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Saweetie

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Hey! Maybe something based on this picture?

Thank you!!

𝑅𝑒𝒹 𝒜𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓁

Authors Note: Hey everyone! First of all, this man is looking mighty fine once again. I tried to make a story out of this image, so I apologise if it’s bad. I’m so annoyed Lewis is starting P7 for the race…Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis invites the reader to Monaco, and as they ride through the night on his motorbike, something real sparks between them.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

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

The sound hit first a low, guttural, vibrating through the asphalt and straight into your chest.

It wasn’t just noise - it was a promise.

Power, speed, presence.

The kind of sound that made people stop mid-sentence and turn their heads.

That’s what you did too, instinctively lifting your eyes from the crinkled paddock pass in your hands as the roar echoed through the tight streets of Monaco.

And then you saw it.

No, him.

A motorcycle carved from fire and shadow.

Candy-apple red bodywork that shimmered like liquid metal in the sun, hugging every sharp angle like it had been sculpted out of movement itself.

And on it leaning slightly forward, one foot planted, hands still clutching the grips was Lewis Hamilton.

You forgot how to breathe.

He was entirely encased in Ferrari red: a snug team jersey with that unmistakable Cavallino Rampante over his chest, black cargo pants that clung to lean muscle, and a sleek matte-black helmet that turned him into something cinematic.

Unreal.

Like a scene lifted out of a dream you didn’t know you’d had until just now.

He didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, letting the engine hum out its last few purrs.

The crowd had quieted too.

Even the chatter behind the paddock barriers faded into background fuzz as Lewis reached up, slow and deliberate, and unbuckled the helmet.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

There was a pause long enough to hold your breath over and then he pulled it off.

First, the edges of his braids appeared, then his jawline, his lips.

His eyes.

That subtle tilt of his head like he already knew exactly where you were standing.

Like the rest of the world, the entire grid and weekend and spectacle, were secondary.

“Is it weird that I think he might be cooler on two wheels than four?” a stranger murmured beside you.

“I don’t know if he’s real,” you said, barely aware you’d spoken aloud.

He stepped off the bike like it wasn’t 200kg of raw machine, like it bowed to him.

One fluid motion - leg over the seat, a gentle pat to the tank, his fingers tightening around the helmet now hanging from his side.

A silver chain glinted against his throat.

His skin caught golden in the sunlight.

Even the way he adjusted his gloves looked like choreography.

And then his eyes found yours.

No hesitation.

No sweep of the crowd or calculated look for the cameras.

Just you.

Like you were the only one worth noticing.

The moment stretched, thick and breathless.

His gaze locked with yours with the kind of certainty that makes your heart skip and your brain forget how to form thoughts.

Your sunglasses felt ridiculous pointless even because he saw right through them.

Right through you.

He smiled.

You nearly stepped backward.

It hit you like that.

A smile that made the air warmer, made the ground feel less solid under your shoes.

Like he’d lit a fuse in the middle of the paddock, and you were the only one close enough to feel the fire.

He walked toward you, boots firm on the pavement, crowd still murmuring behind you but blurred now.

All you saw was him.

“You made it,” he said, stopping just in front of you, voice low and smooth like he hadn’t just stunned half of Monaco with his entrance.

“I – uh, yeah,” you managed, cursing how starstruck you sounded.

Your eyes flicked to the bike his gleaming red beast still parked at an angle like it belonged in a museum.

“Nice ride.”

Lewis grinned and unstrapped his gloves with one hand; his helmet still casually hooked in the other.

“Thought I’d make an entrance.”

“Mission accomplished,” you said, blinking hard, trying to keep your cool.

Your pulse was going crazy.

You stood in the middle of the paddock with Ferrari engineers buzzing around in the distance, camera flashes going off in quiet bursts, fans behind the fence trying to get the best angle and yet, it felt like the rest of the world had shifted to background noise.

It was just him.

And you.

“I was worried you’d be stuck in traffic,” you said.

Dumb.

But it was all you could think of.

Lewis chuckled, one of those soft, husky laughs that made your stomach twist.

“I cut through it.

Didn’t want to be late.

Not when I knew you’d be here.”

And there it was again that feeling that he wasn’t just showing up for the race.

That somehow, impossibly, this was about you too.

You glanced down at your outfit basic linen top, jeans, nothing fancy.

Still somehow felt like you’d overdressed and underdressed all at once in his presence.

“That part still confuses me,” you admitted quietly, looking back up at him.

“How I ended up here.”

“You spilled espresso on my trousers at a climate summit,” he said, tilting his head.

“Then gave the most passionate argument for criminal justice reform I’ve ever heard from someone trying to mop up a spill with paper napkins.”

You laughed, remembering the moment.

Mortifying then.

Weirdly defining now.

“And now you’re in Monaco,” he said, stepping just a little closer.

“You know, when I texted you the invite, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged, eyes dark and thoughtful.

“You seem like the kind of girl who knows how to say no.”

“Only to things that don’t scare me,” you said, surprising both of you.

That smile again it was slow, crooked, devastating.

“Is this normal?” you asked, glancing at the cameras still trained on him.

“You riding into practice like some kind of biker god?”

“Depends,” Lewis said, adjusting the strap of his white cross-body bag as he leaned in a fraction.

“Did it impress you?”

You smirked.

“I think the crowd is already drafting love letters.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes warm and playful.

“But I only care about yours.”

And just like that, Lewis Hamilton made the chaos of Monaco feel quiet.

“Come on,” Lewis says with a crooked smile, nodding toward the row of garages. “Let me show you around before I have to suit up.”

You follow him before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can stop and really process what the hell is happening. One second, you’re standing there in borrowed sunglasses and borrowed confidence, clutching a flimsy paddock pass like it means something, and the next you’re trailing behind Lewis Hamilton. In Monaco. At Ferrari.

He smells like heat and leather and something expensive you can’t name, and the scent lingers in the air between you like an invisible thread.

You walk through the paddock, past clusters of crew members in red polos and headsets, past the hum of engines and the snap of cameras in the distance. Lewis moves like he belongs here and of course he does. Every inch of this place wraps around him like it’s an extension of him: the roaring engines, the quiet tension in the air, the glint of sunlight bouncing off carbon fibre and chrome.

He walks a little ahead of you, glancing back every so often to make sure you’re still there, like he’s afraid you might vanish.

The sun catches in his braids as he leads you down a narrow path between the garages. A few crew members glance at you as you pass some with polite nods, others with not-so-subtle curiosity, their gazes darting between Lewis and you like they’re trying to piece something together.

Who is she? their eyes seem to ask.

You’re not sure yourself.

You pause at the entrance of the hospitality suite, where a soft breeze carries the scent of strong coffee and warm pastries. Lewis lets his fingers graze the railing, turning back to you with a playful glint in his eyes.

“You hungry?” he asks. “They’ve got good espresso. Just don’t spill it this time.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Not planning on attacking your pants again.”

“Shame,” he says, smirking. “Gave me an excuse to talk to you.”

That grin should’ve been illegal. Warm and bright and just a little dangerous. You duck your head with a smile, trying to play it cool while your pulse thuds in your throat like a drum.

You don’t go inside. Instead, he keeps walking, guiding you past neatly stacked sets of slicks, past screens showing telemetry data you don’t understand, past the soft chaos of engineers shouting numbers and numbers and numbers. And then, just when the noise starts to wrap around you, he turns a corner into a shaded space behind the team trucks.

It’s quiet here. Secluded. The kind of place you can breathe again.

Lewis leans against the metal railing like he’s done it a hundred times before, arms folded, cap tilted back, his eyes fixed on you like you’re some kind of equation he wants to solve.

“So,” he says. “Berlin. Law school. Why come all the way to Monaco?”

You raise an eyebrow, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Because someone invited me with zero context and a Ferrari emoji.”

He chuckles, nodding like that sounds exactly like him. “Seemed like enough.”

“It was,” you admit.

There’s a pause. Not awkward just thick with something you can’t name yet. Lewis studies you, gaze moving from your eyes to your hands, to the way you press your lips together when you’re not sure what to say. His presence is so calm. Confident. But not arrogant. Not performative.

Just real.

“Nervous?” he asks after a moment.

You hesitate. “Yes. But not because of you. More about being...here. In this world. It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, glancing around. “It is. You get used to it.”

He looks back at you, eyes serious now. “But for what it’s worth I don’t invite just anyone into it.”

His words land somewhere low in your chest, right where your nerves and disbelief have been coiling. You don’t know what to say to that. You feel seen. Chosen. And that’s its own kind of vertigo.

“You know,” he adds, lowering his voice, like he wants this part to stay between just the two of you, “I didn’t stop thinking about you. After that summit. You kind of threw me off.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods. “You were real. And passionate. You didn’t care who I was, not really. You just wanted me to listen. That doesn’t happen a lot.”

You look away, overwhelmed by the heat of his honesty. Your eyes catch on the reflection in the side of a gleaming red transport truck. There he is framed against the Ferrari logo like some kind of myth brought to life. For a moment you can’t move. The way the sunlight kisses his skin, the tension in his shoulders, the steadiness in his stare it all hits you at once.

He’s beautiful. Not just in the obvious way, though there’s plenty of that. But in the way he stands in his truth. In the way he sees people.

You turn back and find his gaze already on you.

“You look good in red,” he says, voice dipping into something quieter.

Your outfit isn’t anything special white linen pants, a rust-coloured top, simple gold jewellery. But somehow, under his gaze, you feel like you belong here.

“You’re biased,” you say softly.

“Maybe.” He tilts his head. “But you’d look good in anything.”

That pulls the breath right out of you. Your skin flushes, your stomach twists with nerves and something else entirely. You glance down, hiding the smile that tugs at your mouth.

He steps closer. Just a few inches. But it feels like the air between you has changed. Charged. Your heart skitters in your chest like it has no idea what comes next.

“Lewis, you’ve got ten minutes,” Angela’s voice calls from down the walkway steady, professional, but not unkind.

He looks over his shoulder and nods, then turns back to you.

“Wait here?” he asks.

You nod.

He slips into the garage, and you stay rooted where you are, leaning against the railing he just touched. The warmth from where his body had been still lingers. Your fingers brush it without thinking.

When he returns, he’s changed. Race suit half on, the top rolled down and tied at his waist, black fireproof undershirt hugging every defined muscle. His gloves tucked under one arm, helmet in the other, cap pulled low over his brow.

He looks like motion. Like power. Like something carved from speed and ambition.

But when he steps up to you, all of that melts away. He’s just Lewis again.

“Stay in the paddock,” he says. “I’ll find you after practice. Don’t disappear.”

You smile, heart kicking. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He pauses. Then, as if pulled by instinct, he reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers linger for a heartbeat too long. Just enough to make your breath catch.

Then he turns and walks away, back into the heartbeat of the team. Back into the roar of engines and the glare of cameras and the world that will never stop spinning around him.

But for one perfect moment, you see something quieter.

And somehow, you know so does he.

The roar of engines had faded long ago, replaced now by the quiet rhythm of tools clinking and the low hum of voices behind closed garage doors.

The paddock, once pulsing with adrenaline and urgency, had thinned out, crew members drifting toward late dinners or moments stolen in the cooling shade. The sun sank low behind Monaco’s terraced buildings, painting the harbour in golden hues, softening the track’s sharp edges.

You stayed where he asked. Leaning against the railing. Waiting.

Trying not to look like you were waiting.

The faint scent of burnt rubber still hung in the air, riding on a sea breeze that tangled through your hair and cooled the warmth in your neck. Your fingers wrapped loosely around your phone, scrolling through nothing, until it vibrated a message from your best friend: “ARE YOU STILL BREATHING????” in all caps, six question marks. You stared at it, then slipped the screen off. There were no words for this yet. No way to explain what you felt.

And then you saw him.

Lewis stepped out of the Ferrari garage with slow, heavy steps the kind that come after giving everything on the track. His race suit hugged him like a second skin, red and black, unzipped just enough at the collar to show the sweat-darkened fireproof layer beneath.

He peeled off his gloves, brows knitted in thought, jaw tight with the familiar post-session focus. Engineers flanked him, their voices low and technical, but his attention was elsewhere, already shifting the moment his eyes found yours.

And when they did, when that gaze locked with yours, it was like something inside you clicked. A quiet pull, magnetic and undeniable.

He walked over with steady, deliberate steps. The golden sun hit his face, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his temples and the faint glimmer of his nose ring. Without the helmet, he seemed more real raw, unguarded like you were seeing the man beneath the layers of visor and spotlight.

“Didn’t disappear,” you said softly, straightening.

Lewis’s smile was slow, genuine like he’d been holding his breath until this moment. “Good,” he said. “Didn’t want to send a search party.”

You tipped your head, trying to keep it light despite the flutter in your chest. “How was it?”

“Hot. Fast. Hairpins tighter than I expected.” He paused, wiping the back of his neck with a towel, then threw you a crooked grin. “I thought about you at Turn 8.”

Your brows lifted. “Why?”

He shrugged, stepping closer - close enough that you had to lift your chin to meet his eyes. “Because I clipped the apex too early. Made me think of you earlier how you looked at me like I was doing something reckless.”

“You are,” you murmured.

His grin widened boyish and disarming. “Guess I like that you see it.”

A silence settled between you. In that quiet, you noticed everything the lingering scent of rubber on his skin, the soft breeze carrying the salt from the sea, the slow burn of his eyes as they traced your face like it mattered. Because it did.

“You okay out here?” His voice softened.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “It’s peaceful when everything quiets down.”

He glanced past you at the harbour where yachts flickered like scattered stars caught in the deepening dusk. “Won’t last long,” he said with a wry smile. “Media, meetings the chaos always finds us again.”

There was something fragile under his words the exhaustion of always being “on.” Always expected to perform, always under watchful eyes.

You stood in silence, the moment shifting.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked.

Not like a pickup line. Not rushed. Just real. Like he needed a breath outside the storm. Somewhere cameras couldn’t reach. Somewhere time didn’t matter.

You blinked. “Where would we go?”

“Somewhere with less rubber and more air-conditioning.” He smiled, rubbing his jaw. “I’ve got a little time. Could show you the harbour. Or…” His eyes softened. “We could just walk. Doesn’t matter.”

What he didn’t say, but you felt was that he wanted to know you. Not the girl with the paddock pass, not the law student who spilled espresso. You.

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s walk.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding tension in his chest, then nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting.

He didn’t take your hand, but his arm brushed yours as you fell into step together. That was enough.

You passed the garages and the lingering shadows of the pit lane, stepping toward the promenade where the harbour opened wide like a dream. The water shimmered in deep blues and golds, the sun settling behind distant mountains. Yachts sat like giants at rest, ropes creaking gently against masts, mingling with laughter drifting from upper decks.

Eyes tracked you - mechanics, team staff, photographers with long lenses but neither of you noticed.

You walked slowly, warmth wrapping around you like a soft blanket. Lewis pointed out spots where the cars braked hardest, where overtakes lived, turns that looked simple but weren’t. You listened because you wanted to, because the way his voice shifted when he spoke about racing was something rare almost sharp and tender all at once.

When you reached a shaded alcove overlooking the water, he stopped. The world felt quieter here, safe. Waves lapping softly below, the breeze teasing loose strands of his race suit.

He turned to you, expression unreadable for a beat. Then he said, “This isn’t normal for me.”

You met his eyes. “What isn’t?”

“Bringing someone into all this. Letting them see past the surface.” His jaw clenched slightly. “But with you, it didn’t feel like a choice. It just felt right.”

Your chest squeezed. You hadn’t expected to matter this much. Not yet. Not like this.

“You don’t have to explain,” you whispered.

He laughed softly, disbelief clear in his voice. “Yeah, I kind of do. I don’t want you thinking this is just some fling. Some Monaco weekend thing.” He swallowed. “It’s not.”

You stepped closer. Your shadows merged.

“I don’t,” you said. “I didn’t think that.”

He looked at you like he wanted to burn this moment into memory, just in case it slipped away.

And then slowly, almost barely he leaned in.

Not fully. Not yet. But his forehead pressed gently to yours. Quiet. Like a promise breathed between heartbeats.

His breath warmed your lips. One hand rose not to hold, just to hover near your jaw like even the smallest touch was sacred here.

In that golden hush, Monaco sparkling behind you and the sea sighing below, you knew with perfect clarity -

This wasn’t a crush.

It wasn’t about fame or speed or the surreal thrill of walking the paddock beside Lewis Hamilton.

This was something else.

Something rare. Slow burning. Deep.

This was him.

And somehow, impossibly, he was looking at you like you were the first thing in a long time that made him feel real.

The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time the paddock emptied.

The hush of post-practice gave way to soft nightlife murmurs Monaco glowing gold in the dark, as if dipped in candlelight.

The echoes of engines and footfalls had faded, replaced now by the subtle clinking of champagne flutes in the distance and the low, rhythmic pulse of yacht music echoing from the harbour.

You linger near the Ferrari hospitality suite, arms folded loosely over your chest, watching as the city transforms under the night sky. Waiting for him.

That was when you hear it the low, familiar purr of an engine.

You turn instinctively, and there he is. Lewis.

He pulls up on his motorbike, sleek and matte black, its curves catching the street lamps like shadows dancing on obsidian.

He wears dark jeans that hug the curve of his legs, a fitted leather jacket that looks like it has seen fast roads and long nights, and his braids are tucked neatly beneath a black helmet.

The kind of cool that doesn’t try just is.

When he flips the visor up, his grin is unmistakable, mischievous, boyish and yet quietly sure.

“Come on,” he says, that grin curving wider.

“Ride with me.”

You blink at him.

“Ride where?”

“Anywhere.”

He revs the engine slightly, the sound a quiet dare, a heartbeat louder than yours.

“It’s the best way to see this place. I’ll go slow. Promise.”

You laugh, caught somewhere between intrigue and disbelief.

“I don’t even have a helmet.”

“Then we’re getting you one.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step into a dimly lit motorcycle gear shop tucked between a wine bar and a jewellery boutique, as if it were hiding in plain sight.

The place has marble floors and glass displays, like even its helmets are couture.

The air inside smells like leather, chrome, and soft cologne probably his.

Lewis moves like he’s been here before, like Monaco is stitched into his muscle memory.

He leads you straight to the back wall where helmets are displayed like works of art.

Without hesitation, he reaches for one black and gold, matte with subtle accents, sleek and sharp.

A perfect match to his own.

“Try this,” he says, holding it out.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Are you seriously buying me a helmet right now?”

“Only if you’re serious about getting on the bike with me.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

“Are you?”

The teasing melts into something quieter, steadier.

His eyes deep, earnest, and just a little nervous meet yours like they’re asking more than just one question.

You look at him, at the way the city light kisses the edge of his jaw, at the way the adrenaline buzzes just beneath his stillness.

And somehow, the answer comes as easily as breathing.

“Yeah. I am.”

He pays in crisp euros, cash from his wallet like it means nothing but the glance he shoots you on the way out, twice over his shoulder, says otherwise.

Like he needs to make sure you’re still with him.

Like he still can’t quite believe it.

Outside, the sea breeze sweeps in cool and salted, brushing over your skin like silk.

The streets shimmer from recent rainfall, the reflections of headlights dancing in puddles.

He sets the helmet gently on your head and adjusts the strap beneath your chin, his fingers warm and careful against your jaw.

A small touch, but it feels like it means something.

“You ever ridden before?” he asks.

“Only on the back of my cousin’s Vespa.”

Lewis grins, already settling back onto the bike.

“This is a little faster.”

You swing on behind him, the leather seat still warm.

Your heart pounds as you reach forward, unsure until he reaches back and takes your hand, guiding it around his waist.

“Hold on,” he says, voice low and steady.

So, you do.

And then you’re flying.

The streets blur around you, gold and white and midnight blue streaking past in water-colour ribbons.

The city unfolds beneath you like a secret, curves and corners illuminated only by-passing lights and moonlit stone.

Your arms tighten instinctively around him as the speed picks up.

You can feel the subtle laugh rumbling through his chest, the way he leans into the next turn with practiced ease.

You weave through the tunnels under Monte Carlo, your echoing path lit in flickers of orange and white.

Your helmet muffles the world, but not the feeling the rush of wind against your arms, the subtle shift of his weight with every curve, the sheer freedom of it all.

It’s thrilling.

It’s terrifying.

It’s addictive.

Eventually, he slows, steering the bike up a narrow incline that opens into a quiet overlook high above the harbour.

The city below looks like someone spilled diamonds across black velvet.

The sea shimmers, ink-dark and alive with reflections of the stars.

He cuts the engine.

The silence that follows is almost reverent.

You climb off the bike and pull the helmet off, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders.

Your pulse still races, wild and electric, but Lewis’s gaze steadies you.

He hasn’t looked away once.

“Worth the helmet?” he asks, voice rough with wind and something softer.

You nod, breathless.

“Definitely.”

You stand for a moment, not touching, just watching the city breathe beneath you.

He takes his helmet off, setting it gently on the seat, and brushes a hand over his braids.

Sweat glistens along his temple, catching the moonlight, his lips parted slightly as if caught mid-thought.

“You make me feel calm,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the view.

You turn to him, startled.

“What?”

His gaze flicks to yours.

“I’m not used to that,” he admits.

“Even when I’m winning, I’m wired. Restless. Like there’s always something else I have to chase. But with you…”

He shakes his head slowly, voice thinning to a whisper.

“You slow things down.”

You don’t know what to say.

So, you don’t try.

Instead, you reach for his hand.

His fingers close around yours, warm and certain.

And there, with the hum of the engine still alive in your bones and Monaco sparkling behind you like a dream, you realise you don’t want this night to end.

Not because of the glamour or the city, but because of him.

Because of the man who looks at you like you’re the first moment of peace he’s had in years.

Lewis turns to you fully now, thumb brushing over your knuckles, his voice low.

“One more stop?” he asks.

“Or should we stay here a little longer?”

You smile, heart catching in your throat.

“Let’s stay.”

He nods, then sits down on the low stone wall overlooking the sea once again.

The breeze pulls at his jacket, tousles his braids, and still, he opens his arms like you belong there.

And you go. No hesitation.

You curl into his side, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath his skin.

His arm wraps around you, fingers tracing idle lines along your shoulder.

The world moves fast.

But tonight, wrapped in leather and starlight, you don’t have to.

You sit like that for a long time.

Not saying much just breathing the same air, feeling the same rhythm.

The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled, that feels rich and full just as it is.

The wind moves gently across the overlook, brushing past you like a whispered blessing, tugging strands of your hair across your face and fluttering the collar of Lewis’s jacket.

Monaco still pulses below you in warm, golden pockets of life music rising from yachts, distant laughter echoing through the harbour but none of it reaches you, not really.

Up here, you’re in your own little world.

Outside of time.

Or maybe just finally inside a moment worth staying in.

At some point, you notice his thumb moving slowly against your arm.

Not with pressure.

Not with expectation.

Just a steady, quiet rhythm, like it calms him.

Or maybe like he doesn’t want to lose the connection.

The thought comes out of nowhere unfiltered, real.

“Do you ever get scared?”

His body shifts slightly beside you, not pulling away but adjusting, like the question makes something stir in him.

His breath is warm above your temple, slower now, heavier.

“Of what?”

“Of all of it,” you say.

“The speed. The pressure. The life you’ve built. What it costs you.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

For a moment you think maybe you’ve gone too deep, too fast.

But then he exhales, slow and honest, like he’s choosing his truth carefully.

“Yeah,” he says at last, and the rough edge in his voice makes your chest pull tight.

“All the time.”

You lift your head, searching his expression.

He looks at you then not guarded or rehearsed, but with a startling openness.

As if he’s been waiting for someone to ask him that without expecting some perfectly packaged answer.

“There’s this moment before every race,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to the city lights like they could help carry the weight of his words.

“Right before I get in the car. Helmets on. Engine’s quiet. You hear everything your own breath, your pulse, the static in your head.”

“And for a split second you wonder if this time will be the one that costs you everything.”

He squeezes your hand, not out of fear, but in a way that tells you he’s still here, still fighting.

“But then I think about why I do it. About what it means. And I hold onto that. Like a lifeline.”

You nod, wanting to say more, but the moment feels too sacred.

Instead, you just lean your head back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and find your own lifeline there.

Somewhere in the quiet between breaths, the city around you, and the stars above, you know this is the start of something rare.

Something real.

Something that no race, no pressure, no shadow of fear can touch.

Because for the first time, you’re riding not just into the night, but into a future with him steady, wild, and entirely yours.

Lewis’s voice breaks the silence, low and hesitant, almost like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile stillness between you.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is soft, respectful like a whispered promise and somehow it makes the air around you feel heavier, charged with something unspoken yet deeply understood.

You lift your eyes to his, heart pounding with a fierce, fluttering certainty. The world narrows until there’s nothing but him and this moment. You nod, barely daring to breathe.

His hand moves slowly, deliberately, and cups your cheek with a tenderness that takes your breath away. His thumb traces tiny, feather-light circles against your skin, as if you’re something precious he’s never allowed himself to touch before.

Time seems to slow even more as he leans in, inch by inch, giving you every second to pull away, to change your mind. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, drawn by something you can’t quite name.

His lips meet yours soft, warm, and hesitant at first like the gentle unfolding of a secret you’ve both been waiting to share.

The kiss deepens, slowly growing richer and more certain, but never rushed. His mouth is asking, inviting, trusting everything wrapped in the careful rhythm of patience and desire.

You respond in kind, your own lips molding to his, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your chest syncing with yours like a quiet, steady drum.

Around you, the world fades into a blur the distant hum of Monaco’s nightlife, the whisper of the breeze nothing matters except this electric hush that hums between your lips.

His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair, pulling you closer as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is everything full of all the quiet fears and wild hopes, the chaos of the track and the calm of this stolen moment. It’s both fierce and tender, fierce in its promise and tender in its honesty.

When he finally pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and mingling with yours, his eyes searching yours with something like awe, he smiles a slow, genuine curve that makes your heart soar.

“Feels right,” he whispers, voice thick with something you can’t quite put into words.

And in that moment, you know it does.