment lingers.

Lewis clears his throat loudly. “Alright, lovebirds. Broncos game tonight.”

You groan. “You planned this.”

“Absolutely,” he replies cheerfully.

The suite at the stadium is packed, the energy electric. You take your seats, bundled up, the field glowing under the lights.

At the start of the second quarter, Lewis stands.

“I’ll be right back,” he says casually.

You watch him leave, then roll your eyes. “He’s doing it on purpose.”

Isack chuckles. “I know nothing about football,” he admits quietly. “But I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

You laugh, leaning closer. “Okay. So—offense tries to get the ball down the field…”

You explain patiently, animated, hands moving as you talk. He listens intently, asking questions, nodding along like it matters deeply.

“It’s actually kind of cool,” he says. “Very strategic.”

You smile. “See?”

By the time Lewis returns, you’re laughing, pressed close, entirely absorbed in each other.

Lewis pauses at the entrance, watching, satisfaction evident.

The trip is filled with moments like that.

Early mornings. Shared coffees. Quiet laughter. Long glances that say everything and nothing at once.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

several months later...

ynhamilton

liked by lewishamilton, isackhadjar, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc and 4,500,000 others.

ynhamilton : graduated 🎓🥂

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𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

You wake up that morning feeling oddly calm. Nervous, yes—but grounded. The kind of calm that comes after years of late nights, equations scribbled into margins, coffee gone cold beside you while you chased an answer that refused to come easily. Today is the end of something enormous. You don’t quite let yourself think about what comes next.

You certainly don’t expect anyone to be there.

The ceremony hall is buzzing when you arrive, families filling rows with cameras and flowers and quiet pride. You spot classmates waving, take your seat, smooth your gown, breathe. When your name is called, you stand. The walk across the stage feels unreal—applause echoing, lights bright, your heart pounding. You accept your degree with a smile that’s half disbelief, half triumph.

And then you look out into the crowd. Your breath catches. Lewis is standing.

Not just standing—beaming. The proudest smile you have ever seen on anyone, anywhere, holding a bouquet so massive it borders on absurd. Your mother is beside him, eyes shining, hands clasped to her mouth. And then—your heart stutters— Isack.

He’s there. Standing just behind them, a little shy, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, eyes fixed entirely on you like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

For a second, everything blurs. When the ceremony ends, you barely make it down the steps before you’re enveloped.

Lewis pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the air out of you. “You did it,” he says thickly. “I’m so proud of you.”

Your mum kisses your cheek, laughing and crying at the same time. And then Isack steps forward. He hesitates—just a fraction—before pulling you into his arms. It’s warm and steady and grounding, like everything he’s ever been to you.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs into your hair. “You have no idea.”

You laugh softly, overwhelmed. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis grins over your shoulder. “Surprise.”

You don’t even have time to process before you’re being ushered into a car.

The venue they take you to is… breathtaking.

Lights strung everywhere. Music low and perfect. Tables overflowing with flowers. And people—everyone. Drivers you’ve grown up around. Friends from school. WAGs laughing and hugging you. Family members you didn’t even know were in town. Celebrities you recognize distantly, all there for you.

Lewis watches your face light up like it’s his greatest accomplishment yet.

“This is insane,” you whisper.

“You deserve it,” he replies simply.

Isack never leaves your side.

You introduce him to people with quiet pride, his hand resting lightly at your back, eyes always finding yours in a crowded room. When the noise becomes too much, he notices. When you need water, it’s already there.

Eventually, you slip outside together, the cool air a welcome contrast.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Just… a lot.”

He smiles, then reaches into his pocket.

“There’s one more thing.”

He slides a small Tiffany blue box into your hands.

Your eyes widen instantly. “Isack—”

“You’ve been looking at it for months,” he says softly. “I noticed.”

You open it with trembling fingers.

The bracelet inside is perfect. Elegant. Exactly the one you’ve quietly admired, never daring to buy for yourself.

You look up at him, stunned. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he replies, smiling. “Come here.”

You lightly smack his shoulder, laughing through the emotion. “You’re unbelievable.”

He laughs too, then gently fastens it around your wrist. His fingers linger. Your eyes meet.

The world seems to narrow.

You lean in first.

The kiss is soft at first—hesitant, reverent—like you’re both afraid to rush something that’s been building for so long. Then it deepens, warmth blooming through your chest as his hand cups your cheek.

And then—

“YES!”

You break apart, laughing.

Lewis stands a few feet away, clapping enthusiastically.

“Finally,” he says. “I have been orchestrating this for months.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face.

Isack laughs, shaking his head. “You planned all of this?”

Lewis grins. “Every single detail.”

He walks away still laughing, calling back, “Don’t mind me!”

Isack turns back to you, eyes soft, and kisses you again. And again.

This time, there’s nothing holding you back. You’ve graduated. You’ve fallen in love. And for once, you let yourself have it all.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

A few weeks later, life feels… steady. Not quiet—never quiet, not with travel schedules and debriefs and the constant hum of F1—but steady in a way that makes your chest feel warm instead of tight. The kind of steady that comes from knowing where you stand. From waking up and not questioning whether the person beside you wants to be there.

You and Isack are going steady now. Not whispered about, not danced around. Real. Obvious. Happy.

He stays over when he can. You’ve fallen into routines without meaning to—him making coffee exactly how you like it, you stealing his hoodies even though they absolutely drown you, the way his hand always finds the small of your back in public like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been his place.

And somehow, despite everything, it feels easy.

The call comes on a quiet afternoon. You’re sitting cross legged on the couch, laptop open, half watching a replay from the last race while tweaking a model you’ve been working on for weeks. Isack is pacing the living room, phone pressed to his ear, nodding silently. You’re not really listening—calls like this happen all the time—but then you hear his breathing change.

It goes shallow. Sharp.

You look up just as he stops moving.

“Okay,” he says, voice careful. “Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The call ends.

For a second, he just stands there.

You’re on your feet immediately. “Isack?”

He turns to you, eyes wide, shining, like he’s afraid if he speaks too loudly it’ll disappear.

“I got it,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Got what?”

“The second Red Bull seat.” His voice breaks on the words. “Next season. It’s—It’s confirmed.”

You gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “Isack—”

He barely gets a second before you’re launching yourself at him. He laughs as he catches you, arms wrapping tight around your waist as you cling to him, both of you laughing and talking at the same time, words tumbling over each other.

“I’m so proud of you,” you breathe, forehead pressed to his. “I knew it. I knew you were ready.”

He shakes his head, still in disbelief. “I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

You cup his face gently. “It will.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there’s something tender and reverent in his expression. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

Your throat tightens. “You would. You did this.”

He leans in and kisses you—slow, grounding, full of gratitude and relief—and for a moment, the world feels perfectly aligned.

And then your phone buzzes.

You frown, pulling it from the table. The number on the screen makes your breath catch.

You answer. “Hello?”

“Hey,” comes the familiar voice. Warm. Proud. Smiling even through the phone. “Got a minute?”

You smile automatically. “Always.”

“We’d like to offer you a position with Red Bull Racing,” the voice continues. “Race engineering department.”

Your heart drops.

“I—” You sit down hard on the couch. “I’m sorry, I just—could you repeat that?”

A soft chuckle on the other end. “We’d like you with us next season.”

You blink, eyes filling instantly. “I didn’t apply anywhere else.”

“We know,” he says. “Max and a few others spoke very highly of you. Said you wanted to build your career on merit, not assumptions. Hence why you didn't apply to Ferrari."

“There’s more,” the voice adds, almost gently. “We’d like you to be Isack’s race engineer.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

You look up at Isack, who’s watching your face with growing confusion and concern.

“Yes,” you say, voice shaking. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”

When the call ends, you just sit there for a second, stunned.

Isack kneels in front of you instantly. “What happened?”

You laugh through tears. “I’m going to Red Bull.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“As an engineer,” you continue, voice breaking. “Your engineer.”

For a moment, he looks like his brain has completely short-circuited.

Then he laughs—bright, disbelieving, joyful—and pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair.

“We’re—” He pulls back, eyes shining. “We’re doing this together.”

You nod, tears spilling freely now. “Together.”

Later that night, curled up in bed, legs tangled, you prop your phone between you and tap a familiar name.

Lewis answers on the second ring.

“Well?” he says, eyebrow raised knowingly. “Judging by the energy, I’m assuming I need champagne.”

Isack grins like a kid. “I got the seat.”

Lewis whoops so loudly you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “I knew it!”

“And,” you add softly, “I’m going to Red Bull too.”

His expression softens instantly. Pride radiates from him. “Of course you are.”

Isack leans closer to the screen. “She’s going to be my race engineer.”

Lewis presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “I’ve truly outdone myself.”

You laugh. “You absolutely meddled.”

“And I’d do it again,” he says, smiling. “I’m so proud of both of you.”

When the call ends, you settle back against Isack, his arm wrapping around you automatically.

The future feels big. Fast. A little terrifying. But it also feels right.

You tilt your head up to him. “Ready for this?”

He kisses your forehead. “As long as it’s with you.”

You don’t just hope things will work out. You know they will.

𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𑣲 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

isackhadjar

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isackhadjar : meet my beautiful girlfriend AND MY RACE ENGINEER!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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