#sena fox

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livysmith: I offered her my coat. she said “it ruins the vision”

⤷senafox: vision secured though

faith.cartier: I wonder why oh maybe cause you refused to wear your jacket for the pics

⤷senafox: it was a necessary sacrifice

centralcee: need a jacket? liked by the author

user1: the waist in negative temperatures is insane

user2: somebody zoom into the comment section

⤷user3: I’m sat on whatever this is

Sena stood still long enough for the cold to settle into her bones, letting the sun fall across her face as if it were something earned. It was a strange kind of warmth, thin, almost fragile but against the endless white around her it felt like grace. Snow stretched in every direction, softening the world into something gentler than it had any right to be. The mountains were quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t ask anything from you, didn’t expect answers or explanations. Just her and the slow rhythm of breath in freezing air. It had been a good trip so far. Simple. Clean. Undemanding.

She tried not to think about her birthday. About the photographs. About him. The image of candlelight in Barbados had faded into something less sharp, less immediate, though not harmless. She surprised herself with how steady she felt now. Not healed — she wasn’t naive enough to call it that — but stable. Contained. Maybe it helped that whatever they had never had a name. No official beginning meant no official ending. Maybe it helped that her friends hadn’t known the depth of it, or if they had, they’d been kind enough to pretend otherwise. Mercy disguised as ignorance. Let her pretend. Let her keep dignity where she could.

She barely touched her phone during the trip. That alone felt like progress. She called her father every now and then, and listened to him complain about the weather back home. That was enough. That anchored her. The only other time she unlocked her screen was that morning, to post the pictures from the trip. 

But every time the screen lit up in her hand, that quiet, treacherous voice surfaced.

Check.

Just check.

See what he’s doing.

She had a rough idea anyway. She’d heard enough, seen enough in passing headlines and blurred notifications. But it was different seeing it yourself. It was different letting the image settle into your own eyes, claiming space in your memory.

For a split second, she almost did it. Almost searched his name. Almost let curiosity masquerade as closure.

But the thought alone felt like swallowing a rod pulled straight from flame.

There was still enough self-respect left in her to refuse that kind of pain. Enough instinct to shield her own heart from deliberate injury. Or maybe — if she were being honest — she wasn’t protecting herself from what he was doing. She was protecting herself from what it would reveal about her. About how much it still mattered.

She lifted the cigarette to her lips and inhaled, smoke mingling with the air so cold it scraped her throat on the way down. The burn was clean, immediate, almost clarifying. It filled her lungs sharply, like a reset button pressed too hard. She told herself that if she breathed deeply enough, if she let the smoke travel through her entirely, it might cloud whatever remained of him inside her. Erase him on the exhale.

She let the smoke leave her slowly, watching it dissolve into the white.

It didn’t erase anything.

All it did was burn.

The smoke didn’t numb him out of her system. It only made the emptiness clearer, more defined against the silence. And still, she stood there, eyes closed against the sun, steady on her feet, holding herself together in a landscape that didn’t ask her to be anything but still.

Her thoughts were broken by Olivia’s voice calling from inside the suite. “Sen! Come on, we’re going skiing. You are not spending another day out there pretending you’re not sulking over that man.”

Sena was already forming a protest — she wasn’t sulking, she wasn’t thinking about him, she was perfectly fine — when she turned and caught the look on Olivia’s face. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just knowing.

It confirmed what she had suspected all week.

They knew exactly who she had been waiting for that night. They knew who hadn’t shown up. They knew why, all of a sudden, she had insisted on flying to the top of the mountains and dragging them with her, as if altitude could thin out memory.

They hadn’t asked questions. They hadn’t cornered her with concern. They had let her perform normalcy because they loved her enough to let her keep control.

But the mercy wouldn’t last forever.

Sena held Olivia’s gaze for a moment, weighing whether she had the strength to deny it out loud. She knew that if she said anything other than okay, the careful silence her friends had maintained would dissolve instantly into interrogation and comfort and all the things she wasn’t ready to accept.

So she just nodded.

“I’m coming,” she said lightly.

She crushed the cigarette into the ashtray beside her, pressing it down harder than necessary, then pushed off the balcony railing and slipped back inside, almost skipping as if motion alone could prove she was fine.

Faith was leaning over the vanity when Sena walked back into the suite, one knee propped on the chair, eyeliner balanced carefully in her hand. The room smelled faintly of perfume and heat from the radiators, a sharp contrast to the frozen quiet outside. Faith caught her reflection in the mirror before she turned fully.

“Oh, there she is,” she said, tone light but edged with something observant.

Sena shrugged out of her jacket, fingers still slightly numb. “I was having a smoke,” she replied, not quite meeting her eyes, focusing instead on toeing off her boots near the door. She could feel Faith watching her through the mirror — not suspicious, not accusatory — just assessing. Taking stock.

She hated that they could read her so easily.

“So,” Sena added, brushing snow from the sleeves of her jumper as if that had been her only concern out there, “what are we doing today?”

"We're skiing,” Liv said matter-of-factly. “Properly this time. No more of you disappearing halfway up the mountain to stare into the void.”

Sena rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t staring into the void.”

“Yeah,” Faith muttered, capping her mascara and turning around fully now, leaning back against the desk. “You were communing with nature.”

“Very spiritual,” Liv added, deadpan.

Sena exhaled through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. “You’re both dramatic.”

They had planned it the night before — skiing all morning, then staying for the festival down at the base of the resort in the afternoon. The ski village had transformed overnight into something out of a postcard: fairy lights strung between wooden chalets, music drifting up from speakers half-buried in snow, people in bright jackets weaving between stalls selling mulled wine and pastries dusted in sugar. There was something intoxicating about it — the kind of atmosphere that made you feel temporarily suspended from the rest of your life.

A ski resort in winter had its own rhythm. Mornings belonged to the slopes — sharp air, adrenaline, the scrape of skis against packed snow. Afternoons belonged to laughter, to flushed cheeks and clumsy dancing in ski boots, to the easy warmth of crowded tents where strangers became friends for an hour.

Sena moved further into the room, perching on the edge of the bed as she reached for her gloves. “Fine,” she said. “We ski. Then we stay at the festival for a bit.”

“For a bit?” Liv scoffed. “We’re staying until you’re too tired to overthink.”

“I don’t overthink,” Sena replied automatically.

Faith raised a brow. “Sure”

She pulled her hair into a tighter ponytail, fingers moving with practiced precision. She liked preparation. Liked structure. The ritual of gearing up gave her something to focus on that wasn’t memory. It was mechanical. Clean. Necessary.

Outside the window, skiers were already cutting long arcs into the slopes, leaving temporary signatures in the snow that would be erased by nightfall. Sena watched them for a moment, feeling the familiar itch under her skin.

Faith stepped closer, adjusting Sena’s collar without comment. It was a small, wordless gesture. Protective without being obvious.

“You good?” Faith asked quietly, just for her.

Sena met her eyes then. Steady. Measured.

“Yeah,” she said.

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Liv clapped her hands once, breaking the moment. “Right. If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the best snow.”

They filed out together, laughter already spilling ahead of them down the corridor. Sena let herself fall into step between them, shoulders brushing theirs as they walked. She could feel the cold waiting beyond the doors, could feel the mountain calling in that silent, indifferent way.

Today, she decided, she would let it swallow her whole.

Lewis sat on the floor with his back resting against the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him, shoulders sinking into the familiar softness of home. At some point during the film his niece had curled into the corner of the couch, one small arm draped over a cushion as though claiming territory in her sleep. His nephew had lasted longer, stubbornly insisting he wasn’t tired, only to eventually tip sideways against his sister, the controller slipping from his hand. Now both of them were asleep, breathing slow and heavy.

The television still played quietly, the credits rolling unnoticed. The room was dim except for the low lamplight in the corner and the blue glow flickering across the walls. The house felt full in the way only a family home could feel full, layered with noise, memory and routine. It was warm, not just in temperature but in texture, in history.

Lewis leaned his head back against the sofa cushion and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

He loved this. He really did. These were the nights that had steadied him for years, after seasons that slipped through his fingers, after the kind of public scrutiny that turned everything into spectacle. He had always come back here and let the warmth recalibrate him. Let the simplicity of it remind him who he was without the helmet.

But the hollow in his chest remained.

Since Barbados, he had been seen more than usual. Photographed stepping out of restaurants, leaning too close to women he barely knew, smiling into cameras with that familiar composure people mistook for contentment. None of it had been accidental. He understood optics. He understood narratives. If there was going to be a break, if there was going to be distance, it needed to look deliberate. Clean. Undeniable. The world needed a story to replace the one it had started writing about him and Sena, and so he had given it one.

It had worked.

The rumours shifted almost overnight. Speculation turned into correction. People congratulated themselves for not believing in something that had never officially existed. Her name slowly detached from his in headlines. The noise redirected.

This is what’s best, he reminded himself. This is what protecting her looks like.

But protection had never felt so much like self-inflicted damage.

His sister watched him from across the room longer than usual before finally speaking. “You’re quiet today,” she said lightly, as if she were commenting on the weather. Not accusatory. Just observant.

“Just tired,” he replied automatically, running a hand through his hair before letting it rest against the sofa again. “Long year.”

His mum paused in the doorway, dish towel in hand. “You say that every year.”

He gave a small shrug. “Car wasn’t where we wanted it to be. Mentally draining, that’s all.”

It was an easy excuse. Racing was the perfect shield, technical enough to end conversations, complicated enough to sound plausible, familiar enough that no one felt the need to dig deeper. They all knew what a difficult season could do to him. It was not entirely a lie, just not the truth.

They did not push. They never did when they sensed the wall was deliberate.

His niece shifted slightly in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent before settling again, and Lewis found himself staring at the space between the two children on the sofa. His family’s voices blurred together for a moment, the room tilting slightly as his thoughts drifted somewhere he had been trying to avoid.

Sena would have liked this, he realised.

Not the chaos necessarily, though she would have pretended she thrived in it, but the intimacy of it. The unguardedness. The way no one here cared about headlines or speculation or strategy. She would have sat cross-legged on this same rug, speaking more than listening. The thought landed heavier than he expected.

He had told himself that distance was mercy. That removing himself from her orbit would spare her from being dragged into conversations she did not deserve. He had watched the comments spiral, watched strangers reduce her to something transactional simply because she had stood too close to him for too long. He could handle being dissected. He had built armour for it over decades. But watching her become collateral damage had done something sharp and violent to him.

So he had chosen for her.

He had decided what she needed.

He had assumed that hurting her once would hurt less than letting the world keep doing it slowly.

Now, sitting in a living room full of warmth that did not quite reach him, he was no longer sure he had been protecting anyone at all.

His phone buzzed against the coffee table and he looked at it instinctively, his pulse tightening before he could stop himself. It was not her. It had not been her in weeks. He did not know what he would do if it ever was again. The last message still sat in their chat like a sealed door.

Thank you, Hamilton.

He had read it so many times that the words no longer felt like language. Just shape. Finality.

He was thinking about the version of her that had laughed in that stable, arms wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from cold air and disbelief. The way she had looked at him like he had given her something sacred. The way he had promised, silently and stupidly, that he would never be the reason that light dimmed.

And then he had been.

The women he had been photographed with since then had been distractions at best, shields at worst. He did not remember their perfume, their jokes, the colour of their dresses. He remembered the absence. The constant, quiet comparison that was unfair to everyone involved. He had convinced himself he could compartmentalise, that he could behave normally and eventually feel normal.

But hollow things do not fill simply because you surround them with noise.

His mum came to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. She did not look at him when she spoke. “Whatever it is,” she said gently, “don’t let pride make it worse.”

He swallowed, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. “It’s not that.”

She hummed softly, unconvinced but respectful of his refusal. “You’ve always carried too much on your own.”

He did not answer.

Because the truth was he had chosen this weight. Chosen to carry it instead of letting her decide whether it was worth holding together. He had taken control in the name of protection, and now he had to sit inside the consequences of that control.

He had wanted to protect Sena from the world.

And for the first time since that night in Barbados, sitting in a room full of people who loved him without condition, Lewis felt the full, undeniable weight of what he had done, not as strategy, not as sacrifice, but as loss.

Later, when the house settled into the softer quiet of post-dinner calm and he finally retreated to his room, he sat on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand longer than he meant to. He had already decided he wasn’t going to check. There was nothing to gain from it. No version of scrolling that ended with relief.

He opened Instagram anyway.

Her post was unavoidable.

Snow bright enough to hurt. Mountains stretching out behind her like a painted backdrop. And Sena in the foreground, eyes closed against the sun, chin tilted slightly upward, light catching along the curve of her cheekbone. She looked composed in a way that wasn’t defensive. Not hardened. Just… settled. Like she had found a rhythm that didn’t require him.

His throat tightened before he could stop it.

He zoomed in unconsciously, studying the details, the familiar arch of her brow, the way she held her shoulders when she was relaxed. Winter had always suited her. It sharpened her features, made her look almost untouchable. The second photo struck deeper. She was on the ground, tangled in snow with her friends, boots in the air, hair messy, laughing without restraint. It wasn’t curated. It wasn’t controlled. It was the version of her that had once pressed her face into his neck and thanked him for giving her something she’d loved as a child.

He let his thumb hover, suspended in the space between restraint and self-inflicted injury.

Then he saw it.

Central Cee had commented. Again.

The tone was light. Harmless on the surface. Nothing overt. No claim. No declaration. Just presence.

And she had liked it.

That small red heart hit harder than it had any right to.

Heat flared in his chest, sharp, instinctive, humiliating in its intensity. His fingers curled tighter around the phone as if grounding himself physically might steady the reaction. He had forfeited any authority here. He knew that. He had dismantled whatever unspoken understanding existed between them the moment he decided to orchestrate an ending instead of having a conversation.

Still, the idea of another man inserting himself into her orbit — even subtly, even publicly — scraped against something primal inside him. It wasn’t about status. It wasn’t about ego. It was about proximity. About someone else being allowed to exist in the margins of her life where he had once stood unchallenged.

This is what you wanted, he reminded himself.

You wanted her free from the fallout that follows you. You wanted her detached from your name. You wanted her untouched by the ugliness.

Freedom, it turned out, included other people.

His gaze drifted back to her face on the screen. There was no trace of him there. No shadow. No grief visible enough for strangers to dissect. She looked like someone who had absorbed the impact and decided to keep moving.

A sharp edge of something darker surfaced — not anger at her, not even at that guy — but at the realisation that she was capable of moving forward without waiting for him to circle back.

Possessiveness crept in quietly, dangerous because it felt justified in his own mind. He knew her in ways that no one else did. Knew the parts she didn’t let the world see. The stubborn softness beneath the defiance. The way she shut down when she was hurt instead of exploding. He had been inside those silences. He had been trusted with them.

And now someone else was stepping into frame.

He locked the phone and placed it face down on the bedside table, as if removing it from sight might dull the reaction in his chest.

He lay back fully this time, staring at the ceiling in the dim light, letting the truth settle where he had been avoiding it. He had told himself that stepping away was strength. That distancing himself was care. That if he absorbed the blame and redirected the narrative, she would be safer for it. But watching her exist without him — watching her acknowledge someone else — forced something else into the open:

He hadn’t stopped wanting her.

He had only stripped himself of the right to act like he did.

And that quiet, simmering feeling burned hotter than any public rumour ever could.

He didn’t sleep.

The house had gone quiet hours ago and still he lay awake staring at the ceiling like it might rearrange itself into clarity. The decision wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t crash into him like revelation. It built slowly, heavily, like something rising from deep water, something that had always been there waiting for the moment he stopped pretending he could live without it.

What he was feeling now wasn’t noble. It wasn’t protective.

It was yearning.

Not the soft, sentimental kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that lodged itself in the chest and refused to be reasoned with. The kind that made logic irrelevant and pride feel secondary.

When he’d seen her photo — sunlight cutting across her face, snow bright behind her, eyes closed like she owed no one anything — something inside him had shifted in a way he couldn’t ignore. She looked untouched by him. Just… existing. Whole. That image unsettled him more than anger would have. He could have managed anger. He understood conflict. But this quiet steadiness, this suggestion that she could carry on without him, when even breathing without her hurt scraped at something instinctive.

And then that comment. 

It shouldn’t have mattered but it did it mattered too much.

The jealousy hadn’t been explosive. It hadn’t been loud or reactive. It had been colder than that. It had moved through him like a slow, controlled burn, in a way he didn’t have the right to be. He had dismantled whatever they were with deliberate precision. He had stepped away. He had made sure the world believed there was nothing to see.

And now she was responding to someone else.

He turned onto his side, staring into the darkness, jaw tight.

He didn’t want her public. He didn’t want her displayed or claimed or dissected by strangers. That had never been the appeal. What he wanted — what he had always wanted, though he had never said it plainly — was her,  just her.  The way she softened when she trusted. The way she looked at him when she thought no one else was paying attention. The way she gave fully once she decided to give.

He missed that with an ache that felt almost physical.

And that’s when the thought formed. They didn’t need to define anything. They didn’t need to fix anything publicly. They could slide back into what they had been before. It had worked. It had been contained. He had known exactly where the edges were and how far he could step without falling into something that demanded too much of him. She had been his.

He didn’t want a grand reconciliation. He didn’t want declarations or promises or the vulnerability of saying, I was wrong. He wanted her back in the quiet ways. Back in his bed without cameras. Back in his messages late at night. Back in the space where she reached for him without hesitation.

He wanted the warmth of her devotion again.

And selfishly — deeply selfishly — he wanted it without restructuring his life around it.

The awareness of that should have disgusted him more than it did.

He knew her. That was the part he couldn’t ignore. He knew how she loved. Once she allowed herself in, she didn’t do it halfway. She didn’t ration affection. She didn’t keep contingency plans. When she chose, she chose fully. That had been beautiful. Terrifying. Addictive.

If he went back carefully, just present, familiar — she would respond. Not immediately. Not recklessly. But inevitably. He could feel that certainty settle in him like gravity.

Because if the roles were reversed, he would.

If she showed up at his door with that quiet, unwavering look in her eyes, asking for something undefined but intimate, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her. He wouldn’t demand structure. He would take whatever version she offered.

So why wouldn’t she?

The feeling twisted deeper there, not just for her body or her attention, but for the way she had once looked at him like he was something irreplaceable. The way she had leaned into him without calculation. The way she had trusted him to hold her without asking where it was going.

He missed that trust more than he wanted to admit.

He stood and walked to the window, pushing the curtain aside slightly, staring out into the night sky as if it might cool the heat under his skin. 

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

A small, fractured part of him hoped she wouldn’t fold. Hoped she had grown beyond him. Hoped she had built something inside herself strong enough to refuse him if he came back offering only half of himself.

But the larger part — the honest, yearning, selfish part — didn’t believe she would.

And he hated that he was counting on it.

He wasn’t planning to give her more. He was planning to take her back into a space that required less of him than she deserved.

And the ache in his chest wasn’t guilt. It was hunger.

Bahrain was the same, and yet it wasn’t, not really.

The desert still breathed heat even in testing season, the air shimmering faintly above the tarmac, the sand stretching endlessly beyond the circuit like it had always been there, watching, waiting. The garages still smelled of fuel and rubber and hot metal. Engineers still leaned over laptops with the same furrowed brows, mechanics still moved with that precise, economical urgency that never quite left them. On the surface, nothing had changed.

But Sena had.

Last year, she had walked into this paddock like someone stepping back onto ground that had once tried to swallow her whole. Every glance had felt like a question mark. Every on-board lap, a silent trial. She had been the girl who came back from the flames, the one people watched with cautious fascination, half-expecting brilliance, half-expecting disaster. She’d carried that weight quietly, stubbornly, determined to prove she still belonged here without ever asking anyone’s permission to exist.

Now, she stood there as the reigning world champion.

The title sat on her shoulders differently than she’d imagined it would. Not heavier — if anything, it made her lighter — but sharper. Defined. There was no question anymore of whether she deserved the seat, the attention, the space she took up. The paddock didn’t tilt its head at her now. It looked straight at her. Some with admiration. Some with resentment. Some with something closer to wariness. She recognised all of it. She had earned every reaction.

They were calling her the Vixen again.

The nickname had started years ago, long before championships and comebacks and scars the public never quite saw properly. One of the drivers had said it offhandedly at first, a half-joke during a debrief, when she’d managed to pass three cars on worn tyres with a move that shouldn’t have worked but did anyway. “Clever little vixen,” Seb had muttered, equal parts impressed and irritated.

The media had latched onto it instantly.

A vixen, clever, elusive, sharp-toothed when cornered. A creature that survived by wit as much as speed. It didn’t hurt that her last name was Fox; the metaphor practically wrote itself. They liked the way it sounded, liked how easily it slipped into headlines and commentary, liked the faint edge of danger it suggested. A woman who wasn’t just fast, but cunning. Not just talented, but strategic. Not just surviving the grid, hunting on it.

At first, she’d hated it.

It had felt reductive, another way to turn her into something symbolic instead of human. But over time — and especially now — she liked it. Let it become armour rather than a cage. If they wanted to see her as something sharp and untameable, fine. She would give them exactly that.

And then she saw him.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no slow-motion recognition, no cinematic pause in the noise around them. He was simply there, a few metres away, leaning slightly against the barrier near the Mercedes hospitality unit, sunglasses on, talking to someone she didn’t immediately register.

Lewis.

The first time since the stables. The first time since that night, since Barbados, since the photo, since the message she had sent with hands steadier than she had felt.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. A small tightening in her chest. A flicker low in her stomach that she refused to name. She forced her breathing to stay even, her steps to remain measured.

I’m not bothered, she told herself, the words rhythmic, almost rehearsed. We weren’t even anything. I’m not bothered.

They hadn’t had a title. They hadn’t made promises. There had been no public claim, no official beginning to justify an official end. If anything, this was clean. Simple.

He didn’t call, didn’t text, and most importantly he didn’t show up. The facts were easy to hold onto because they didn’t argue back.

Until he saw her.

She knew the exact second it happened because the air shifted. Because his body went still in that particular way she remembered too well. Because even across the distance, she felt the weight of his attention land on her like something physical.

She didn’t look at him immediately. She refused to give him that satisfaction. Instead, she stopped to speak to one of her engineers, nodding at something on a tablet screen, leaning in as if the numbers on it were suddenly the most fascinating thing she had ever encountered.

But eventually, instinct betrayed her.

She glanced up.

And there it was — that look.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t the detached, friendly acknowledgement of two drivers who had once been rumoured and nothing more.

It was intent, sharp, predatory.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t pretending not to stare. He was just… watching her. Like he was assessing distance. Like he was measuring how far she had moved and how easily he could close it.

Her pulse stumbled.

Sena knew that look. She had felt it on her skin before. In crowded rooms. On dance floors. In quiet spaces where the world had narrowed down to just the two of them and the tension between.

It had always undone her.

And that was what frightened her now, not him, not exactly, but the part of herself that responded to it.

Because that look didn’t feel like indifference. It didn’t feel like regret. It felt like claim.

She straightened unconsciously, chin lifting just slightly, the Vixen mask sliding into place with frightening ease. If he was going to look at her like prey, she would remind him that foxes had teeth.

But even as she held his gaze, she felt something treacherous stir inside her. A pull. Subtle but undeniable. Like the edge of a current beneath still water.

It felt like a trap. Not a brutal one. Not something forced or ugly.

A beautiful one.

The kind you walked into knowing exactly what it was, knowing exactly how it would end, and still convinced yourself you could handle it this time. The kind woven from memory and touch and unfinished sentences. The kind that whispered, just once more.

Her feet almost moved.

It was barely perceptible, a shift of weight, the slightest lean forward. As if some invisible thread between them had tightened, tugging her across the concrete.

He didn’t look away. His eyes darkened, as though he sensed it, that she was closer to stepping into his orbit than she wanted to admit.

Sena’s throat went dry.

She hated that he still had that effect on her. Hated that after everything her body remembered him with a loyalty her pride did not share.

I’m not bothered, she repeated, but it sounded weaker now. Less convincing.

Because if she truly wasn’t bothered, she wouldn’t be aware of the way his gaze traced her from head to toe. Wouldn’t notice the faint tightening of his jaw. Wouldn’t recognise that flicker of something possessive, something almost territorial, in the way he looked at her standing there in McLaren colours, sunlight catching in her hair.

It was dangerous.

It made her want to walk straight toward him.

To stand close enough to smell his cologne beneath the heat. Close enough to see whether his expression would soften or sharpen. Close enough to ask “Why?”

Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you call? Why did you decide for both of us?

Her body betrayed her again — one step. Just one.

And in that split second, before she could overthink it, she did something she hadn’t done since that night.

She felt small.

Not weak. Not helpless. Just… exposed. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. And then —

“Sena!”

The call cut through everything.

Sharp. Immediate. Real.

She blinked, the spell fracturing like glass dropped onto stone. One of the team members was waving from the garage entrance, urgency clear in his voice. “We need you in the car — run plan’s changed!”

The thread snapped.

She inhaled sharply, almost like surfacing from underwater. For half a second, she looked back at Lewis.

He hadn’t moved.

But something in his expression shifted a flicker of frustration? It was gone too quickly to define.

Sena held his gaze one last beat.

Then she turned away.

Each step back toward the garage felt deliberate, reclaiming ground she had almost surrendered. The noise of the paddock rushed back in, engines firing, radios crackling, voices overlapping. She slipped her helmet back on, letting the world narrow again to visor and breath and the clean logic of speed.

As she lowered herself into the cockpit, she whispered something silent and desperate to whatever god was listening.

Not today. Please, not today.

Because she knew  with terrifying clarity  that if she had taken three more steps, she would have walked straight into that trap.

And the worst part?

She would have done it willingly.

View All comments

faith.cartier: You look so hot. You free tonight, pretty girl 😉

⤷senafox: I'll see what I can do ⤷livysmith: Can I join ???? ⤷faith.cartier: any day love 💋 ⤷user1: feels like we are interrupting something here

user2: girl that’s not how you announce you are coming back to f1

user3: Not the Nico meme

mclaren: Welcome back Sena! The track missed you.

⤷senafox: 🧡🧡🧡

user4: God you are such an attention seeker ohh look at me im so cool for an official statement. Don’t know what McLaren was thinking letting go a talent like Lando for this.

user5: #vixenreturns

The sun set differently in Monaco. It did not simply dip beneath the horizon and vanish. No, here the light lingered, syrup-thick and golden, clinging to the facades of glass towers and marble balconies until it seemed the whole cliffside was drenched in honey. The sea caught it too, scattering the glow in ripples that looked almost alive, like the city itself breathed with the tide.

Sena stood barefoot in her kitchen, the marble floor cool beneath her toes, one hand loosely braced against the edge of a cardboard box marked KITCHEN in heavy black strokes. For the first time in months—years, maybe—she felt solid. Not a ghost drifting through borrowed time, but a body with weight, with substance. For a fleeting moment, she belonged to the world again.

Behind her, chaos reigned.

“Oi!” Faith’s voice rang sharp from the hallway, followed by the dull thud of cardboard against plaster. “If I break my ankle carrying one more bloody box of trophies, I’m suing.”

“You can’t sue for being clumsy,” Olivia answered from the counter, where she stood frowning down at the espresso machine like it was a puzzle meant only for her.

Sena turned, her lips curving into something soft, almost reluctant. “You guys are fucking ridiculous.”

Olivia hopped up onto the counter, crossing her arms as she studied her with the quiet seriousness only Liv ever seemed to carry. “What’s ridiculous is you moving here. Monaco, Sen. You’re really doing this.”

Faith stumbled in, another box in her arms, before collapsing dramatically onto the couch like a woman struck down. “She’s not just moving here,” she groaned. “She’s moving here to race again after nearly dying in a car. And instead of staying in London, where she had her dad and us, she picks Monaco. Alone.”

Sena pressed her palms flat against the counter as though anchoring herself. “It’s not like that. I wanted a fresh start. London was… it’s home, but it’s full of ghosts. Here—most of the drivers live here. It makes sense. New season, new team, new place.”

They didn’t look convinced.

Faith’s voice was quieter when it came again. “You’re sure this isn’t just running away?”

Sena exhaled, long and steady, her humor trying to shield her from the weight of the words. “No. It’s running forward.”

The silence stretched. Olivia’s mouth quirked, breaking it. “Okay, but out of every overpriced building in this country, you land in this one? One floor below Lewis Hamilton?”

Sena blinked. “I didn’t know he lived here.”

Faith raised her brows, the look sharp as a blade. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Nico recommended it—he’s here too, you know that. Said it was quiet, secure, easy to keep to yourself. That’s why I’m here.”

“Mhm.” Olivia tilted her head, unconvinced. “Nico’s here. And Hamilton just happens to be upstairs in the penthouse.”

“There’s nothing going on between us,” Sena snapped more firmly than she intended, turning back to the open box.

Faith gave her a long, deliberate look. “And you plan on keeping it that way?”

“We’re friends,” Sena said quickly, too quickly.

“Right.” Faith stretched the word until it cut. “Friends who FaceTime at 2 a.m. and send each other playlists.”

“One playlist,” Sena muttered, cheeks hot.

They didn’t press further, though the silence between them filled with meaning.

Her phone buzzed.

Lewis: Let me know if you need anything.

She stared at the screen for a long moment, then locked it before either Faith or Liv could catch a glimpse. God knew if they saw who it was, she’d never hear the end of it.

It was supposed to be a quiet night. That was what she had imagined: unpacking, something greasy delivered in boxes, maybe a film, maybe Uno, maybe Uptown Girls if she could bribe them into it. Simple. Nothing complicated.

But Faith and Liv had other plans.

There was Prosecco, too much of it. Taylor Swift shaking the walls. Pizza with toppings no one agreed on. A bookshelf, half-assembled, now leaning against the wall like it had given up on life. Olivia at some point had climbed into a moving box and declared herself “premium emotional cargo.” The apartment was full of noise, laughter, the kind that spilled over and filled every corner until it became something bigger than sound—warmth, messy and alive.

And truthfully, it helped. Helped her not think about the season ahead. The weight pressing in from every side. The floor below.

“All I’m saying,” Faith declared around a mouthful of crust, “is that you could’ve picked literally any flat in this overpriced shoebox of a country, and you landed under Lewis Hamilton?”

Sena opened her mouth, but the doorbell cut her off, mercifully.

“I’ll get it,” she said, louder than necessary, already rising.

She opened the door.

Lewis Hamilton stood there, a bottle of wine in one hand, something small and carefully wrapped in the other. In the dim corridor light he looked like something painted, not real.

“Hey,” she said, her voice caught between soft and steady.

“Hi.” His eyes flicked past her to the chaos within. “Hey, girls.”

“Hey, Lewis,” Olivia called lazily, raising her mug.

“You good?” Faith asked, grinning as though she knew every secret Sena thought she had kept.

Lewis nodded, shifting the wine into her hands. “Welcome back.” Then he extended the smaller package, tied with twine.

Her fingers brushed the paper. “What’s this?”

“Something I thought you’d like. Think of it like a house warming present” His voice lowered, softer, intimate enough to make her pulse catch.

Then he cleared his throat, his gaze darting toward the room behind her. “Didn’t realize you had company. Sorry to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” Sena said too quickly. “You can come in if you want.”

He shook his head, the gesture gentle. “Not tonight. You’ve got company. Besides…” His smile curved, quiet and certain. “We have time. You’re here now.”

And that smile undid her.

She smiled back, smaller but no less true. “Okay.”

“Have a good night, girls,” he added with a nod, stepping back into the corridor.

The silence that followed lasted all of three seconds.

Faith leaned over the couch, eyebrows high. “Ohhh, we have time, do we?”

Olivia turned theatrically, her voice soft, mocking, dangerous. “It’s okay, Sena. We have time.”

Sena groaned, her face burning. “Shut the fuck up.”

Faith cackled, almost spilling her drink. Olivia toppled out of the box in tears of laughter.

Later, when the apartment had quieted and the girls had fallen asleep—Olivia curled up in a cocoon of throw blankets on the floor, Faith snoring softly from the couch—Sena sat alone at her window.

The sea outside was darker now, the line between sky and water erased by the night.

She opened the package, undoing the twine carefully.

Inside: a leather notebook. Smooth, rich brown. Her initials, S.G.F. pressed in gold in the bottom corner.

Her breath caught. He remembered. He fucking remembered.

The last time they’d talked in person, she had told him she needed a new journal. That all her old ones were full.

She pulled out her phone and opened his contact.

She didn’t know if he was still awake, but she sent it anyway.

It’s perfect. Thank you. I don’t know how you remembered that, but I’m really glad you did.

senafox posted on her story

Radio’s still working too, in case anyone wondered.

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faith.cartier: can confirm the radio is LOUD and CLEAR.

⤷ senafox: thank you 🧡

livysmith: love that you kept it professional, love.

⤷ senafox: some things just need to be said. ⤷ livysmith: sure, the “idiots” will agree. ⤷ senafox: …blocked.

user1: the way she said “some of them” with her whole chest 😭😭

user2: vixen era is officially back — fast, fiery, and unfiltered 🔥

mclaren: Fantastic work, Sena. P4 and points in your first race back! 🧡

⤷ senafox: appreciate you guys.

user3: her first race back and already providing radio gold… chef’s kiss.

The paddock moved around her in waves of sound and color, mechanics shouting instructions across the garage, cameras clicking in the corners, voices in a dozen languages overlapping. The air was still hot with burnt rubber and dust, the Bahrain sun sinking low but leaving the asphalt shimmering like a mirage, heat bleeding from its surface long after the cars had stopped. The place vibrated with energy, alive and restless. Sena heard none of it.

She sat on the pit wall with her helmet at her side, staring blankly at the track. P4. Numbers on a board, points in a column. Enough for the team. More than enough for McLaren, who had gambled on her comeback and been rewarded with a solid result. But for her? It was not enough. It was never enough.

The moment replayed like a cruel highlight reel. The wheel snapping in her hands as she dove for the inside. The car twitching dangerously near the white line. Alonso’s shadow sweeping across her, pressing her wide. The choice came in a blink — fight or yield — and her body betrayed her. She lifted. She let go. She chose survival.

The safer choice. The smarter choice. The kind of choice that kept cars intact and points on the board. But not the choice the old Sena would have made. The old Sena, the one who had first stepped into this paddock at seventeen and dared to claim a place that was never meant for her, had never blinked. She had thrown herself into impossible gaps. She had challenged Hamilton on equal ground. She had carved her name into a sport that wanted her gone. That Sena had fought like she had nothing to lose.

But maybe she did lose something. Maybe the fire had carved itself too deep into her bones. Maybe what came back from the crash wasn’t the same girl at all… smaller, slower, too careful.

Almost. Always almost.

Four years of it, carved into her career like a cruel refrain. 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020. Each one ending with her name second in the standings. Runner-up. Vice-champion. A title that sounded polite, almost dignified, but meant nothing in reality. There was no silver trophy waiting for her, no medal placed around her neck, no podium for the end of a season. Just silence. Just applause for someone else, while she stood in the shadow, clutching statistics no one celebrated.

Her shelves at home groaned under the weight of trophies. Heavy cups from victories. Polished plates etched with circuits. Champagne bottles still sticky from the spray of celebration. Dozens of reminders that she could win. That she did win. But the space where a championship trophy should have been was empty. Always empty.

And that emptiness gnawed at her. Because in Formula One, history did not remember the runner-up. The records did, the statisticians did, but the world did not. They remembered the champions. They remembered Lewis Hamilton, seven-time champion. They remembered Max Verstappen, the Dutch prodigy who had seized the crown the moment her car split into fire and carbon at Silverstone.

And Sena, for all her fire, all her speed, all her almosts, was left holding shadows.

Her fingers drummed against her thigh, restless, as if she could beat the ache out of her body. Silverstone flashed across her mind, the moment that ended everything. The world had slowed down that day, her car spinning in the air, gravity and fate conspiring to break her apart. She’d climbed out, somehow, staggered a few steps, adrenaline burning through her veins… and then collapsed. A heartbeat gone. Three minutes dead. And when they brought her back, she had wondered if the girl who returned was the same one who had climbed into the car that morning.

The crowd had cheered when she walked again, when she smiled for cameras, when she announced her return. They wanted a miracle story. But miracles never came free.

A hand touched her arm. Steady. Warm.

Her body flinched before she could stop it, a sharp intake of breath betraying her wandering thoughts. She turned.

Lewis stood beside her, still in his race suit, the collar unzipped. The floodlights cut across his face, carving his features into light and shadow, but his smile was soft. Softer than she wanted it to be. Softer than she deserved.

“Good race,” he said. His voice was simple, sure, as if the words alone could make it true.

Sena rolled her eyes, though her chest eased just slightly at the sound of him. “Yeah. Not a podium, though.”

He laughed, low and easy, the kind of laugh that rose from deep in the chest and reached the shoulders. “Neither am I.”

She studied him, wondering if it was meant as comfort or self-deprecation. Either way, it didn’t soothe the ache. “You’ve got more than enough podiums, Hamilton. I need to prove I deserve to be here.”

His smile shifted, easing into something steadier, more serious. “Sena, you proved that years ago. From your rookie season. From the moment you walked into this paddock. You almost had it all.”

Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the words she wanted to spit. “Almost. That’s the problem. They don’t care about almost.”

The air between them thickened, heavy, the noise of the paddock dimming as if even the world itself was waiting. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in that way he had, as though he could strip her down to the truth she tried so hard to hide.

“You’re here because you’re good, Fox,” he said at last, voice low and deliberate. “Not because of luck. Not because of mercy. Because you are you.”

The words pressed against her chest like both a weight and a balm. She wanted to believe him, wanted to carve them into herself so they’d never leave. But doubt clung tighter than any comfort could loosen.

His hand slid from her arm to her wrist, thumb brushing lightly over her pulse. The touch grounded her, steadying the rush in her chest. He leaned in slightly, voice dipping, a flicker of mischief breaking through the gravity.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, almost smiling, “I can’t wait to see you soaked in champagne again.”

Her lips parted, a startled laugh spilling from her throat, sharp and unwilling. “Is that supposed to be encouragement or flirting?”

“Both.” His grin curved, boyish and dangerous all at once, edged with something older, something that carried the weight of knowing. “Whichever one makes you stop doubting yourself.”

The ache in her chest didn’t vanish. Wounds like hers never did. But something shifted. A crack in the stone, enough to let light through. Enough to let her breathe.

She shook her head, feigning exasperation, but when her lips betrayed her with a smile, she didn’t fight it.

And for the first time all weekend, she let herself feel it. Not victory. Not absolution. But the smallest glimmer of possibility.

The illusion didn’t last long. The press waited.

The pen was a circle of microphones and recorders, lights flashing harshly, the smell of sweat and camera equipment heavy in the air. Sena stood at the edge, fireproofs tied at her waist, hair still damp with heat. She’d learned long ago that the questions were traps. Hooks, waiting for her to flinch.

“How did the car feel out there, Sena?”

“Good,” she said, warmth threading her tone. “The team gave me everything I needed. The balance felt strong, and the strategy was solid. I’m grateful to give them points on the board.”

Safe. Polished. And then the shift came.

“Were you frustrated not to finish on the podium?”

Her smile curved, just a fraction. “Every driver wants a podium, that’s the goal. But fourth in this field? It means you were fighting in the right places. I’d rather have P4 than P3 because I forgot what defending fairly looks like.”

The air shifted. Reporters scribbled faster, a ripple of chuckles moving through the crowd. Some raised their brows, some leaned in further.

“Can you talk us through that battle?”

Her expression didn’t change. Eyes steady, voice sweet. “It was… spirited, I have a lot of respect for drivers who fight for position, but there’s a difference between racing hard and what Alonso did.”

She let the pause linger, long enough for the sting to settle, before adding, with a smile almost too bright to be sincere: “Either way, it keeps things interesting. And thats what we’re all here for at the end of the day”

When she finally stepped away, she was still smiling. Polished. Professional. Untouchable. The kind of smile that could be replayed on every highlight reel and still look sweet — even while it burned.

senafox posted on her story lilymhe posted on her story

One new message *Lewis Hamilton*

Lewis: I was about to take you up on your offer, you know. Sena: Well… you snooze, you lose, Hamilton. Lewis: Alright, Fox. Noted for next time. Sena: Next time? You planning ahead now? Lewis: You’ll have to wait and see.

One new message *Alex Albon*

Alex: You actually stole my girlfriend. Sena: Correction, she chose me. Alex: …unbelievable. Sena: Believe it. 🏆

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albon_pets: we cant wait to have play dates with her 🐶🥹

⤷ senafox: Beans says yes, ASAP!! She’s ready for the chaos 🐾

roscoelovescoco: Welcome's Beans!!! Snacks on's me's.

⤷ senafox: She heard ‘snacks’ and she’s officially obsessed with you now

faith.cartier: Omg she’s PERFECT, I’m coming over literally now. Auntie Faith rights!! 🫶🏽

livysmith: okay but you know she’s coming to stay at mine next time you travel x

carmenmmundt: Already obsessed. Next girl’s brunch at mine and Beans is on the invite list 🥰

⤷ georgerussell63: Noted. Will bring biscuits. ⤷ senafox: Who said you’re invited? Beans will accept biscuits at the door, thanks x

alexandrasaintmleux: I volunteer for bean babysitting duties 🐾

lilymhe: adorable!!! tell beans she has so many aunties now 😭💖

Brazil had gone Sena’s way. The win was the sort that left her almost giddy, the kind that made the championship look less like a dream and more like something already written. She felt it humming beneath her skin, the way her luck had shifted into inevitability, the way people spoke about her now with a certainty she’d never quite trusted before. Yet that quiet confidence—the glow of victory—was something she never brought up around Lewis. Not out of guilt, and certainly not because she thought he couldn’t handle it; he was the last person who would begrudge her any triumph. But she knew he was enduring a rougher season, and although he would always be supportive, the words still caught in her throat. She always changed the subject before it could sound like gloating. Maybe she was shielding him, or maybe she was protecting herself from seeing something in his eyes she did not want to see.

Now, she watched Beans and Roscoe, both asleep on the rug in Lewis’s flat. It had been Lewis’s idea to set up the play date, ever since she’d brought Beans home, though Sena was starting to wonder whether he’d been quite so selfless about it after all. Especially given that he was currently preoccupied with pressing slow, wet kisses along her neck, his breath warming her skin.

She turned to him at last, meeting his gaze. There was something quietly startling about how much had shifted since Texas. Nothing overt, no declarations, no late-night confessions, just a subtle, irrepressible change. They stayed over now, almost by default. They woke up together, her hair tousled, his stubble roughening her cheek, neither in any rush to get up. She had started to learn the shape of his mornings: the way he moved around his kitchen in only joggers, making breakfast for them both as though it was simply what he did, not some gesture or favour. It unsettled her in ways she tried not to examine too closely.

His lips found hers, a kiss slow and unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world. In truth, neither of them had anywhere they truly needed to be, but Sena was still not used to this side of Lewis. Everything between them—especially the physical—had always been a collision, frantic and greedy, all hands and teeth, like they were trying to outrun something. Now it was different. His touch was deliberate, reverent almost, tracing the line of her jaw, the delicate dip at her collarbone, the soft skin at her waist, taking his time as if memorising her. The tenderness of it was almost unnerving.

They made their way to the couch without breaking the kiss. Sena settled herself onto his lap as if she’d always belonged there, her knees bracketing his thighs. His hands came to rest on her hips—steady, confident, the press of his thumbs sending sparks of heat through her. She slid closer, letting her lips wander from his mouth to his neck. He let out a quiet sound when she nipped at his skin, his grip tightening on her hips as though testing how far she’d let him go.

She drew back just enough for their mouths to brush when she spoke. “I thought this was supposed to be a chance for the dogs to bond. I distinctly remember you saying Beans needed to socialise,” she said, her grin sly, teasing.

Lewis let out a huff, half-laugh, half-breath, his focus very much not on the rug. With her weight in his lap, so close, it was nearly impossible to focus on anything else, on words, logic, whatever excuse he was meant to offer. His hands slid up her waist, thumbs tracing the curve beneath her shirt, distracting and bold.

“Did I?” he muttered, voice dark, unfocused. “Funny, I don’t remember saying that part.”

She looked smug, her eyes dancing with mischief as she leaned in to kiss him again. The rhythm between them was easy, dangerously addictive. His hands crept beneath her shirt, his thumbs stroking over bare skin at her waist, palms flattening against her ribs, heat blooming wherever he touched. She arched towards him, hips grinding down with an ease that felt more instinct than intention, friction growing as she pressed a slow trail of kisses along his jaw. The sound he made was low, helpless, as if she’d stolen the last of his composure.

He didn’t try to hide it. He let his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she nipped him, her hands running down from his shoulders to his chest, her nails dragging lightly over his skin, making him tense and shudder beneath her.

“You’re keen,” she whispered, teasing, lips brushing his ear. She rocked against him again, not as a performance, but simply because it felt good—the solid weight of him beneath her, his hands everywhere, never settling for long.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” he managed, his voice tight, one hand slipping lower to cup her arse and pull her closer, his breath coming harder now.

“Am I?” she countered, shifting her hips again, slow, deliberate. “Doesn’t seem to bother you much.”

He exhaled a short laugh, exasperated and utterly defeated, before catching her mouth with his again. She pressed down into his lap, the friction growing desperate, his hips pushing up to meet hers, both of them gasping, their voices tangled with each shift and press.

She eased back, letting him guide her down until her back met the cushions, her legs falling open around his hips. He covered her, his weight anchoring her, the kind of steady pressure that made her body relax even as every nerve seemed to spark. His mouth trailed down her jaw, over her throat, then back to her lips, slow and languid, as if he had nowhere else to be.

Her fingers curled into the back of his t-shirt, dragging him closer, greedy for his weight, his heat, the hard length pressed against her through her sweats. She rolled her hips up, and his breath caught in his chest, a shudder running through him.

His hand slid down, pushing beneath the loose waistband of her sweats, fingertips skating over bare skin, hot and deliberate. He took his time, tracing along her knickers, the lightest touch at first, maddening, until Sena’s head tipped back, her eyes fluttering closed as his mouth moved along her throat, his breath searing against her skin.

His fingers finally slipped between her legs, thumb grazing over the damp cotton, slow and possessive. “You’re always so ready for me,” he murmured against her neck, his voice rough and thick with need. The words vibrated against her skin, and for a moment he simply held her there, thumb moving in teasing circles, his mouth brushing her ear, possessiveness humming through every motion.

He dipped his hand further, fingers just beneath the edge of her underwear now, his grip on her hip tightening. His mouth ghosted her ear, his words quiet, thick with hunger but edged with playful arrogance: “Only ever like this for me, aren’t you?” It was a challenge and a comfort, a dare to admit what they both already knew. The words were barely more than a breath, gone almost as soon as they landed, but the meaning curled hot in her belly.

She arched into him, all sharp want and no patience, needing him with an urgency that never felt like surrender—only inevitability. Her hand fisted in his shirt, dragging him down for a kiss, their mouths clashing, all teeth and breath and want.

Just as he hooked his finger under the waistband of her knickers, ready to give her what they both wanted, a sharp bark cut through the haze. Beans, from her spot on the rug, let out a piercing yelp—high and insistent, puppyish and unforgiving.

Sena froze, a laugh escaping her, bright and helpless, as her head dropped back against the cushion. Lewis groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his hand still caught inside her sweats.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, his voice muffled against her skin. He didn’t move, his forehead pressed to her shoulder as if weighing whether to wait it out or admit defeat.

Sena’s laughter bubbled up, uncontrollable, her fingers finding the back of his neck as she tried to catch her breath. She glanced over Lewis’s shoulder, towards the rug, where Beans was now sitting up, ears alert, eyes wide and insistent. “She’s dramatic,” Sena said, her voice thick with amusement, fingertips stroking along Lewis’s hairline. “Don’t take it personally, she’s still just a baby.”

Lewis propped himself up on his elbows, shooting the puppy a look of theatrical despair. “No, she just doesn’t like me,” he said, the words half-joking, half-genuine, his gaze flicking between Beans and Sena. “She does this every single time I get close to you.” The accusation hung in the air, more a gentle complaint than anything else, as if Beans was a tiny chaperone determined to make his life difficult.

Sena snorted, shaking her head, her fingers curling a little tighter in his shirt, refusing to let the moment slip entirely. “You’re being ridiculous,” she teased, her voice dry but undeniably fond. It was ridiculous, the two of them brought up short by a three-month-old puppy, and yet she couldn’t help but find something sweet in his pettiness, a softness she never expected to want so much.

“I’m not,” he protested, quick and certain, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to prove it. He kissed her again, slow and persuasive, daring the universe—or Beans—to try interrupting them once more.

The universe, unfortunately, obliged. Beans barked again, even louder, voice sharp with outrage. Lewis broke away with a groan that was part exasperation, part resignation, and looked over his shoulder at the dog. “See?” he said, somewhere between a plea and a moan, his smile rueful and defeated. It was almost absurd, how a moment so intimate could be interrupted by something so small and silly.

Sena’s laughter rang out, bright and unguarded. “Maybe she just doesn’t want to share me,” she offered, the words tossed lightly between them, meant to tease, but carrying an edge of honesty she did not bother to examine. She watched his face as she spoke, curious to see if the words would land or just float away as another joke in their endless dance.

Lewis’s expression flickered, something soft and open flickering in his eyes before he tucked it away behind a familiar grin. “Neither do I,” he replied, too quickly for it to be nothing, too easily for it to be a joke. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in, letting the silence settle for a long moment as if, just maybe, he meant every word.

She rolled her eyes at him because it was easier than letting herself acknowledge what had just passed between them. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, her tone light as she kissed him again, gentler, lazier, trying to fill the silence that felt suddenly too heavy. But even as she lost herself in the warmth of his kiss, she could feel the echo of that careless sentence settle deep in her chest, humming there like an aftershock.

Beans, mercifully, grew quiet once more, and the living room folded back in around them, a safe, private bubble. Yet as Lewis’s hand found her waist again, not pushing, not demanding, just resting there, Sena felt a new kind of tension take hold. It was not the impatient, desperate hunger that usually lived between them, but something gentler, more dangerous—something that might, if she allowed herself to stare at it too long, look suspiciously like hope.

She told herself not to read into it. Yet as she let herself be drawn back into the warmth of his arms, his kiss slow and consuming, she knew the meaning would linger, impossible to ignore.

📍 Las Vegas Strip, Nevada, USA.

Liked by lewishamilton, centralcee and others

senafox a perfect weekend really

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livysmith: Winning in style, as always

faith.cartier: The luck of Vegas or just you being that good?

lewishamilton: 💪

centralcee: Vegas suits you, you know 🔥

selenagomez: So proud of you 🤍 this is insane

taylorswift: Watching this season has been unreal. Go get it 🫶🏻

⤷ senafox: You’re my soundtrack. Manifesting a win with a little Taylor energy 💖

mclaren: Locked in. One final push.

⤷ senafox: Let’s finish what we started 🧡

zakbrown: Special performance. Eyes forward.

The jet moved steadily through the night, the low thrum of the engines settling into something almost soothing, a constant beneath everything else. Sena was stretched out on one of the wide cream leather seats, knees drawn up comfortably, one hand absently tugging at the cuff of her hoodie while the other was already buried in the packet of snacks Lewis had lobbed at her earlier. Every now and then she glanced out at the inky black sky beyond the window, the lights far below like something unreal, but her attention kept drifting back to him without her quite meaning it to. The corners of her mouth refused to settle into anything neutral, her whole body humming with that post‑race exhilaration she never fully managed to contain. The joy wasn’t something she tried to hide tonight. It sat plainly in her flushed cheeks, in the way her foot tapped out a restless, happy rhythm against the seat, in how she looked almost weightless with it. She looked young like this, untouchable, a little unmoored by how good life could suddenly feel when everything aligned just right.

Lewis watched her from his own seat, half‑turned towards her, one elbow propped along the backrest as if he’d been there a while and planned on staying. He’d always been good at reading her moods; he’d seen her furious and sharp‑edged, reckless in that dangerous way she carried sometimes, quiet with grief when the world hit too hard. But this was different. This was some bright, unguarded version of her that surfaced only in rare moments, when the pressure lifted just enough for her to breathe. He could feel himself softening under the weight of it, the way it made him want to keep her laughing, keep the night exactly as it was, just to see how far that light might go before reality inevitably crept back in.

Sena tore open the packet properly, shaking a handful of crisps into her palm before flicking a look over her shoulder at him, eyes bright with mischief. “Admit it,” she said lightly, chewing as she spoke, “you wish you were this brilliant, but instead you’re just… old. Actually, that’s it. You’re old and you have to watch me win everything.” She tried for mockery, but it never quite landed, not when she was practically glowing with it, not when the teasing was softened by the warmth underneath.

“Old?” Lewis repeated, shaking his head, though the smile never left his face, soft around the edges in a way that gave him away. “That’s all you’ve got? I fly you halfway across the world, keep you supplied with snacks, and this is the thanks I get.”

She grinned, half‑hidden behind the sleeve of her hoodie, her voice easy and warm. “I never asked you to keep me in snacks. But I do appreciate it.” She tossed a crisp at him without much aim. It missed entirely, bouncing once and landing on the floor between them.

He smirked, shaking his head at her, but didn’t comment on it, letting it lie where it had fallen. For a while, the jet was quiet except for the gentle rustle of the snack packet and the distant whine of the engines cutting through the sky. Sena shifted in her seat, pulling her knees up under her chin, her gaze flicking back to Lewis in that way it did when a thought had been sitting with her for a while and finally decided to surface.

“You know,” she said, voice softer now, the words slipping out in that unguarded way they sometimes did when she felt just happy enough to be honest, “if everything goes right, I’m bringing the championship into my birthday month.” She tried to sound casual about it, like it wasn’t something she’d been turning over in her mind for days, but the shine in her eyes betrayed her. “I mean, imagine it. The title celebrations, my birthday, Christmas. All packed into a few weeks. December’s already my favourite. This would just… make it magic.”

He didn’t answer straight away. For a moment his expression went thoughtful, the teasing fading as he watched her in the dim cabin light, weighing his words carefully. “Well,” he said eventually, quietly, “maybe this year you’ll let me in on the secret. Actually invite me to your real birthday party.”

She rolled her eyes, though there was no real bite to it. “You, unfortunately, are not on the invite list yet.”

“Oh,” he said, brows lifting, amused, “so I have to earn my spot?” He leaned back slightly, considering. “That’s pressure. Especially since now I’m apparently on the hook for two gifts. Championship and birthday. That’s double the stress.”

She nudged him with her foot, deliberately annoying, a familiar little gesture. “Double the presents, double the fun,” she said.

She didn’t look at him directly when she spoke next, but her smile softened all the same, something almost wistful flickering through it. “You never asked to come,” she added. “And you were always busy. It’s not like I thought you’d want to sit in a pub with Faith and Olivia while everyone sang out of tune at midnight.”

“Well,” he replied, nudging her foot back with his own, mirroring her without thinking, “maybe this year you’ll let me in on it. Let me try a proper present, not just another bottle of wine or something shiny you could’ve bought yourself.”

She shrugged, that familiar non‑committal movement that said more than she ever would out loud, and tilted her head. “We’ll have to wait and see then. You do well for my championship gift, and maybe I’ll consider adding you to the list for my birthday.”

He grinned at that, quick and a little sheepish, like the challenge pleased him more than he’d expected. “Alright then. You want surprises? Fine. You win the championship, I’ll find a way to make your birthday unforgettable. Properly. No generic presents this year. No jewellery, no handbags, nothing you could guess.”

Sena laughed, head falling back against the seat, hair spilling loose over the leather as she let the sound out freely. “That sounds dangerously like you’re promising something,” she said.

Lewis leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I could always ask Faith or Olivia what to get you. Maybe they’ll save me from completely messing it up.”

She smirked, shaking her head. “They’d never tell you. Especially if I told them not to. You’re on your own, Hamilton. May the odds be ever in your favour.”

He watched her for a moment after that, the teasing easing just enough to let something softer slip through. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I like a challenge.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet inside the jet felt gentler somehow, stretched tight with something neither of them were ready to name. Outside, the night kept moving, city lights falling away as they headed closer to Monaco. Sena let herself sink into it, daring to believe that, just this once, things really could stay exactly this good.

But as she lay there, eyes half closed, she almost wanted to warn him, to tell him to be careful, to keep his promises quieter, to tuck all this happiness away. Instead, she just watched him from beneath her lashes, holding the moment close, telling herself not to read into it, not to give the universe any reason to change its mind.

She could feel the championship humming just beneath her skin, wild and electric, like some dream coming true. And for the first time, the hope didn’t feel dangerous; it felt…almost beautiful.

With every second, that hope—fragile and persistent—grew a little bolder. The finish line was drawing closer, its promise so dazzling she could almost forget her fear. Light, noise, and history blurred together, and for once, the impossible didn’t seem so far away.

And then, it was done. Just like that, the thing she’d spent a lifetime chasing was hers. Sena laughed—shaky, breathless, hardly daring to believe it. For a moment, she let herself have it: the pride, the joy, the sense that maybe she could have nice things. Just this once, she let herself believe in a happy ending. Even if it still terrified her.

She didn’t remember climbing out of the car, or who reached her first. Later, all she could recall was her father’s arms wrapped tightly around her, the rough press of his lips against her hair, the sticky blur of sweat and tears on her face. She was sure she didn’t look like the “cool girl” or the Vixen the media made her out to be—none of that armor had survived the checkered flag. In those first moments, she let herself be small again, just a daughter held in her father’s embrace.

Eventually, the noise and color of the paddock swept her onward. She drifted through the whirlwind—marshals, mechanics, friends—her chest tight with a joy she hardly dared trust. Then came the familiar route: the scale, the weight checks, the waiting, surrounded by the other drivers. That was where she found Lewis, helmet off, still flushed from the race. Their eyes met across the room, and for a heartbeat, she wanted nothing more than to cross the space between them, let herself be gathered up in his praise, to let him see the part of her that belonged only to him.

Instead, she forced herself to keep it light, to offer the same professional hug she’d given to the others, a careful nod, a brief embrace that could be explained away in every photo. But as Lewis leaned in, his words found her ear, low and just for her: “I’m proud of you.” Something in his voice—warm, rough, and achingly sincere—sent a tremor through her. Even in this place, surrounded by eyes and noise, the meaning slipped quietly beneath her skin, and she carried it with her into the chaos that followed.

Liked by lewishamilton, georgerussell63, and others

senafox Still feels like a dream. Cheers to the late nights, the early flights, the miracles, the meltdowns, and thank you to everyone who never stopped believing, even when I did. We did it. 🏆🧡✨

PPS: No, you can’t touch it. (Yes, that means you, Faith.)

(and yes, the trophy’s coming to bed with me tonight. non-negotiable.)

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lewishamilton: Beyond proud of you, Fox. History made.🖤

faith.cartier: You’re still not faster than me on foot, but damn, you did that. 🔥

⤷faith.cartier: I love you btw I feel like a proud parent!!!!!!

livysmith: She races, she wins, she parties. You killed it, babe x

taylorswift: Congratulations, Champion! Absolutely unstoppable 🌟

carmenmmundt: Queen of the grid, queen of the party 💅🏼

caradelevingne: Now THAT is how you win. You look unreal 🧡

lilymhe: Gorgeous, gorgeous girls win world titles 💖

selenagomez: Obsessed with this energy, keep shining Sena!

The party was in full swing, the kind that seemed to buzz right down to the bones—her name echoing through the air, friends lifting their glasses, the room shot through with that golden, feverish joy that only came with winning. Sena was in pure, unfiltered bliss, swept along by the current of it all. And Lewis—Lewis was yet to leave her side. For once, neither of them seemed to care about the stares, the what-ifs, or the inevitable morning-after whispers. The place was safe enough to let themselves breathe, to let their guard slip just a little. There was no need for strategies or glances over the shoulder. It was just them, heat and music and a victory that belonged to her.

She felt him behind her, a constant, grounding presence. On the dance floor, her back pressed flush against his chest, the sequinned dress leaving her skin bare and inviting—God, he couldn’t keep his hands away. The thump of the bass was nothing compared to the press of his palm on the small of her back, the brush of his lips against the delicate curve of her neck. He was saying nothing, but his hands and his mouth said everything. The way his fingers teased at the open back of her dress, slipping lower every time she moved—she couldn’t help but arch into him, pretending not to notice how deliberate he was being. If she were honest, she loved it; loved the way his touch made her feel as though she was something precious, something rare. The air between them felt heavy with something unspoken, barely contained by the pulse of the music and the noise around them.

Then he noticed her glass was empty. His voice was a low murmur against her skin, the edge of a grin audible in every word. “A champion shouldn’t have an empty glass,” he whispered into her neck, lips brushing the spot that always made her shiver. His hand slid down the length of her arm as he reached for her glass, trailing heat in his wake, his touch lingering a moment too long to be innocent. He didn’t even bother hiding it, and she didn’t bother pretending she minded.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, already starting towards the bar. He glanced over his shoulder with that look—half promise, half warning—leaving her dizzy, skin tingling where he’d touched.

She barely had a second to catch her breath before Faith sidled up, eyes still locked on Sena with that familiar, mischievous gleam. “Well, that’s exactly how friends act, isn’t it, Liv?” Faith asked, voice pitched high with mock innocence but laced with meaning.

Liv wasn’t slow to catch on. “Oh yes, that’s how we always dance,” she replied, snorting. She slid behind Faith, arms winding around her waist, the pair of them now doing an exaggerated impression of Sena and Lewis. It was so absurd that Sena couldn’t help but laugh, cheeks hot, the last of her defences slipping away.

She raised her brow at them, refusing to be embarrassed. “Jealous you lot haven’t got anyone to dance with you like that?” she teased, the confidence coming easy now, sweetened by champagne and victory.

Faith pulled a face. “Please, pff. I was just trying to figure out when did coworkers start grinding on each other on the dance floor ”

Liv snorted. “The day I let “just a friend” get that close to me in public, is the day i’ve lost the plot.”

Sena just smirked, feeling wild and untouchable for once. “It's complicated.”

“Try us,” Faith shot back, winking. “But seriously, Sen, since when did you and Lewis get so…,” she made a vague gesture with her hands, “brazen?”

Liv jumped in, eyes dancing. “Yeah, when did you start doing PDA?”

Sena shrugged, unable to hide her grin, feeling the weight of their curiosity like a crown rather than a burden. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, mock-sweet, her heart still hammering.

Lewis returned before they could grill her further, two glasses in hand and that devilish glint back in his eye. He pressed a fresh drink into her hand, his fingers brushing hers, and leaned in just enough that only she could hear. “Did I miss anything?” he murmured, lips close to her ear.

She gave him a look. “Just Faith and Olivia proving why comedy wasn’t in the path for either of them”

He smirked, his hand settling possessively on her waist, fingers splaying just beneath the open line of her dress. The spark between them was tangible, a secret language in every touch, every look.

As they drifted back into their own world, Faith and Liv exchanged a glance, both shaking their heads in awe and amusement. “Honestly, I can’t decide if I want what they have or if I just want to slap them,” Faith muttered, just loud enough for Sena to hear.

“Bit of both, I reckon,” Liv replied, raising her glass in Sena’s direction, grinning wickedly. 

When Sena turned back to him, his attention was already fixed on her, unwavering. The music throbbed around them, bass heavy enough to feel in her bones, bodies moving and laughing and celebrating all around, but it might as well have been just the two of them standing there. She tilted her chin up, closing the distance until their noses were almost brushing, her smile slow and deliberate.

“Well,” she said, voice low, playful, “this is an amazing party, I’ll give you that. But I fear there’s something missing.”

Lewis frowned slightly, brows drawing together as his gaze drifted past her shoulder, scanning the club as though he might actually spot whatever invisible thing she was accusing him of forgetting. “What is it?” he asked, distracted, already halfway to solving the problem.

A soft laugh slipped out of her, warm and teasing. “My gift,” she said simply. “You still haven’t given me my gift.”

He turned back to her then, full attention snapping into place, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like you’re going to have to wait a little longer for that,” he replied calmly.

Her mouth fell open in exaggerated offence. “Why is that?” she asked, her tone slipping into something almost petulant. “You didn’t forget it, right? Because I was promised an exceptional gift, and I do expect it.” She stepped back just enough to press her finger into the centre of his chest, eyes narrowed as if she were genuinely scolding him.

Lewis bit back a laugh. Something about the way she was looking at him told him laughing would be a mistake. “No,” he said evenly, “I didn’t forget. It’s waiting for you back home.”

That only deepened her confusion. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he could’ve bought that couldn’t be brought with him. She barely had time to think about it before his hand slid firmly around her wrist, tugging her away from the crowd.

“Lewis—” she started, but he was already leading her towards the stairs tucked discreetly to the side of the club, the ones marked VIP only. The music dulled as they climbed, replaced by the distant hum of bass through walls and the soft echo of their footsteps.

“What are we doing here?” she asked as he pulled her into one of the private rooms and shut the door behind them, locking it with a decisive click.

When he turned back to her, the look in his eyes had shifted completely. Gone was the relaxed amusement, replaced by something darker, more intent. He leaned back against the door for a moment, arms folded as he watched her, taking her in slowly—the open back of her dress, the exposed line of her spine, the way her shoulders rose and fell with anticipation.

“Well,” he said quietly, pushing himself off the door and moving towards her with unhurried steps, “until I give you your actual present… how about I give you another one first?”

The way he said it sent heat curling low in her stomach. He stalked towards her with deliberate confidence, like a predator who knew exactly where his prey would end up. Sena instinctively stepped back, pulse quickening, until the backs of her knees hit the couch in the centre of the room and she dropped down onto it with a soft gasp.

“Lewis,” she warned, though there was no real protest in it.

He stopped just in front of her, hands braced on either side of her legs, crowding her space. “You looked so good the whole night” he murmured, voice rough, low enough to vibrate straight through her. “Grinding on me on the dance floor, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

She lifted her chin, defiant even as her breath came faster. “What do i do to you exactly Lewis” His name softening with her voice curling around him.

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “You know exactly what you do,” he said, one hand sliding up the back of her thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make her inhale sharply. “ But if you insist on hearing it from me fine”

His touch grew bolder, palms roaming over bare skin, thumbs tracing slow, maddening lines. She reached for him instinctively, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until his body was pressed flush against hers.

“I love it when you look at me like this,” he murmured against her ear, teeth grazing her skin. She shivered, heat pooling between her legs as his hands slid lower, grip firm and unapologetic. “Like what?” she asked breathlessly, though she already knew.

“Like nothing else exists. Like it’s just me.” He said then, he kissed her—hard, claiming, all tongue and teeth—one hand tangling in her hair as the other pushed her back against the couch cushions. The kiss left no room for doubt, no space to breathe properly, and she melted into it with a soft sound she didn’t bother to suppress.

The couch creaked beneath them as Lewis pressed her back, hands already everywhere, greedy, as if he’d been starving for this for days. He kissed her as if he could devour every unspoken thing between them, every doubt and every ache, and she let him, melting under the force of it, her hands sliding up to fist in the back of his shirt, holding on for dear life.

He dragged his mouth from hers only to nose along her jaw, breath hot against her skin, lips catching at the delicate shell of her ear. “You want to hear what you do to me,” he muttered, voice rough, worshipful, all the edges of control gone soft and unguarded. “Standing out there in that dress, dancing on me all night and you’re not even trying, do you?”

Sena shivered, her laughter curling into a gasp as he scraped his teeth along her throat, the sensation sharp and sweet. letting her head fall back, giving him room, her pulse pounding against his mouth. 

He huffed a low laugh, but there was nothing amused about it—just heat, just the need that always seemed to burn a little too hot, a little too wild between them. He slid his hands down her body, over her hips, around to the back of her thighs, bunching her dress up with shameless urgency. “All fucking night, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you.” he broke off, dragging her forward on the couch so her legs fell open for him, the bare skin of her thighs exposed to the cool air. 

She made a sound—half-daring, half-plea—as he knelt between her knees, hands braced on either side of her, his eyes tracing every inch of her like he was memorising her shape. The air felt thick with anticipation, charged with all the things neither of them said. She reached out, curling her fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at her.

“Then ruin me,” she said, a dare in her voice.

Lewis’s expression shifted, darkened, softened all at once. “Yeah?” He leaned in, kissing her again—slower, deeper, tongue searching, coaxing—until she was breathless, clutching at him, hips rocking up into his. He caught her mouth between his teeth, biting down just enough to leave a sting, and she gasped, her body arching into his touch.

His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs tracing maddening circles along the soft skin. He tugged at her knickers—lace, damp already—and eased them down, dragging them over her knees, her calves, then letting them drop to the floor. She felt exposed, raw, and beautiful in a way she hadn’t let herself believe for a long time.

He sat back on his heels, just looking at her, his eyes dark and glassy, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. “You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, reverence threading through every syllable, as if this was a prayer.

Sena flushed, her hands fluttering uselessly at her sides, unsure whether to cover herself or drag him closer. “Don’t just stare,” she breathed, her voice cracking open with need.

Lewis grinned, the edge of it wicked and tender at once. “Bossy, are we?” But he obeyed, his hand sliding between her legs, fingers parting her, teasing, stroking through slick heat. She moaned, hips bucking, her head falling back against the cushions.

He leaned in to kiss her neck, his voice barely more than a rumble. “Always so wet for me,” he said, a possessive note there, the rough edge of pride. He pressed a finger inside her, slow, savouring the way she clenched around him, then added another, curling them just right until she was writhing, desperate for more.

Sena tried to pull him closer, her nails biting into his shoulders, but he just laughed softly against her skin, tormenting her with slow, deep strokes, his thumb circling her clit in lazy, maddening spirals. “I could do this all night,” he said, half a threat, half a promise. “Just watch you fall apart for me.”

Her breath came in ragged little gasps, her thighs trembling as he worked her higher. “Please—Lewis, I—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing his mouth to her ear, his free hand pushing the dress higher, baring the whole length of her back. He kissed every inch he could reach—her shoulder, the dip of her spine, the fluttering pulse at the base of her neck. “Let go for me, love. Want to feel you come on my fingers before I fuck you. Let me see my Sena.”

His words broke her open, she tensed, hips stuttering, pleasure cresting through her in a rush, her cry muffled by his mouth as he swallowed the sound. He didn’t let up, fingers coaxing every last wave from her until she was shuddering, boneless beneath him.

He withdrew his hand slowly, licking his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving hers. “God, I could live off you,” he whispered, almost reverent, and then he was unbuckling his belt with one hand, shoving his trousers down just far enough. His cock was already hard, flushed, leaking—he stroked himself once, twice, just to see her watch him, then lined up at her entrance, teasing her with the thick head.

“Ready for me?” he asked, his voice rough, nearly undone.

She nodded, unable to form words, her whole body aching for him. He pushed in slowly, stretching her inch by inch, both of them groaning at the feeling, at the impossibility of it. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like he could never get enough.

“You’re mine,” he said, not a question this time, but a statement—a truth as solid as the walls around them. “Only mine.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her hands sliding up to cradle his face, her thumb brushing his cheek as he began to move, slow at first, every thrust purposeful, claiming. He worshipped her with his mouth, trailing kisses along her cheek, her lips, her collarbone, each one a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.

He fucked her with a steady, relentless rhythm, rough enough to leave her marked, gentle enough to make her feel cherished. His hands found her wrists, pinning them above her head, his gaze locked to hers. “Look at me,” he commanded, low and desperate. “Want to see you. Want to see everything you feel.”

She held his gaze, letting him see it all her pleasure, her need, her utter surrender. He groaned, hips snapping harder, deeper, the sound of skin on skin loud in the hazy half-light. Every thrust pushed her higher, every word from his lips—filthy, loving, pleading—sent her spinning.

“You’re everything,” he gasped, voice cracking. 

Sena arched up to meet him, her ankles locking around his waist, her body giving in to him completely. The world faded to nothing but the slick slide of their bodies, the sound of his name on her lips, the heady scent of sex and champagne and sweat.

He let one hand drop to her throat, not squeezing, just holding her, grounding them both in the moment. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispered, a challenge and a promise. “You like knowing you’re the only one who gets me like this.”

She whimpered, nodding, her voice gone. He smiled, soft and savage all at once, and bent to kiss her—slow, deep, like he was tasting forever.

It built slowly, inexorably, every thrust winding her tighter, the coil of pleasure ready to snap. Lewis reached down, thumb rubbing desperate circles over her clit, and she shattered body shaking, pleasure so intense she saw stars, her cry swallowed by his mouth as he claimed her again and again.

He followed her over the edge, his body tensing, cock pulsing deep inside her, his breath coming in ragged, broken sobs. He stayed there, shuddering, until the aftershocks faded, then slumped against her, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to her shoulder, her collarbone, her cheeks.

For a while, they just breathed together, tangled and quiet, the world outside forgotten. Lewis shifted, easing out of her gently, then gathered her up in his arms, pulling her into his lap so her legs draped over his thighs.

He held her like something precious, one hand stroking her hair, the other tracing slow, lazy patterns along her back. “You’re something special, you know that?” he whispered into her hair. “All this time, didn’t know I could feel like this.”

Sena hummed, nuzzling into his neck, letting herself feel soft and wanted, cherished in a way that still scared her. “You’re soppy,” she teased, but her voice was all affection, her arms holding him tight.

He laughed, low and content, nipping at her ear. “.I meant what I said you earned everything. Let me spoil you a bit.” He pulled back to look at her, fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Happy championship.”

She snorted, pressing a kiss to the line of his jaw. “If this is what spoiling feels like, I could get used to it.”

Lewis grinned, and for a moment, the weight of the world fell away, leaving only them raw, tangled, alive.

Liked by lewishamilton, taylorswift, and others

senafox The only thing I like more than champagne is trouble. Had both last night. 🥂🦋

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faith.cartier: The only thing more dangerous than the back of that dress is the person wearing it. 🦋 I’m still finding sequins in my hair.

livysmith: I blacked out after photo 2, but sure it was a banger.

centralcee: Now you’re just showing off… 

lilymhe: Obsessed with this dress, obsessed with you

carmenmmundt: Are we sure this wasn’t just a ploy to get everyone obsessed with your back? Because it worked.

It had been a week since the party, but Sena was still riding the high, the electric buzz of happiness fizzing somewhere beneath her skin. Her London flat was littered with flowers and half-opened cards—remnants of a life that finally, gloriously, felt as though it belonged to her. She ought to have been suspicious, wary of good fortune piling up like this, but she was too drunk on it all to care. For the first time in a long while, she felt… lucky.

She was sprawled out on her rug, one socked foot idly nudging Beans, who was doing her best to gnaw the ear off a battered plush toy. The late afternoon sunlight slanted in through the windows, painting the floor golden, and Sena found herself grinning at nothing in particular. That was when her phone started buzzing, Lewis’s name flashing across the screen. Without thinking, she swiped to answer. It was so natural now—calls and messages bouncing between them, sometimes all day, sometimes just a quick check-in. The way things slipped into normalcy when you weren’t watching.

“Hello, sir,” she said, her tone mock-formal, but warm as ever.

“What are you up to?” he replied, voice already edged with that familiar fondness.

“Not much, just losing to Beans in a very serious wrestling match,” she said, watching the puppy’s tail thump in agreement. “What about you?”

There was a pause, the sound of him shifting. “Well, then you’d better change, because I’m downstairs waiting for you.”

She blinked, the words not quite computing at first. “What?” Her voice leapt an octave, breathless with surprise. She pushed herself up from the floor, Beans scrambling after her, and hurried to the window, yanking the curtain aside to peek down at the street. Sure enough, there was Lewis’s car parked below, gleaming even in the dull winter light.

“What are you doing here?” she called, her heart stuttering somewhere between nerves and excitement.

He laughed, the sound so easy it made her want to laugh too. “ Do you still want your gift?”

“Of course I do!” she shot back, a little too eager.

“Then hurry up,” he said. He hung up before she could get another word in.

Sena stood frozen for a second, phone pressed to her ear, and then the panic set in. She called him back immediately. “What do I wear?” she demanded.

“Just something comfortable. Come on, I’m waiting and so is your gift,” he repeated, his tone gentle but teasing. But she cut the call before he could say anything else, refusing to give him the satisfaction of making her more flustered.

What followed was a flurry, she dashed to her room, throwing on black leggings and a fuzzy, oversized light brown jumper, barely stopping to check her reflection before grabbing her keys. Beans looked mournful at being left behind, but Sena paused to ruffle her ears. “I’ll bring you back a treat,” she promised, blowing the puppy a kiss before she ran out.

When she reached the car, Lewis was already out of the driver’s seat, leaning against the bonnet with that maddeningly calm smile, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He looked so at home, here on her street, like he belonged in all the corners of her life she’d tried to keep private. For half a second, she let herself imagine it always being like this, easy, domestic, ordinary.

He met her halfway, pressing a kiss to her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. She tried to steal another, already giddy, but he shook his head.

“Alright,” she said, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “Where is it? Where’s my gift?”

He just grinned, eyes flicking over her in a way that made her stomach swoop. “Not so fast. We have to go to it.”

She frowned, playful suspicion blooming. “Lewis, you didn’t buy me a house, did you?”

He laughed, full and real, a sound that made her want to laugh too. “No house.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms, but couldn’t stop her smile. “You’re annoying you know that.”

He stepped closer, catching her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “And you’re impatient. I told you, it’s a surprise. Trust me?”

She hesitated, only for a breath, then nodded. “I suppose I have to.”

“Good. Now, get in,” he said, brushing his hand over her hip as he guided her toward the passenger seat. “And no peeking when we get close.”

She snorted, sinking into the passenger seat. “What, are you going to blindfold me?”

He shot her a wicked look, shutting the door behind him before moving around to slide into the driver’s seat. “Tempting, but not today,” he replied, glancing over at her with a lopsided grin—already wearing that maddeningly smug smile that told her she was absolutely not getting another clue.

As he started the engine, the city blurred past the windows, Sena tried to keep her composure, fiddling absently with her rings, bouncing her knee. But she couldn’t help the way she kept glancing sideways at him, catching the light in his eyes, the warmth in his smile.

He looked at her now. “You look really happy, you know.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity, the unexpected tenderness. “I am,” she admitted, voice so soft she almost didn’t recognise it. 

Lewis paused, as if committing the moment to memory, a strange look flickering in his eyes. For a heartbeat, something tense hovered between them something fragile and aching, like hope. He reached over, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw. “I like seeing you like this,” he murmured. “Wish I could keep you this happy. Always.”

He felt it then a protective urge so fierce it was almost physical. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms, shield her from the cold edges of the world, tuck her away somewhere safe where nothing ugly or sharp could ever touch her again. For one wild second, he imagined pressing pause on this day, stretching it out so the bubble of happiness she carried couldn’t ever burst.

And then, just as quickly, the feeling twisted in his chest, sharp and unsettling. The tiniest whisper of dread. He knew too well how life had a way of souring joy, of punishing people for loving anything too much. As he watched her—so alive, so hopeful—he felt that flicker of fear, the sense that maybe all this happiness was borrowed, precarious. Danger bells, silent but unmistakable, rang somewhere deep inside. If he could, he would have found a way to keep her safe not just from the world, but from fate itself.

But she was looking at him with such open anticipation, her trust shining right through all her doubts, and he couldn’t let the shadows in. Not yet. He smiled back, letting the fear recede into the background, determined—if only for today—to make her believe that sometimes, good things really could last.

The city fell away behind them, streetlights dwindling, urban edges replaced by hedgerows and ancient oaks, the kind of English countryside that seemed to breathe differently—slower, steadier, as if the rest of the world couldn’t touch it. Sena pressed her forehead to the window, watching the fields blur past, still peppering Lewis with half-serious, half-teasing protests about kidnappings and secret houses in the woods. He let her talk, answering with the odd dry quip, but mostly just listening, basking in the lilt of her voice, the easy way she let herself be excited for once. It was rare for her, this lightness. He felt it in his chest, fragile and precious.

When he finally pulled the car onto a gravel drive lined with old chestnut trees, she sat bolt upright, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “We’re not actually about to be murdered, are we?” she said, but the grin tugging at her lips gave her away.

He let out a real, unguarded laugh. “You’ve been watching too many documentaries. Don’t worry, you’re safe.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a flush on her cheeks now, bright with anticipation. “So dramatic,” she muttered, but her leg was bouncing, foot tapping out a restless, happy rhythm against the floor mat.

He loved her like this—unguarded, hopeful, letting herself believe in surprises. He killed the engine, silence falling around them, broken only by the soft nickering of horses from somewhere nearby.

She peered out into the gloom, then shot him a look, suspicious but undeniably thrilled. “You didn’t—”

He was already out of the car, rounding the bonnet to open her door for her. She tumbled out, impatient, scanning the scene—a cluster of stables, a long white fence, the air thick with the earthy, sweet scent of hay and winter mud.

Lewis took her hand without thinking, warm and steady. “Come on,” he said, tugging her gently towards the stables.

She broke free after a few steps, suddenly breaking into a half-run, boots thudding on the gravel, laughing breathlessly as she reached the barn ahead of him. He trailed after, taking in the way she glowed, how utterly alive she looked. It undid him, the depth of affection twisting in his chest so fast and sharp it was almost painful.

Sena paused in front of the stable door, turning back to him, breathless. “You got me a horse.”

He grinned, couldn’t help it. “Go on then, see for yourself.”

She slipped inside, the barn warm and dimly lit. There, in the first stall, stood a chestnut mare—sleek, eyes wide and gentle, a tiny blaze of white on her brow. The horse snorted softly, shifting her weight, and Sena just… stood there, stunned, for a heartbeat. Then she moved, crossing the straw-strewn floor in a few quick steps, hands already reaching out.

“She’s beautiful,” Sena whispered, voice wobbly with disbelief as she stroked the horse’s neck. “What’s her name?”

“Star,” Lewis said, voice low. “She’s yours. All yours.”

Sena let out a shaky laugh, glancing back at him over her shoulder, eyes shining with something he recognised as wonder. “You literally got me a horse. Like—who does that?”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as his heart thundered. “Well, you told me once—when you were little, your dad’s girlfriend had horses. You said you loved them, but after they broke up, you never saw them again. I thought maybe… you deserved to have that again. Something just for you.”

She blinked, and for a moment he thought she might cry, but then she laughed again, quick and bright. She spun away from the horse, launching herself at him, arms flung around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance.

He caught her, held her tight. It was instinct, the need to anchor her joy, to hold onto this piece of happiness for both of them. He felt her fingers twist into his jacket, the warmth of her face pressed against his shoulder. He let himself close his eyes for a moment, breathing her in, letting the world fall away.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she murmured into his neck, each word soft and disbelieving, as if saying it might break the spell. “This is… I don’t even know what to say.”

Lewis found himself smiling, his own voice thick. “You don’t have to say anything. Just—let yourself have it, alright? Let yourself be happy.”

She pulled back a little, arms still draped around his neck. “You’re an idiot,” she said, but she was grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners. “A really, really lovely idiot.”

He grinned right back, hands sliding down her back to settle at her waist. “So… am I finally invited to your birthday, or what?”

She laughed, swatting his shoulder. “Yeah, alright, you’re invited. I don’t know what you are gonna do for my birthday, though. This is gonna be hard to top.”

For a moment, they just stood there, pressed close in the warm, dusty light of the stable, the horse nosing Sena’s hair as if sensing she was part of the story now. Lewis looked at her—her wild hair, flushed cheeks, the stubborn hope in her eyes—and felt, just for a heartbeat, that maybe he could keep her safe from anything. That maybe this happiness could last.

But even as he held her, a flicker of dread threaded through the joy—the memory of how easily the world could turn, how public things could sour, how rumours and ugly words could creep in and rot even the best moments. He didn’t let it show. He wouldn’t let himself ruin it, not now, not when she was so incandescently happy.

senafox posted on her story

The pub smelled like old wood and spilled beer and something fried that had soaked into the walls years ago and never quite left. Faith’s uncle had strung up fairy lights along the low beams, warm and uneven, the kind that made everything feel softer around the edges. Someone had dragged a speaker into the corner for karaoke, and there was a cake on the bar that leaned slightly to one side, already missing a slice. It was loud in the way only familiar places could be—voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, glasses clinking without ceremony.

This was where she always celebrated. Not Sena Fox, not the World Champion, not the girl whose name trended every other week. Just Sena. Just birthdays and bad singing and people who knew her before everything else.

She should have been perfectly happy. In many ways, she was. Faith had an arm slung around her shoulders for most of the night, Olivia kept refilling her glass whether she asked for it or not, and Tommy, another friend she knew since pre-school had already been banned from choosing karaoke songs after a particularly offensive rendition of something from the early 2000s. Sena laughed, genuinely laughed, her head tipped back, her cheeks warm from alcohol and affection and the safety of being unseen.

And yet—every few minutes—her eyes drifted to the door.

Not obviously. She was careful about that. Just a flicker of attention, a half-second too long whenever it opened. Habit, she told herself. Nothing more. He’d said he’d be there. He’d said, be ready for your surprise. Two days ago, casual and confident, as if it were a certainty rather than a promise.

She didn’t check her phone obsessively. That would’ve felt desperate. She let it sit on the table beside her drink, screen dark, face up. Every now and then it lit up with a message—from Faith’s cousin, from someone she’d raced with years ago, from a team group chat exploding with birthday emojis—and every time it wasn’t him, she swallowed the small, irrational pinch of disappointment and kept smiling.

The rumours had already been circulating for over a week.

She’d seen them, of course. It was impossible not to. One anonymous account had kicked it off, a screenshot of text with the word rumour slapped across the top like a flimsy shield.

Friend of mine was at Sena Fox’s championship party. Her and Lewis Hamilton were basically attached at the hip all night. Very touchy. Apparently disappeared together at one point.

That was all it took.

By morning, it had thousands of likes, threads splintering off in every direction. Some people dismissed it instantly—oh please, they say this about her with every driver—others leaned in hard, dissecting body language from grainy videos, replaying moments that had never been meant to matter.

Then came the uglier parts. The ones she scrolled past without slowing down, because she’d learned that pausing only gave them power.

Age gap’s disgusting.

Power dynamic’s insane.

Funny how she “comes back” to the paddock and suddenly she’s close with him.

Wouldn’t be shocked if that’s how she got the McLaren seat.

If she’s sleeping with him, who else is she sleeping with? Zak? Half the grid?

It was vile. Predictable. Exhausting.

And still—she hadn’t cared. Not really. Not in the way people expected her to. She knew the truth. She always had. She’d been doing this long enough to understand that the internet didn’t want facts; it wanted a story, preferably one that punished women for existing too confidently in public spaces.

They’d done this to her before. When she’d debuted. When she’d won. When she’d crashed. When she’d come back. Every milestone came with a cost, and she’d learned early on that letting it touch her would only hollow her out.

So she’d shrugged it off. Let Lewis shrug it off too, at least as far as she could see. In her mind, if it didn’t matter to her, why should it matter to him?

That belief sat comfortably—until it didn’t.

By eleven, he still hadn’t shown.

She hadn’t called again after the first attempt went unanswered. Pride, maybe. Or instinct. She refused to chase something that had promised to arrive on its own. Instead, she sang badly with Olivia, clapped along to Faith’s dramatic ballad, let someone smear icing across her cheek in a moment of chaos she would’ve normally shut down but didn’t tonight.

It was during a lull—when the music dipped, when people were catching their breath—that she picked up her phone again.

She didn’t mean to open Twitter. It was muscle memory more than curiosity, a reflex she’d built and never quite dismantled. The app loaded, the feed refreshed.

And there it was.

A photo. Clear. Cruel in its timing.

Lewis, unmistakable even in bad lighting, seated at a candlelit table somewhere warm and impossibly far away. A woman beside him—beautiful, model-beautiful, hand resting casually near his arm. The caption underneath didn’t speculate. It didn’t need to.

Lewis Hamilton spotted in Barbados tonight.

Tonight.

The photo loaded before she could think to stop it.

For a split second, her mind refused to make sense of it — Lewis’s face, unmistakable even in bad lighting, the warm glow of a restaurant, a woman’s hand resting too easily near his arm. Barbados. Tonight.

Something in her chest gave way all at once. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a clean, internal crack — like glass struck dead centre.

The noise of the pub fell away so abruptly it left a ringing behind. Laughter kept moving around her, someone shouted her name, a glass clinked against another — all of it happening at a distance, as if she’d stepped back from her own life without meaning to.

She didn’t scroll. She didn’t read the replies. She didn’t need to.

Lewis wasn’t coming.

People were already making comments on it.

So much for those rumours.

Guess that clears that up.

Y’all really dragged them both for nothing.

Knew it. No way he’d miss his girlfriend’s birthday if it were real.

Girlfriend.

The word landed wrong. Sharp. Uninvited.

She locked her phone and set it face down on the table with deliberate care, as though placing it gently might somehow soften what it had shown her. Her chest felt tight, but her face—her face stayed calm. Neutral. Practiced.

Faith slid into the seat beside her, watching her with that too-perceptive look she reserved for moments like this. “You alright?” she asked, softly enough that no one else could hear. “You’ve been checking the door all night.”

Sena shook her head quickly, the motion almost too fast. “No,” she said. “I’m good. Just—got distracted.”

“Are we expecting someone?” Olivia asked from across the table, eyebrows raised, half-teasing, half-serious.

Sena didn’t look up. “No,” she repeated, firmer this time. “No one.”

They exchanged a glance but didn’t push. They never did—not when it mattered.

Karaoke started up again, louder than before. Someone grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet, and she went. She sang. She laughed. She let herself be hugged and spun and celebrated like nothing had shifted beneath her ribs.

But inside, something quiet and awful settled.

I should have known, she thought, the sentence looping with brutal simplicity. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just… tired. Tired of believing things could be simple. Tired of letting herself hope without a contingency plan.

She didn’t cry. Not there. Not then.

She just smiled through the rest of the night, filed the feeling away where it couldn’t embarrass her, where it couldn’t leak out in front of people who loved her. She’d deal with it later. Alone. Like she always did.

After all, this was her birthday.

And she’d learned a long time ago not to expect too much from days meant to belong to her.

The hotel room was too quiet.

Lewis sat on the edge of the bed with the balcony doors cracked open, the warm Barbadian air drifting in, heavy with salt and music from somewhere far below. Laughter carried up in bursts, muffled by distance, the kind of carefree noise that belonged to other people’s nights. The lights of the coastline glittered like something unreal, beautiful in a way that felt almost mocking.

He hadn’t gone out.

Carmen, the model he came here with had insisted on it, all bright energy and expectation, heels already in hand, talking about parties and friends-of-friends and how it would be a shame to waste a night like this indoors. He’d smiled, kissed her cheek, told her to have fun. Said he wasn’t feeling it. That he’d catch up later.

He hadn’t lied. He just hadn’t told the whole truth.

Now he sat there alone, phone loose in his hand, screen lighting his face in the dark. He hadn’t meant to open Twitter again. He’d told himself he wouldn’t. But habits were hard to break, especially when they were fed by something sharp and restless inside his chest.

The tweet was already there when he refreshed.

Lewis Hamilton spotted in Barbados.

A photo beneath it. Clear enough. Too clear.

He stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse thudding somewhere high in his throat. He didn’t need to scroll. He knew what the replies would look like. He knew how fast it would travel, how quickly it would land where it was always going to land.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

He’d known this would happen.

That was the worst part not the picture, not the speculation, not even the lie of it all. It was the fact that he’d anticipated it. Calculated it. Let it happen anyway.

The rumours about them had been everywhere for days now, metastasising in the way gossip always did. He’d tried not to read them at first. Tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, that it would burn out like it always did. But he’d seen the way her name was being dragged through it, twisted and cheapened, reduced to something ugly and transactional.

She slept her way back.

Power move.

Disgusting.

Predictable.

It hadn’t mattered whether the rumours were true or not. That was the thing that lodged under his skin and wouldn’t leave. The damage didn’t require proof—just proximity. Just the suggestion of him.

Sena could shrug it off. He knew that. She always had. She carried herself like someone who had learned early how to armour her softest parts, how to keep walking even when the ground under her feet turned hostile. She told him—more than once—that people would always talk, that she didn’t care, that she refused to live her life according to anonymous opinions.

He admired that about her.

But he couldn’t do it.

Not when it came to her.

Every comment felt like a personal failure, every insinuation like something he’d allowed by existing too close to her. He’d spent years learning how to deflect scrutiny, how to let it roll off him, how to take the hits meant for him alone. But seeing it land on her—seeing her reduced to a narrative that only existed because of him—had been unbearable.

He’d wanted to protect her. That instinct had flared so fiercely it had scared him.

And protection, to him, had always meant distance.

That was the truth he hadn’t wanted to admit until it was already too late. He knew himself. Knew that if he stayed near her, if he let this continue unchecked, the world would keep finding ways to punish her for it. He couldn’t stop that—not completely. But he could redirect it.

He could make it look like nothing.

He could make it end.

So he’d come here. He’d been photographed. He’d let the implication bloom.

A clean break, he’d told himself. A sharp cut was better than a slow bleed.

He pushed to his feet and crossed the room, stepping out onto the balcony. The railing was cool under his palms as he leaned into it, staring down at the lights, the movement, the life happening without him. Somewhere in London, she was celebrating her birthday. Somewhere warm and familiar and full of people who loved her.

And he wasn’t there.

The thought tightened something vicious in his chest.

She’ll be fine, he tried to tell himself. She always is.

But the lie rang hollow.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

He looked down.

Her name.

For a second—a reckless, stupid second—hope flared. Irrational and bright. Maybe she was calling. Maybe she’d laugh it off. Maybe she’d tell him he was an idiot and demand an explanation and they’d talk like they always did.

But it wasn’t a call.

It was a text.

He opened it.

It really was an unforgettable birthday. Thank you, Hamilton.

His breath left him in a sharp, involuntary pull, like his body had reacted before his mind could catch up. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t even feel the weight of the phone in his hand.

Hamilton.

Not his name. Not the one she used when she was soft, or laughing, or undone beneath him. This was distance, precise and intentional — a door closed without a sound.

He stared at the screen until it dimmed, the words burned into the dark like an afterimage. There was no anger in the message. No accusation. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had reached the end of something and wasn’t going to beg it back.

There it was. The moment he’d engineered, the consequence he’d chosen. The thing he’d told himself was necessary.

And suddenly, it felt nothing like protection and everything like destruction.

His chest tightened with something that bordered on panic. He’d wanted to keep her safe. He’d wanted to make it easier for her, quieter, cleaner. Instead, he’d done the one thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t—he’d hurt her.

Intentionally.

The irony tasted bitter.

He could already imagine what came next. The distance. The walls she’d put up without drama or accusation. The way she would go still and polite and unreachable, how she would fold this into herself and never give him another chance to see it bleed.

He’d underestimated that part—the part where she survived things by locking them away.

A humourless laugh slipped out of him, swallowed immediately by the night air.

“Well done,” he muttered to no one. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

The danger bells he’d ignored days ago were screaming now, loud and relentless. But it was too late to quiet them. The damage had already been done, the line already crossed.

He stared back at the dark screen of his phone, her words burned into his mind, and finally let himself acknowledge the truth he’d been avoiding since the beginning.

He hadn’t just ruined her birthday.

He’d shattered something fragile and rare.

And no amount of intention was going to make that hurt any less.

Liked by mclaren, lewishamilton, taylorswift, and others

senafox Home soil. Home crowd. Last time i was here, things went… differently. Silverstone, thanks for the do-over 🧡

Also my dad got me cake!!!!!

View All comments

mclaren: a win at home for our favorite britt🧡

faith.cartier: My best friend just won the british grand prix what did yours do

⤷ livysmith: OMG mine did the same thing

livysmith: proud beyond words, tho not forgetting you didn't share the cake

⤷ senafox: it's MINEEE

maxverstappen1: Congrats, Fox 👏

lewishamiilton: Unreal drive 🖤

georgerussell63: 🙌

user1: She’s so casually iconic it’s annoying.

⤷ user2: The car did all the job 🙄be so fucking real ⤷ user1: STFU

user3: It’s so cute how they are hyping her up

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth shot, Sena could already feel the headache she was going to wake up with in the morning. It lingered somewhere behind her temples, dull and warning, but right now she didn’t care. She was too far gone into the bet she’d made with Olivia — or maybe it was Olivia who’d made it with her. At this point, she couldn’t even remember whose idea it was. Not only the bet, but the whole night.

It was supposed to be small. A quiet little celebration with her friends, that’s what she’d told her father when they’d left his house earlier that evening. He’d looked pleased, proud even, told her to go enjoy herself, that she deserved it after Silverstone. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that “small” and “Faith Carter” had never existed in the same sentence. Faith’s version of “a few people” usually meant “everyone who’s ever made eye contact with her.” And by the time midnight hit, Sena was certain at least one-third of London had found its way into the club.

The air was hot, perfumed with sweat, alcohol, and the kind of bass that pulsed straight through her ribcage. They’d taken over the lounge, half of the paddock scattered across the tables and couches. Charles dancing with Pierre, George was trying to reason with a very drunk Max, and somewhere in the chaos, Olivia had decided to challenge Sena to a shot contest.

Now, twenty minutes later, they were surrounded by empty glasses and bad decisions. Sena was winning, which was all that mattered. She leaned back on the velvet couch, legs crossed, chin high, vodka glass in hand.

“Jesus, I swear you don’t have a stomach,” Olivia said, slamming her empty glass down with dramatic flair before narrowing her eyes across the table.

“Tell me again how you’re not an alcoholic,” she added, grinning despite her flushed cheeks, her words only slightly slurred.

Sena licked a drop of vodka off her thumb, eyes glittering with that smug little spark she got when she knew she’d won. “Who knows?” She picked up another glass, twirling it lazily in her hand before locking eyes with Olivia across the table. “You tapping out?”

But Olivia didn’t answer.

Her eyes were no longer on Sena but somewhere over her shoulder, tracking something or someone. Her expression shifted, lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised. 

“Liv?”

Olivia blinked, eyes snapping back like she’d just remembered where she was. She leaned in across the table.

“Guess who just walked in?”

Sena didn’t answer, she didn’t need to. The way Olivia was looking at her already said enough.

She turned slowly over her shoulder toward the entrance, and there he was.

Lewis.

Standing under a flickering downlight, dressed sharp as ever . His arm rested casually on the back of a girl she didn’t recognize, some long-limbed blonde in a slinky dress and too-red lipstick. She looked like she stepped out of an instagram post.

She took another shot. Let it burn all the way down.

By the time she caught his eye, he was already looking at her.

The night kept going.

She let Faith twirl her into a spin, grinning too wide as her heels skidded on the sticky floor. Let Max refill her glass, clinking it against his. Some guy—tall, decent face—pulled her into a lazy, off-beat sway, one hand finding her waist a little too comfortably. She didn’t stop him. She let him talk, nodded at whatever bland nonsense he was saying, and laughed louder than she needed to. She knew it would catch. She knew who was watching.

Lewis hadn’t moved from his corner. His hand rested on his date’s lower back, too neatly, too deliberately. Like it was placed there to be seen. Like everything about him tonight. He wasn’t looking at her, not really. Only when her back was turned. Only when he thought she wouldn’t catch it. But she always caught it. That flick of his gaze. The tightening at his jaw. The stiffness in his shoulders when she leaned too close to someone else.

She leaned closer. Let her fingers trail down the stranger’s arm, lips parted like she was actually listening. 

They weren’t dating. They weren’t exclusive. They had no title, no promises, no rules. It was casual. Convenient. 

So why did he keep pretending he wasn’t watching her? Why was her laughter suddenly louder, her dress shorter, her smile sharper than it needed to be?

Because he brought a date. Because she didn’t ask. Because he didn’t explain. Because neither of them would ever admit that they both wanted to win more than anything.

She was gone.

One second Lewis was watching her dance, letting some idiot in a leather jacket hold her like he knew her, like he could know her and the next, she was gone. Disappeared into the crowd like smoke.

The girl next to him was rambling again. Something about the music, or maybe the lighting, or her brand partnership. She was wearing a dress made for attention, heels so high they made her sway even when standing still.

Why the hell did he bring her?

It had been some post-race blur. She’d been at the paddock or near it, definitely near it. One of his boys said she asked about him. Said she’d be at this party. He remembered shrugging. Maybe nodding. Next thing he knew, she was in the car and now she was here, clinging to his side.

He deserved whatever headache this night turned into.

Because the second he saw Sena, the second she turned on that sticky, flickering floor in that barely-there dress, all soft skin and sharp edges and danger, the night rewrote itself in his head. One goal. One outcome.

And for the last hour, he’d been watching someone else put their hands on her.

That guy had been glued to her hip the whole night or for the better part of it. Kept dipping his hand lower, always testing, always just shy of disrespect. And she had let it happen, let him touch, let him talk. She laughed at his jokes. Leaned in when he whispered something. Touched his arm like she gave a damn.

It was a game. He knew it was a game. He also knew he was losing.

Then, finally, she disappeared.

He didn’t think. Just followed.

The model girl called his name, he ignored her. Someone clapped his shoulder, he didn’t turn. The music was vibrating under his ribs, some heavy, stupid remix of something too young for him, too loud for this moment.

He caught her shape just before she disappeared through the bathroom door.

His breath stuck. Just for a second.

She was pulling her hair back with one hand, her phone in the other. No hesitation in her walk. No uncertainty. And yet she had no idea he was behind her. No idea she’d just handed him the moment he’d been waiting for.

He stopped just outside. Leaned against the opposite wall. Arms folded. One leg bent at the knee like he was casually waiting, like he hadn’t practically chased her through the crowd like some idiot teen with a crush.

He stared down at his shoes. At the tile. At the black polish on his thumb that was already chipped.

And then, because apparently he hated himself, he let his mind spin.

He was Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion. Thirty-eight. A thousand lives lived. He’d been with supermodels and actresses, musicians, artists, women who had the world curled around their fingers. And yet—

Yet here he was, half-hard in a dark hallway, waiting outside a bathroom for a twenty-three-year-old who once told him he was the most arrogant person she’d ever met. Who used to roll her eyes when he spoke in briefings. Who fought with him over team strategy. Who, even after he fucked her, still didn’t soften.

And he liked it.

He let his head fall back against the wall. Eyes closed. Breathed deep.

The model girl was probably still out there, sipping on someone else's drink, wondering where he’d gone. He should’ve cared. Should’ve texted her, made some excuse. But he didn’t. He’d known, the second that party invite came in that this night wasn’t about anyone else.

Just Sena.

And the second she stepped out of that bathroom he moved.

The bathroom smelled like vodka, vanilla perfume, and something vaguely chemical. Sena stood in front of the mirror with her clutch on the marble. She reapplied her lip gloss with a steady hand, the kind of practiced touch that didn’t need precision. Her cheeks were still warm from the shots. Her mascara hadn’t smudged. She blinked at herself once, tugged the hem of her dress lower over her thighs even though it wouldn’t stay there long, and stepped back into the corridor, heels clicking against the tile.

She barely made it three steps before someone grabbed her by the wrist.

It wasn’t rough, but it was firm. She turned, ready to snap, ready to tell fuck off to whoever thought that was a good idea but she didn’t get the chance.

A door she hadn’t noticed opened to her right. She was pulled into the dark before she could catch her breath, the thud of it closing behind her cutting off the bass of the club in one clean snap.

Her back hit the wall. A body pressed in close. She tensed, arms halfway raised in protest, ready to shove him off until the scent hit her first.

Clean cologne, sharp and expensive, the one that lately clung to her pillows after he left.

Lewis.

She didn’t even have time to say his name before his mouth was on hers.

Hot, deliberate, greedy. His hand found her jaw, fingers curling under it, thumb sweeping across her cheek as he kissed her like he was starving. She gasped, and he used it, deepened the kiss, pressed his body closer until there was nowhere for her to go but into him.

By the time he pulled back, her lip gloss was ruined and her pulse was a thunderclap.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you properly all night,” he said, breath ghosting over her mouth.

She blinked up at him, heart still trying to claw its way out of her chest. “I’ve been busy.”

“You don’t have time for me anymore.” His voice was low and he almost sounded amused by her excuse.

“I didn’t want to steal your attention from your date.”

“She’s not my date.” Lewis said his voice tightened almost annoyed she brought her up 

“You came here with her.”

His eyes flashed. “Doesn’t mean I’m leaving with her.” with a lopsided smile teasing.

That made her scoff, tilt her head like he’d told a bad joke. She tried to step around him, but he moved with her, blocking her exit with nothing more than the lean of his hips.

Then he kissed her again. Slower this time. Not softer, just meaner. Like he knew she’d try to fight it. Like he knew she wouldn’t.

His hand slid to her waist, fingers tightening. When he pulled away, he didn’t go far—just enough to drag his nose along hers, let his lips brush her jaw.

“Let me take you home,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Not coming to your place.”

His mouth tilted, almost a smile, but not quite. His hand dipped lower, to the small of her back, dragging her closer by inches.

“Then we’ll go to yours.”

She should’ve said no. Should’ve pushed him off. Should’ve reminded him there was already a girl back there probably dying for him to take her home, one he brought here.

Instead, she reached for the door, eyes never leaving his, voice low and sharp.

“Out the back.”

He followed. No more words. Just that look. The one that said tonight didn’t belong to anyone else.

The car was barely rolling before Lewis’s hand slid up her thigh. He didn’t ask. Just dragged his palm over the smooth skin above her knee, like it was his by default. Sena’s head tipped back against the seat, her leg falling open in response. His other hand found her jaw, fingers curling possessively as he turned her to face him. His mouth was already on hers before she could throw the bite he knew was coming. She kissed him back, greedy and hot and sharp, no patience, no playfulness, just open-mouthed hunger. She licked into his mouth like she owned it, like she wanted to leave a mark somewhere he wouldn’t be able to hide.

She gasped when he cupped her between her legs, fingers pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. “You’re soaked,” he muttered against her mouth, voice thick, almost accusing. “And I barely touched you, love.”

“Keep talking,” she breathed, a warning dressed up like a dare. “And that won’t last long.”

He grinned and dragged his hand higher. Her moan was soft, involuntary, but it cracked something inside him. His grip on her hip tightened like he had to anchor himself, like the tension in his knuckles might be the only thing keeping him from dragging her onto his lap right there in the backseat.

By the time they reached her building, her gloss was gone, her hair slightly mussed, and her thighs sticky with the mess he’d made of her composure. She looked touched — properly, visibly touched — and the sight satisfied Lewis in a way he didn’t care to examine. It hit somewhere low in his gut, a kind of pride he didn’t know what to do with. He followed her up in silence, jaw locked, eyes fixed to the back of her neck like he was daring himself not to pin her to the elevator wall and finish what he started.

She pushed the door open, flicked the light on without looking at him. The flat was dim he didn’t care about the details, not really, but he saw them anyway. “It’s… cozy,” he said.

Sena turned, shut the door behind them, and looked him dead in the eye. Unimpressed. She didn’t need to say it, she thought the comment was bullshit, and so did he. She wasn’t here for small talk. Neither of them were. She looked at him like she could see straight through the performance.

“Shut up,” she said. One hand went to the back of his neck, the other down to the buttons of his shirt. Then she kissed him. Shoved him back against the wall, dragged her fingers down his chest as she worked him open. Her mouth was hard, hot, unapologetic. This was what they came for. 

“Straight to business, huh?” he muttered between breaths, biting her bottom lip hard enough to make her flinch.

His hands slid up under her dress, rough palms against warm skin. He dragged her panties down just far enough to get his fingers in, he didn’t want them off yet. She was soaked. Soaked and tense and perfect. He liked having that effect on her, the way her body gave everything away even when her mouth never did. He’d bet he could get her off with words alone if he tried, but that was a test for another night. A night where he wasn’t already this close to losing control. Though honestly, he didn’t think that night would ever come not with her. She seemed to like him better like this. Pressed to the edge. Fractured under her thumb.

He caught her jaw in one hand. “You started it the second you let that guy touch you.”

“I let a lot of guys touch me,” she shot back. Her eyes were steel, electric. She said it on purpose, twisted the knife, because she knew who he was. Knew men like him didn’t like to be reminded that wanting someone didn’t make them yours. And Lewis, for all his control, for all the composure he wore like armor, still wanted her enough to hate the reminder.

He pushed her further into the house, past the foyer into the living room, his hand still on her waist, her panties half-on, her dress wrinkled. He shoved until her legs hit the dining table. Then he spun her around. Her hips hit the edge. Across the room, her reflection stared back from the wall-length mirror. Flushed cheeks. Glossy eyes. Swollen mouth. She looked fucked already, and he hadn’t even started.

His mouth found her neck. A slow, open-mouthed bite pressure more than pain, a claim more than a warning.

“Don’t leave a mark,” she snapped, breath catching mid-sentence.

“I won’t.” He kissed the spot, lower now. “Not there.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. She was still watching herself, the angle brutal, revealing. She looked like a scene, and she knew it. His hands slid down over her waist, over the curve of her ass, down to her hips, where he squeezed hard enough to draw a yelp.

She turned her head, glared at him over her shoulder. “You’re such a—”

“Shut up.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. “Watch yourself. Look how beautiful you look when I ruin you.”

She did.

He undressed her like he had all the time in the world. Dragged the strap of her dress down her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Of course she wasn’t. He didn’t touch her skin yet. Just looked. At her in the mirror. He leaned in, voice low at her ear. “You enjoyed that,” he said. “Making me watch.”

“You showed up late to my party,” she snapped back. “With someone else on your arm.”

And there it was, the checkmate.

She was right. He’d made the first move. She just returned it.

He had no comeback. So he shoved two fingers into her instead. No warning. No teasing. Just a rough push she was wet enough to take it. He felt her tighten around him instantly.

Her breath caught like she hadn’t expected the stretch. Her hands shot out to brace against the table. “That’s all you’ve got?” she hissed, even as her body started to shudder.

His fingers curled. Found the spot that made her knees buckle. “I’ve got plenty.”

He worked her slow, deep, brutal a rhythm that was more punishment than pleasure. The wet sounds filled the flat. Her moans were harsher now, every one a little more desperate. He wasn’t easing her toward anything. He was dragging her there. She could barely hold herself upright. Her head started to drop.

“You walk around like you don’t need anyone,” he muttered. “But look at you.” He grabbed her jaw, forcing her head up. “Fucked out on my fingers.”

She looked at herself in the mirror bare shoulders, lips parted, and then into his eyes. There was something in them she didn’t know what to do with. Something that should’ve scared her but didn’t 

He pulled his fingers out. “Open your mouth.”

She looked at him in the mirror again, like maybe she was about to scoff. But there was nothing teasing in his stare. She opened her mouth. He pushed his fingers in, still slick with her, and watched as she licked them clean.

“Good girl.” His voice was lower now. Slower. Like he didn’t even hear himself say it.

The praise hit something raw in her.  It wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words. but for the first time, she almost felt proud to hear them. And she hated how much she wanted to hear it again.

He turned her around. Sat her on top of the table. She must’ve been so gone in the moment she didn’t even realize he’d stripped off his pants, not until she felt the blunt pressure of his cock at her entrance. He didn’t say anything. Just met her eyes, held her there, and pushed in all at once. No warning. No teasing. Just one long, deep thrust that forced the air from her lungs. Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, her thighs bracketing his hips as she tried to keep herself from sliding back across the table from the force of it. Her jaw dropped open, but no sound came out at first. She just stared at him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, her entire body jolting with the sudden fullness. He felt it,  the way she clenched, the way her legs trembled, the way she didn’t even try to fight it. He dragged back and drove in again, sharper this time. Rough. A punishment wrapped in a groan. The table creaked. She cursed. He kept going.

She wasn’t facing the mirror anymore, wasn’t watching herself come undone but she didn’t need the reflection to know what she looked like. Her head was tipped back, her neck exposed, her dress still bunched around her waist, her chest bare, flushed. She let it happen. Let him take. Let him grind her against the table over and over, every thrust brutal and messy and deep enough to make her eyes blur. He leaned forward, one hand catching her throat, not choking just holding her there like a threat. Like a reminder. His fingers curled around the column of her neck as his other hand locked on her hip, dragging her down to meet each slam of his hips like he couldn’t get deep enough. She moaned, sharp, desperate and he didn’t even flinch.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growled. “Feel what you fucking did to me.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She just nodded, or maybe she shook, he didn’t care. Her thighs were slick, trembling, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene. He didn’t slow. Didn’t stop. Just fucked her harder until she was gasping his name through gritted teeth.

At one point she ended up flat on her back, dress shoved to her ribs, legs hanging off the edge of the table, arms thrown out for balance, one heel still on, the other long gone. Lewis stood between her thighs, his hands gripping her so hard she knew she’d bruise. His palm was still around her throat, pressure just enough to keep her still, and his other hand dug into the top of her thigh, dragging her down, holding her open, fucking her so deep she almost couldn’t think.

“Lewis—” she choked, legs shaking. “God—fuck—”

Her body started to seize again, her walls fluttering around him, tighter and tighter, her hands clawing for purchase, breath coming in stuttering gasps. He felt her go — saw it, heard it, knew it — and didn’t stop. If anything, he lost whatever thread of control he had left. His rhythm broke, got messier, more desperate. He shoved into the hilt, one last time, and stayed there. Groaned something dark, low, teeth gritted, jaw clenched as he came hard inside her, buried deep.

He didn’t move right away. Didn’t say anything. Just stayed there, both of them breathing like they’d been running for miles, sweat slicking down their spines, her dress rucked up over her stomach, breasts exposed, one hand still limp across her chest. His own hand was still resting against the base of her throat like he didn’t even realize he hadn’t let go.

When he finally pulled out, she hissed, her whole body twitching from overstimulation. He left the room for a minute Sena was too gone to wonder where not that she had much time to dwell, he was already back with a wet towel in his hand. He cleaned her up in silence, the gesture quick, practiced, but careful  wiped between her legs, caught the mess before it could trail down her thighs. She winced but didn’t say anything. Her eyes were glassy. She was still coming down.

She tried to push herself upright.

Tried.

Her arms shook. Her thighs quivered. The second she stood, she wobbled hard enough to have to brace herself against the table. He looked up. She saw the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smirk. His hand instinctively reached out towards her.

“I don’t need help,” she said, half-slurred. Voice hoarse from all the gasping.

“Sit down,” Lewis muttered, already stepping back toward her. “You can barely walk.”

She glared, but her legs weren’t listening. She collapsed into the nearest chair and let her head fall back, eyes half-lidded, chest still rising and falling too fast. He didn’t say anything. Just moved around the room in silence, picking up the mess — her underwear, her heel, his belt — then came back for her.

“Come on,” he said, reaching down. “Bed.”

“I can walk,” she said, voice lazy.

“Sure you can.”

She didn’t fight him when he lifted her. Just wrapped one arm around his neck, the other dangling at her side. She was light. Warm. Her skin sticky from sweat, lips parted, her lashes starting to flutter.

By the time he set her down on the bed, she was already half asleep. Her head hit the pillow and that was it. No protest. No posturing. Just out. Gone.

Lewis stood at the edge of the bed and looked at her for a long minute. Her chest was rising and falling slowly now, her arm curled under her head, her dress now back on, mascara smudged. She looked fucking wrecked. Like she'd been danced and kissed and fought and fucked and finally given out.

It wasn’t just the sex. It was the alcohol. The dancing. The adrenaline. The way she burned herself out like she didn’t believe in stopping until her body forced her to. That was her way of doing everything. He watched her breathe. Just for a second. Then he turned, stepped out, and pulled the door shut behind him.

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mclaren:🧡

faith.cartier: You and champagne are an elite duo.

⤷ senafox: just like you and me.

livysmith: podium seatbelted like a good child 😂

⤷ senafox: safety first.

user1: The Vixen and street circuits >>>>>

It had been almost two months since the dinner at Lewis’s place, and ever since then, he’d been different. Not in any obvious or surface-level way, not weird, not cold, just… different. If you looked at them from the outside, you wouldn’t have seen anything worth noting. He still greeted her at the drivers’ parade, still nodded his congratulations on the grid, still sent her flowers after her first podium back—a third place in Baku, champagne soaking her suit, the whole team clapping.

But the Lewis she’d gotten to know over the past year, the one who teased her and lingered just a moment too long, had disappeared like smoke through her fingers.

She had known Lewis for a long time now. Teammates, rivals, allies, even friends. Back when she first joined Mercedes, filling the seat Nico had left behind, she thought Lewis was the most arrogant man she’d ever met. And to be fair, he did absolutely nothing to convince her otherwise. It took two full years of being teammates before they could talk about each other without slipping in a sly remark or handing the reporters a headline on a silver platter.

So she knew what distance felt like from him. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even tension. It was careful. Controlled. Like he was keeping her at arm’s length on purpose.

No more late-night replies to her stories. No playful messages when she posted half-asleep photos from the hotel. No smirks across the paddock when the world wasn’t looking. He’d gone from Lewis to Hamilton again, all professional polish and measured words.

And now here they were in Montreal on Saturday, and she could still feel that invisible wall between them. The paddock was crowded and alive, yet she kept finding herself catching glimpses of him in passing—talking to mechanics, laughing with the Mercedes lot, never once looking her way.

This was the same man who had orchestrated an entire bet just to get her alone in his penthouse, who had stood close enough on the balcony that she could feel her pulse in her throat, who had cooked dinner from scratch just to have an excuse to watch her eat. That man was now avoiding her as if touching her would burn him. He couldn’t even manage eye contact in the paddock hallway.

She was bored of it. Bored of pretending not to notice the distance he had built between them. Bored of his politeness. Whatever game he was playing—this sudden moral restraint, this act of indifference—she was running out of patience to play along.

Tomorrow was race day. And if she knew herself, she wasn’t going to let him decide the rules of whatever game this was.

📍Montréal, Circuit Gilles Villeneuve

Liked by mclaren, lewishamilton, oscarpiastri, and others

senafox Montreal 🧡 first win of the season. It’s been a long road back, but this one feels good.

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mclaren:🧡

faith.cartier: I blink and you’re on a podium again exhausting behaviour.

⤷ senafox: I keep your life interesting. ⤷ faith.cartier: You keep many people's lives interesting love, don't underestimate yourself.

livysmith: Proud doesn’t even cover it. Now, please hydrate.

⤷ senafox: you saying that almost made me cry so i'm gonna ignore the last part.

user1: Montreal and sena fox just makes sense. something about the street circuits.

user2: This comeback season is already legendary.

user3: THE FOX ERA HAS BEEN RESTORED 🔥🔥🔥

senafox posted on her story senafox posted on her close friends

The club was a blur of colour and heat—blue and violet lights spilling across the floor, bass shaking through the glass, through the ribs, through the pulse. Montréal celebrated her, but Sena wasn’t really celebrating. She was burning from the inside out, still high on the taste of victory and the ghost of the race in her bloodstream. The first win of the season. The first win since the crash. The kind of thing people expected her to smile about, and she did, only because it was easier than explaining how hollow it sometimes felt to be alive again.

The vodka tonic was cold, sweat beading down the glass and sticking to her palm. She was on her second, and the room was spinning in rhythm with the music. The white dress she wore shimmered under the lights, clinging where the heat caught her skin, hem riding higher every time she moved. It ended indecently high—soft fabric brushing her upper thighs. She looked like the person the world wanted her to be again: radiant, unstoppable, unreachable.

Her hair fell loose down her back, soft waves brushing against the small gold cross at her neck. It glimmered with every turn of her head, a flicker of something holy in a place that had none. She wasn’t paying attention to whoever she stood near. George, maybe it didn’t matter. Because in truth, she wasn’t with them.

Mentally, she was across the room with Lewis.

Lewis was leaning against the bar—black shirt, collar undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Calm. Still. He didn’t need to fight for attention, didn’t have to speak to pull it. That was part of what made him so infuriating. He hadn’t looked at her once all night, not even when the lights hit her in a way that made every man in the room stare. And somehow, that single fact had been eating at her since the minute she walked in.

He’d just taken a sip of something dark, bourbon probably, and she watched the glass pause near his lips when he saw her looking. That was all it took. One second too long. One flicker too slow. Her mouth curved like she’d won a bet. And then she moved.

Sena drained the last of her drink and muttered something about another round to no one in particular. She crossed the floor and stopped at the bar beside him. Close enough that the scent of her perfume tangled in his breath.

“Excuse me,” she said, soft but sharp enough to cut through the noise. She reached past him, fingers brushing his arm once, light as static. He didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch. The bartender caught her signal and started pouring.

She shifted her weight on one heel while she waited, her hip brushing his. The contact was barely there—enough to feel, not enough to call her out on.

“That’s your third,” he said finally, voice low. Controlled.

She smiled, eyes still on the bottles lined up like soldiers. “Counting for me now?”

“Someone should.”

She turned toward him then, slow and deliberate, the corner of her mouth curving as if she’d caught him saying something intimate. “You think I need looking after?”

Lewis didn’t answer. But his gaze flicked to her legs—just for a beat, just long enough.

“Thought so,” she murmured.

Her drink arrived. She lifted it, the ice shifting with a soft clink, and let her fingers graze his sleeve again before raising the glass in mock salute. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you still haven’t congratulated me properly, Hamilton.”

Her voice lingered in the space between them like smoke. Then she turned and walked away, the gold cross glinting as it caught the light. The crowd swallowed her again, the fabric of her dress catching flashes of blue and green and white until she disappeared into the rhythm of the music.

He didn’t follow, but his eyes did. And somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the pulse of the club, something shifted. Something inevitable.

Sena sat onto the low seat. Someone was shouting something about the DJ, someone else laughing too loudly, glasses clinking against the haze of low light. The air was thick with sweat, champagne, and the sharp citrus twist of her drink. The world felt wide and close all at once, noise pressing against her skin while the bass rattled through her ribs.

She was mid-conversation with Carmen and Lily, nodding at something she didn’t quite catch, when she saw Lewis appear. Not beside her, but close enough that her attention slipped sideways and didn’t come back. He was talking to George, calm and still, the kind of stillness that felt deliberate. He didn’t look at her. He hadn’t all night. That should have been fine. It wasn’t.

George said something that made him laugh, and the sound reached her before her thoughts could catch it. Her head turned. Just slightly. Enough for her eyes to find his, across glass and shadows and the flicker of moving lights. He met her gaze like he hadn’t been ignoring her for two months and pretending it meant nothing. He didn’t look away.

She smirked without meaning to and finished her drink with the kind of slow care that only exists to be seen. Her glass clinked against the table, and she stood with barely a word. The room moved behind her. She moved forward.

Outside, she leaned on the railing and let her body loosen slightly, eyes closed, mouth parted. It was almost peaceful, if peace meant not having to pretend she didn’t care.

The door opened behind her. Closed again.

She didn’t turn. His silence was too familiar to mistake.

“I know what you’re doing,” Lewis said.

Her mouth curved, faintly. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You need to stop.” His voice was closer now. “It’s better for both of us.”

She turned her head but not her body, eyes glinting faintly in the half-light. “I told you, I’m not doing anything. I’m celebrating.”

He took another step, the space between them tightening, heavy with something neither of them wanted to name. “Sena.”

She half-turned, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. “What?” she said, and took another step toward him.

He didn’t back away.

The air shifted around them. The city kept humming somewhere below, a soft buzz beneath the heavier sound of blood rushing through her veins.

They were close now, close enough that her breath ghosted against his jaw, close enough that she could count the slow drag of his inhale.

“I think you’re making things up in your head, Lewis,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she added, softer now, her mouth curling. “I don’t lie awake thinking about you.”

That got something. A flicker in his jaw, the barest shift in his eyes.

She leaned in closer, slow and deliberate, voice barely more than breath. “But I’m beginning to think that you do.”

Then she pulled back half an inch, eyes dragging over him, gaze slow, cold, deliberate. She scoffed under her breath, like it amused her. “What?” she said, head tilting, mouth twisting. “Have I finally gotten into your head?”

The look she gave him was infuriating, a challenge disguised as sweetness, something that begged for ruin with a smile that should have meant nothing and meant everything. And then he moved.

He caught her mouth in his, the kiss rough and immediate, like he had been waiting too long for permission he was never going to ask for.

The sound of her shock was swallowed by his mouth, her gasp breaking against his lips. He pressed closer, hands in her hair, against her back, holding her like he meant it, until her spine met the wall with a muted thud she didn’t even register.

The world shrank. The music, the lights, the noise from below, all gone. Just heat, breath, skin, and the echo of something they had both spent months pretending didn’t exist, no matter how loudly it asked to be acknowledged.

She was pressed flat against the wall now. The cold of the concrete barely registered, her body reduced to heat and hunger, her mouth chasing the taste of him like she had waited too long to admit she needed it.

Her hands were in his braids, fingers twisted in the roots like she was anchoring herself to something real. His mouth was bruising hers in return, his hands everywhere, one at her lower back, the other shamelessly gripping her ass and dragging her closer, until their bodies fit together like they had been designed by the same mistake.

She moaned into his mouth when his hand moved, fingers slipping between her thighs, catching on the edge of the soaked lace that had no business pretending to be modest anymore, her body betraying just how long she had wanted this.

Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow. And then he pulled back.

She chased him automatically, like instinct. Her mouth was on his again before either of them could think. But again, he stopped it.

He pushed her gently but firmly against the wall again, forearm braced beside her head, breath coming in uneven pulls. “Not here,” he said, voice thick.

Her eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowed by the low light, her lips kiss-bruised and parted in disbelief. “No one’s going to see us,” she said, voice rough around the edges, barely hiding her frustration.

He looked at her for a long moment, and she hated how much that look shook her, how much it felt like he could still undo her with nothing but silence.

His hand cupped her jaw, thumb grazing the place where her pulse thudded wild beneath her skin, like he wanted to memorise it.

“I said not here,” he repeated, voice low, fraying at the edges like the restraint was starting to slip.

Then he reached into his back pocket and slid something into her hand. A keycard. Cold. Sharp against her palm.

“Give it five minutes,” he said, his voice steady again, but his eyes hadn’t moved from hers once. “Room 702.”

And then he walked back inside without another word.

She stood there, breathless, trembling slightly. She waited. For once, she did exactly what she was told. Five minutes, though each one felt carved from fire.

Back inside, the club had turned feral. Lights strobing in jagged rhythm, someone shouting over the music, the taste of vodka still ghosting her tongue. She found her clutch on the table and half-smiled at George’s raised brow when he asked, “Calling it early?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice light, lazy, hiding everything behind the rhythm of a lie she didn’t even need to rehearse. “Think I wore myself out.”

No one questioned her.

Outside, the air was thick with summer heat, the kind that stuck to your skin and left the night humming. Her driver was already waiting. She slipped into the back seat, pulse still racing, eyes fixed on the passing city lights as if they might talk her out of what she was about to do.

By the time she reached the hotel, her heartbeat had settled into something sharper, less frantic but no less urgent. The elevator ride was too slow. The hum of it matched the ache still pulsing low in her body. When the doors opened, she stepped out like she wasn’t about to walk into something irreversible.

Room 702.

She opened the door.

Lewis was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, legs spread. His shirt was half open, collar loose. The lamps were dimmed. Behind him, the city glittered through the glass like it couldn’t look away either. He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her, silent and still, like he was trying to burn the sight of her into something permanent.

She didn’t flinch.

"Take your dress off," he said.

She tilted her head, the smallest smile on her face. "Straight to the point, huh?" Then she did as he said. The white fabric slid down her shoulders, pooled around her feet, and she stood there in the low light, bare skin catching the glow. She bent slightly, reaching for her heels.

"Keep them on."

The words landed heavy, low, and final. She stilled, then slowly straightened.

He leaned back a little, one hand lifting in a small, silent invitation. "Come here."

She did. Sena never thought she would listen to a man's words so easily, but with the way Lewis was looking at her and considering how much she waited for this, she didn't feel like defying him just yet.

When she stepped between his knees, the soft click of her heels on the floor was the only sound in the room. His hands found her waist, his thumbs tracing the faint tremor beneath her skin. His voice was almost a whisper, wrecked at the edges.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

She met his eyes. "I think I do. You weren’t exactly subtle."

Slowly, deliberately, she reached out. Her fingers found the lines inked into his skin, the ones she’d memorised long before she ever had permission to touch.

She traced his forearm first, then his knuckles, then the bend of his wrist, the pads of her fingertips ghosting over the black script and intricate lines.

"I always wondered what it would feel like," she murmured.

"And?"

"You’re warmer than I imagined."

He huffed, eyes flicking up to meet hers. "You imagined this a lot?"

She tilted her head. "Don't flatter yourself."

When she finally moved, she lowered herself carefully onto his lap, straddling him. Her breath grazed the side of his neck. His hands, resting casually on her waist, slid down slowly, deliberate and possessive, gripping the curves of her arse like he’d been imagining this for months, maybe longer.

She rocked her hips once, experimentally. He swore under his breath.

She was only in her knickers, white lace, thin straps, skin still flushed from the night, and he was still fully dressed. 

She rocked her hips against him. He swore under his breath.

“You’re still dressed,” she said, fingers tugging at the buttons of his shirt.

“Fix it, then.”

She did. Slowly. One button at a time. Her mouth followed the trail, kissing along his collarbone, just to feel the way his breath hitched.

When she reached his belt, he caught her chin and kissed her hard, hand gripping the back of her neck.

She moaned into his mouth, shifting again, grinding into the heat pressed against her. She moaned into his mouth, hips shifting again. He broke the kiss with a growl, pressing his forehead to hers, eyes dark and blown.

"Fuck, Sena."

Then, without warning, he moved. One arm wrapped around her lower back as he stood, flipping them effortlessly. She landed against the bed with a soft thud, hair spilling across the pillows, her chest rising and falling fast beneath him.

Lewis stared at her like something holy and profane all at once. His shirt was undone, hanging off his shoulders, the sharp lines of his torso cut from shadow and light. She didn’t look away.

Her legs curled around his waist, heels catching the light as they hovered in the air, pulling him in without a word. He kissed her again, slower this time, but heavier. There was no pretending left. No teasing.

His mouth dragged down her neck, to her chest biting lightly at the places that made her twitch. His tongue circled one nipple, then the other. She arched under him, eyes fluttering shut until she gasped his name. Their eyes met again.“There’s my girl.”

He leaned in, his fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of her knickers, slow and certain. No rush. Just control. He drew them down inch by inch, letting the backs of his fingers skim over her hips, her inner thighs, until the fabric was abandoned somewhere in the sheets. She lifted her hips wordlessly, offering herself up with a breath that barely made it out of her lungs.

His hands gripped her thighs, spreading them open with the kind of gentleness that didn’t belong to the night. Then he dropped his mouth to her and licked one long, slow stripe through the center of her. She gasped, sharp and helpless.

His tongue was warm and maddeningly slow, dragging flat and then pointed, alternating pressure like he was playing a game with himself. He focused on her clit in deliberate passes, soft at first, then firmer, then pulling back again. He had patience, that sick kind, the kind that made you want to beg.

She tried to rock her hips up, but his hand was already pressing down on her thigh, keeping her still. The other slipped down between her legs, fingers circling, teasing, before sinking two knuckles deep inside her in one smooth motion. She choked on a moan.

He crooked his fingers. Her body jolted, and her legs clamped around his shoulders, heels digging into his back, thighs trembling. He didn’t stop. He groaned into her, genuine, filthy satisfaction, as if he’d been waiting to feel her fall apart around his mouth.

She was already dripping, soaking his fingers, the sheets underneath her ruined. Her hand fisted the sheets like she needed something to hold her down.

His pace shifted. Tongue and fingers working together now, rhythmic, relentless. Every flick, every curl, perfectly timed. He suckled her clit with focus, lips wet and greedy, like he was trying to pull the sounds out of her chest. And he did.

A strangled cry ripped from her throat. Her hips bucked once, then again. Her body didn’t know if it wanted to run or collapse. She was unraveling fast, legs shaking, stomach tight, whole body flushed and burning.

And when he groaned again, low and rough, grinding his mouth harder into her, she shattered.

It hit her hard.

Her whole body tensed, then unraveled all at once, like a wave folding into itself and crashing over open rock. Her back arched off the bed, a broken sound leaving her lips as the climax tore through her. Her fingers yanked at his braids, anchoring herself to him like it was the only way to stay tethered.

He didn’t stop.

He held her through it, mouth slow, deliberate, reverent. His pace softened just enough to keep her from slipping too far under. Her thighs quivered. Her breath caught on the edges. And still, his mouth stayed on her, coaxing, careful, until her body gave a final twitch beneath his touch and then went still.

Only then did he pull himself up.

His lips were wet, cheeks flushed, eyes black with something quiet and unrelenting. She was breathless, glowing with heat, sprawled across the sheets like she’d just been rewritten.

He kissed her, hard. Just teeth and tongue and hunger. She could taste herself on him. He didn’t care. She didn't either.

When he pulled back, his voice was low and dry.

"Congratulations on the win."

She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, eyes still half-lidded. "Is that what that was?"

"You earned it," he said, mouth brushing her jaw.

She blinked at him, barely catching her breath.

That look flickered again, the smug tilt of his mouth, something maddening in his eyes like he was already two steps ahead. But he didn’t speak.

Instead, he stood. Undressed the rest of the way, shirt, trousers, briefs, each movement deliberate, quiet, stripped of ceremony except for the weight behind it.

Then, finally, he dropped to one knee at the edge of the bed.

His hands found her ankles first, warm and certain. He glanced up at her, met her eyes without flinching, then bent forward and undid the buckle of one heel, then the other. Carefully. As if removing some sacred adornment. It wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t casual, it felt like a ritual. Like he was unwrapping a gift.

He looked at her like she was art. Not to protect, but to unravel. To test the limits of her beauty. To see what she’d sound like when she broke.

Once the heels were discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands slid higher. Up her calves. Her thighs. Mapping her like territory already claimed in his mind.

And then he knelt between her legs, weight shifting the air.

He lined himself up, caught her gaze one last time, and pushed in, slow and steady.

Sena gasped.

Her hands came up, dragging along his shoulders, then bracing there, digging in as her body adjusted to the stretch. He moved gently, but it wasn’t hesitation, it was precision. Control. Every inch of him pressed into her with care, then certainty.

His hands braced beside her head, his forehead resting lightly against hers. Their breaths mingled. Every exhale felt heavier than the last.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. "Fuck," she breathed, voice thin.

"I know," he muttered.

It wasn’t sweet or soft.

His pace grew with her breath, her soft moans, the way her hips tilted up to meet him. She pulled him closer, nails biting into his skin, thighs wrapping tighter around his waist. The bed creaked under them, the room heavy with heat and history and everything they’d never said.

She bit his shoulder as the second wave built. He grunted into her neck, one hand sliding beneath her knee, angling her open just enough to push deeper.

She came again, sharp and sudden, crying out against his skin. Her whole body clenched around him, and he faltered.

Lewis followed her over the edge a breath later, his rhythm stuttering, breath breaking, hips driving into hers with a final shudder before he dropped his head to her shoulder, chest heaving, muscles twitching.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Their skin was slick. The city murmured outside. The hotel room glowed in soft amber light, and the air smelled of sweat, sex, and something heavier underneath.

Eventually, he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him. Her cheek landed against his chest. Their legs tangled naturally. One of her hands rested over his heart, still racing like they hadn’t left the track.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

"We should’ve done that sooner," Lewis murmured, voice frayed at the edges, still ragged from the crash of it all.

Sena laughed under her breath, the sound soft, near drowsy. Her cheek was still pressed to his chest. "Yeah," she said, almost like it surprised her too. "We really should have."

There was a stillness after that. Not the peaceful kind. A shift.

His hand, that was loose around her waist, flexed a little. Not tighter, just thoughtful. She could feel the subtle recalibration in him. That familiar retreat. Not with his body, but something else. A cooling.

She blinked against his skin, then turned her face to glance up at him. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed somewhere past the ceiling. She knew that look. She’d seen it behind a visor. Just before he closed the doors.

So she didn’t give him the time.

"Don’t worry, Hamilton," she said, voice bright again, too bright. "I’m not looking to be anyone's girlfriend."

That got his attention. His head snapped toward her, a little too quick, eyes narrowing as if to speak. But whatever words were coming didn’t make it to his mouth.

Sena didn’t wait.

She sat up, movements lazy and fluid, like she hadn’t just been wrecked by him minutes ago. Her hair was a mess, her skin still glowing, but she didn’t reach for anything to fix herself. Just leaned over, plucked the slinky dress from where it lay on the floor, and pulled it back over her skin.

She put her heels back on. Her legs still trembled faintly as she stood, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of noticing. She walked like her knees weren’t weak.

At the doorway, she paused. Looked back.

Her smile was slow and sharp, a slash of mockery wrapped in silk.

"Don’t make me work this much again."

Lewis, still stretched across the bed in all his glory, sheets low on his hips, skin marked with her, just grinned. That glint was back in his eyes. The arrogance. The game.

"Oh, don’t worry," he said, cocky and smooth, arm behind his head like none of this touched him. "I won’t."

Sena held eye contact for half a second longer. Then she turned. And this time, she didn’t look back.

senafox posted on her story senafox posted on her story

She had showered, scrubbed the smell of rubber and fuel and sweat from her skin, and changed into a comfortable green set of pajamas, the fabric cool against the lingering heat of her body. The TV across from her still played the muted replays, endless loops of commentary and slow-motion overtakes that flashed across the ceiling in thin, pale light.

She let it run because it was easier than silence, easier than hearing her own heart in the hollow quiet. The race kept replaying in her mind anyway—every corner, every flick of the steering wheel, every mistake caught in the gears of her memory like grit.

She knew there was no benefit in thinking about what was already over, but she much preferred thinking about the race, because what she might think if she didn’t scared her. It was easier to drown herself in throttle and braking points than to let her mind drift toward the thing she had buried under five months of noise.

She had managed so well at keeping her mind off her dad. For the last five months she had held herself together in the absence—the way he didn’t call her, and only answered for ten seconds when she called him, ten seconds of brittle silence before he found an excuse to vanish again. Even the memory of his disappointed eyes when she told him she was going back to racing was enough to make her eyes burn. She could still see it if she blinked too long: the exact moment he stopped looking at her and started seeing the car instead. That look had cleaved her open, left something raw and unhealed inside her that no training session could touch.

And just like that, the memory rose, sharp as broken glass, dragging her under.

September 2022

Rain tapped steadily at the kitchen window. The faint smell of tea curled through the warm air, and the muted telly murmured Chelsea F.C. highlights from the living room, a faint echo of distant cheers that made the house feel even quieter.

Sena slipped the front door shut behind her. Her boots were soaked. She toed them off and set them on the rack by the door, then padded into the kitchen in her socks, silent on the tile.

“Evening, Angel,” her dad said without looking up, his voice low and warm.

Her chest clenched around the word. “Hi,” she said softly.

He sat at the stool by the counter with his mug of tea, his sleeves pushed up, the lamplight falling across his shoulders in soft gold, catching in his hair. When he turned to look at her, his whole face softened, that glow always rose in him like he couldn’t help it. Like seeing her lit the room.

He reached for the remote, muting the TV. The soft cheer of the crowd cut off mid-echo, and the quiet that followed was heavy and familiar. He looked at her, and there was a look on her face almost like the look of a guilty child who knew she had done something she shouldn’t have.

“You’ve been twitchy lately,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Couple of weeks now. What’s going on? You know you can tell me anything.”

Her heart thudded once, hard. She crossed the room slowly, as if the air itself had thickened, and then she wrapped her arms around him.

He made a faint noise of surprise but hugged her back immediately, strong and warm and safe. His arms came around her like instinct. She pressed her face into his shoulder. His jumper smelled like soap and tea, and the steady rhythm of his breath started to smooth out the wild hammer of hers.

“Hey,” he murmured, rubbing a hand up her back. “What’s all this, hmm?”

She held on tighter, trying to stop her hands from shaking. “I went to Woking today,” she whispered into his jumper.

“Woking?” he said, puzzled.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her fingers were still knotted in the wool. “To McLaren. I… signed with them.”

The smile drained from his face.

For one still, suspended moment, he just stared. Then he gently—almost tenderly—pushed her back to arm’s length, like the words had physically struck him.

“…What?”

“I signed with McLaren,” she said again, steadier even as her voice trembled. “I’m going back to Formula 1.”

The stool screeched against the tile as he stood. “Absolutely not.”

“Dad—”

“Absolutely not.” The words were sharp, cutting through the air. “No. No, Sena.” He shook his head hard, like he could fling the thought away. “I watched you walk out of a car split in half. Flames still on the tarmac. I watched you collapse. I sat in a hospital corridor while they told me your heart stopped for three minutes.”

“I came back,” she said, her eyes burning.

“You barely came back,” he snapped, voice cracking, louder than she’d ever heard him. His hands shook where they braced against the counter. “And now you want to climb back into the thing that killed you?”

“You knew I was going to go back,” she shot back, desperate. “One of the first things I asked in the hospital was when can I get back in the car. You knew. Why do you think I spent months in physio? Why do you think I trained until I couldn’t walk?”

“I know,” he said, and his voice splintered. “God help me, I know. You’ve always been stubborn. When you decide something, you do it. That’s who you are. But I never thought…” He swallowed hard. “…I never thought someone would be mad enough to give you another chance. And I never thought you’d be stupid enough to take it.”

That cut deeper than shouting ever could. Something in her cracked at the words, quiet and clean, like porcelain breaking in her chest.

He turned away, gripping the counter like it was the only thing holding him up. His head hung low. “I can’t lose you again,” he whispered. “Not like that. Not to that car.”

The TV flickered silently behind them, replaying a Chelsea goal, the crowd’s cheer flashing bright and hollow across the screen. And for the first time in her life, the light in his eyes was gone.

Even the thought of the memory made her feel heavy all over. She closed her eyes for a moment and drowned herself in the silence of the room, letting it press down on her like deep water. Her chest felt carved out. Empty. The TV on the wall kept flickering muted replays across the ceiling like lightning bugs. She hadn’t blinked in minutes. The hum of the AC was loud as thunder.

Her phone rang, cutting through the silence like glass.

She flinched.

It buzzed against the nightstand, screen lighting up her face. She wanted to ignore it. She was in no mood to talk to anyone anymore. But something made her open her eyes. Something made her reach for the phone.

Her heart stuttered when she saw the contact name.

Dad.

The word slammed through her like an impact, breathless and disbelieving.

She just stared for a moment, the phone buzzing in her hand, bright and alive and impossible. Then she swiped. She answered it. For a moment, no one said anything. The line hissed softly like a held breath.

And then she broke the silence. “Hi, Dad.”

There was a pause, and then he spoke. “Hi, Angel.”

Hearing him almost made her sob. The sound of him, after all this time, hit her with the weight of months she hadn’t let herself feel. She didn’t know what to say, which was strange, because she had so much to tell him. She wanted to tell him about the race, about the way the car had felt alive under her hands, about the food she had barely tasted, about how angry she was that he hadn’t been there, about how much she had missed him like an ache she carried everywhere. But in the end none of it came out. Like most times when Sena felt overwhelmed or cornered, she did what she always did—she folded inward and let the silence hold her, too full to speak.

He knew her better, so he spoke first.

“I watched the race,” he said, and the gentleness in his voice almost broke her.

She blinked at the ceiling. For a flicker of a second she felt surprised, but then, on second thought, it wasn’t surprising at all. “You did,” she said quietly.

He made a muffled laugh, soft and rough, the sound of someone who wasn’t used to laughing anymore. “Of course I did, Angel. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Her throat tightened. “But you didn’t come. You always did. Not this time.”

“I know.” He went quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice had gone softer, like he was weighing every word. “I’ve never missed your first race before.”

“No,” she said, her voice catching. “You haven’t.”

He had always been there. Every season, every first race, standing where she would see him first when she climbed out of the car, always smiling like the whole world had led to that moment. This time his place had been empty, and she had tried not to notice, but she had noticed anyway, with every step.

“I couldn’t,” he said, and there was a crack in the word, thin and quiet, but she heard it. The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was just heavy. The kind of silence that carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said for months.

“You were good,” he said eventually.

“I made mistakes.”

“Everyone does.” The way he said it made her chest ache; there was something soft and raw under the words, something that sounded like it had been waiting too long to be spoken.

She closed her eyes, pressing her knuckles against her mouth as if she could hold everything in by force.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

Her breath caught, sharp and painful. “I hate it,” he went on, and his voice shook in places even though he was trying to keep it steady. “I hate that you’re back in that car. I hate that I’m terrified every time I hear your name. I hate that I couldn’t make you safe from this. But I’m proud of you.”

Her heart ached at the words.

“Always have been,” he murmured, almost so quietly she wondered if she’d imagined it.

The tears came hot and silent, slipping down into the pillow. She didn’t try to speak. She couldn’t have even if she wanted to.

He didn’t say anything more either.

They just stayed like that, both of them breathing through the quiet, the line still open between them like neither of them quite knew how to let go.

It had been two days since the call with her father, and everything felt a little less jagged. They had spoken again the next morning, and again the evening after that nothing big, nothing heavy, just the easy everyday things they hadn’t shared in months. It wasn’t what they used to be, not yet, but it was something, and it had been enough to make the air around her feel lighter.

Now Monaco lay stretched and golden outside her window, and for the first time in weeks, her chest didn’t feel like it was caving in. She pulled on her running set, braided her hair, and decided to see what the day would give her.

The building was still quiet when she laced her shoes. The sky over Monaco was pale and clean, the air soft and salted from the sea. She hadn’t been able to sit still all morning, and running always cleared her head. So she tied her braid tight, slipped her earbuds around her neck, and padded down the hall, her shoes whispering over the marble as she made for the elevator.

The doors slid open, and there he was. Lewis.

He raised his brows, a half-smile flickering as their eyes caught. “Morning.”

“Morning.” She stepped in, and the doors closed behind her.

“Off for a run?” he asked, eyes flicking over her set.

“Yeah. Looks like so are you.”

“Looks like it.”

They hit the street a few minutes later, side by side, their shoes striking rhythm against the stone. The city was just beginning to wake, the smell of the sea drifting up from the harbor, the low hum of scooters on the distant streets, gulls crying over the masts.

At first their pace matched without effort. Then she caught the quick spark of a grin from the corner of his mouth, and something in her lifted its head. She lengthened her stride.

He followed.

They didn’t say it was a race, but by the time they reached the end of the quay they were both pushing hard, lungs burning, legs sharp with heat. She reached the railing first, slapping it with her palm, breathless and triumphant.

He arrived half a second behind, laughing and shaking his head.

The walk back was easy and loose, shoulders brushing now and then, all stray jokes and light jabs, laughter breaking warm between them. The sun had climbed higher while they were gone, throwing gold across the water, the day sharpening around them.

Back in the elevator, he leaned against the mirror, still grinning.

“Come up,” he said. “Coffee. You can gloat about your so-called win.”

She arched a brow. “So-called? I did win.”

“I let you.”

She laughed, shaking her head and breathless. “Chivalry’s not what it used to be.” And somehow, without really deciding to, she nodded.

The elevator doors opened into the sun.

Lewis’s penthouse was all clean lines and glass, light pouring in from the wide windows that framed Monaco below like a postcard. The sea flashed silver in the distance, yachts winking in the harbor. She toed off her shoes at the door, her braid slipping loose down her back as she followed him inside.

She curled up in one of the low chairs by the window while he moved around the sleek counter. He brought her a mug a few minutes later, still warm from his hands. She wrapped her fingers around it, savoring the heat.

“You know,” she said, looking at him over the rim, “I did actually win.”

He gave her that slow grin. “I let you.”

“No,” she said, settling deeper into the chair. “I won fair and square.”

He tilted his head. “You really think you’re more athletic than me?”

“I may not have as many abs,” she said, “but I’m definitely more athletic.”

“You’re absolutely not.”

“Yes, I am.”

The smile he gave her then was pure trouble. “Okay. Three different exercises. You choose two. I’ll choose one. Whoever loses buys the other dinner.”

She sat up straighter, the spark catching instantly. “Deal.”

And somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a faint, quiet voice saying maybe she should think about how dinner factored into this at all, but it was drowned out by the louder voice that always rose when someone challenged her.

She was already on her feet before the thought could catch up.

The gym took up an entire corner of the penthouse, floor-to-ceiling glass wrapping the space in light. The city spilled out beneath them, rooftops dropping toward the sea, and the air smelled faintly of clean sweat and eucalyptus from the towel rack.

She tugged her braid tighter and stepped onto the mats, her bare feet whispering on the surface.

“All right,” he said, tugging his shirt off and tossing it onto the bench. “Your two first.”

She didn’t let her eyes linger, maybe just a little. “V-sit hold,” she said. “Timed.”

They dropped to the mats, both balancing on the small point of their hips, legs raised, arms hovering by their sides. Her core caught fire almost instantly, the familiar steady burn. She held her breath and fixed her gaze on the view beyond the glass. The sea glittered, the air hazy with sun. Two minutes passed. Then three. Her thighs trembled, her stomach seizing, but she held.

He broke first, collapsing back onto the mat with a groan.

She grinned, falling back beside him. “One-nil.”

“Smug,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

When they stood again, she rolled her shoulders, already choosing her second. “Mountain climbers. One minute. Max reps.”

He raised his brows, but nodded.

They dropped to plank position, and at her count they started moving, legs driving in quick rhythmic bursts, their breaths growing loud in the quiet space. Her shoulders burned, her arms slick with sweat, but she kept her rhythm sharp and fast. At sixty seconds they both dropped flat onto the mats, gasping.

“Sixty-eight,” she panted.

“Sixty-three,” he said.

Her grin flashed wide. “Two-nil.”

He pushed to his feet, wiping his face with the hem of his towel. “Pull-ups,” he said. “Max reps. No breaks.”

She groaned, but stepped to the bar.

They went one for one, counting low under their breath. The first ten were easy. The next five burned. By twenty her arms felt like molten wire. She hit twenty-two before her grip gave, dropping to the floor, chest heaving.

He swung once more and let go at twenty-five, landing lightly beside her.

“Damn,” she said, hands on her knees, sweat dripping from her jaw.

He passed her his towel, still catching his own breath. “So that makes it two to one,” he said. “You take the crown.”

She pressed the towel to her face, grinning into the fabric. “Guess dinner’s on you, then.”

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Guess it is.”

And even though he’d just lost, there was no trace of disappointment on his face just that quiet, thoughtful smile, like he was already planning.