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hamilton-here · 24 days ago

Note

Hii admin!! You’re holding down the fort for the LH stories ❤️❤️❤️ I have an idea since you did the story about Charles’ sister. What about one about him and Nico’s sister? How they broke up in the aftermath of the brocedes fallout and are heartbroken about it for years until she starts working in F1 alongside Nico and they slowly find their way back to each other. Thanks so much for the amazing stories ❤️

𝒜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓂

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Writing/reading about anything to do Brocedes breaks my heart. Enjoy the one-shot! Also expect a mini series similar to this later on. Lots of love

Summary: Once a secret love, now a quiet reconciliation - years later, you and Lewis choose to begin again.

Warnings: slight angst, slight swearing, mild sexual content

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes @eywas-heir

MASTERLIST

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

2016

The night is wrapped in a soft hush, broken only by the distant hum of engines cooling and the fading murmur of voices as the paddock slowly empties. You and Lewis steal away from the chaos slipping quietly past Nico and the rest of the team, careful not to draw attention, craving a few precious moments just for yourselves before the relentless storm of race weekend swallows you whole again.

Your footsteps are light as you duck behind a cluster of trailers, where shadows stretch long and the thick, familiar scent of fuel and rubber clings to the air. The cool night breeze brushes your skin, but the warmth radiating from Lewis beside you is immediate and comforting.

Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close, like a shield against everything that threatens to pull you apart. His breath brushes against your ear, steady and warm.

“You’re crazy, sneaking off like this,” he murmurs with a teasing smile playing on his lips. But beneath the playful tone, there’s a softness in his eyes that makes your heart skip, a look that says you’re the one place he truly belongs.

You giggle, the sound light and easy, and reach up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble,” you whisper back, fingers lingering on his skin.

His fingers find yours, warm and sure, weaving effortlessly through yours, as if your hands were always meant to fit together. Holding on like it’s the only anchor keeping him steady in the swirling storm around him.

You tilt your head and press your cheek against his chest, closing your eyes to focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your skin in strong, reassuring and real way. It’s the kind of comfort you’ve craved in the madness of broken friendships and fractured loyalties.

“I needed this,” you confess softly, your voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the circuit from the chatter of crew packing up, the low rumble of trucks pulling away. “Away from Nico, the team, the pressure all of it.”

Lewis leans down, slow and gentle, placing a soft kiss on your temple, then another, lighter one at the tip of your nose. You laugh quietly, surprised by the tenderness, and catch his eyes just as they sparkle with warmth and mischief in the dim glow of the floodlights.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, voice low and full of affection. “But I love it.”

Your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw, memorising every detail the smoothness of his skin, the slight stubble dusting his cheeks, the way his mouth quirks when he smiles. In these stolen moments away from the prying cameras, the biting rivalry and the weight of expectation - you’re simply two people who found each other in the eye of a storm too fierce to control.

Lewis pulls you tighter still, his hands resting gently but possessively on your back, holding you like you’re the only safe place left in the world. The tension of the day from the shouting, the silent stares, the endless pressure melts away in his arms, replaced by something quiet, tender and fiercely alive.

“I wish it could always be like this,” you admit, voice trembling just a little, raw with hope and fear.

He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, “Me too. But whatever happens we’ll always have this. We always find each other, don’t we?”

You nod, your heart swelling with a bittersweet mix of love and worry, knowing that the world outside your secret bubble is growing louder more complicated and darker with every passing day.

But for now, you let yourself breathe, laugh softly and love freely in the quiet night with Lewis.

Because right here, right now, wrapped in his arms, nothing else matters.

The days that follow unfold like a delicate dance on a knife’s edge each stolen glance, each brief touch weighed down by the gravity of everything unraveling around you. You and Lewis move through the chaos like ghosts, slipping through the cracks to steal whatever moments of quiet you can find, but the space between you feels like it’s shrinking by the minute. The walls of pressure, expectation and betrayal close in tighter with every passing hour.

Rumours swirl through the paddock like a gathering storm with whispers of the Brocedes fallout, broken loyalties and fractures running deeper than anyone wants to admit. The tension is palpable, saturating the air until every smile feels forced and every look is heavy with unspoken words. The once unbreakable bond between Lewis and Nico has cracked, leaving a dangerous chasm filled with bitterness and resentment.

You see it in Lewis by the way his shoulders are perpetually tight, as if bracing against an invisible weight. His jaw clenches so often it looks bruised. And behind his eyes, shadows of frustration and exhaustion flicker like storm clouds. The smiles he gives you are quicker now, less genuine, as if he’s trying to save every ounce of energy for the battles he’s fighting elsewhere.

After every race, the storm between him and Nico intensifies. You can almost hear the thunder crackle when they cross paths with words exchanged behind closed doors, voices rising just enough that your heart catches in your throat. One evening, the tension finally boils over.

You’re wandering near the garage when you catch sight of them arguing - Nico’s face tight, his voice sharp and cutting as he confronts Lewis over a mistake made on the track. Lewis’s response is calm on the surface but bristling underneath, pride wounded, frustration barely contained.

“You don’t get it,” Lewis says, low and fierce, eyes blazing. “It’s not just about the race. It’s everything. The team’s breaking apart, and you’re acting like it’s just some game.”

Nico’s glare is cold, hard to recognise the friend he once knew replaced by something distant and guarded. “And you think I’m not feeling it? This fallout it’s tearing all of us apart, Lewis. But running away won’t fix it.”

The air between them is thick, charged, as if the whole paddock is holding its breath. You watch from the shadows, heart twisting painfully. These two men once inseparable, bonded through every victory and defeat now stand on opposite sides of a chasm you don’t know how to bridge.

Later, when the paddock quiets and the buzz of the team fades into the background, you find Lewis alone by the garage. His back is to you, shoulders slumped in a rare moment of defeat, as if the weight of the world is pressing down and dragging him under. The confrontation still lingers in his posture the tightness in his neck, the way his hands clench into fists at his sides.

You approach quietly, hesitant but needing to be near him. Without a word, you slip your arms around him from behind. The warmth of your touch, the gentle pressure, is a silent anchor in the storm swirling inside him. He leans back into you, releasing a shaky breath as your lips trail soft, lingering kisses along his jawline, down to the sensitive skin of his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice steady despite your own racing heart. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

His eyes close, a vulnerability you rarely see washing over him. The tension in his muscles slowly begins to unravel beneath your hands, as if your presence is the one thing pulling him back from the edge. Your fingers thread through his hair, grounding him, offering something steady when everything else feels so unstable.

“I hate how much this all hurts,” he admits, voice thick with a raw, aching honesty. “I hate feeling like I’m losing everything friends, family...you.” The words tremble on the edge of breaking, a confession you never thought you’d hear from the man who’s always been so strong.

You squeeze him tighter, pressing a gentle kiss to the nape of his neck. “We’re still here. I’m still here. We’re not giving up not yet.”

He exhales slowly, as if trying to draw in enough air to steady himself against the storm raging inside. For a fleeting moment, the broken pieces seem less jagged, held together by the simple truth of your love, your touch. But beneath that fragile calm, you both know the road ahead is dangerous of fraught with heartbreak, impossible decisions, and the kind of reckoning that could shatter everything you’ve fought to hold onto.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if holding on is enough, if love can survive when everything else is falling apart around us.”

You pull him closer, your cheek resting against the side of his head, your heartbeat steadying his. “Love isn’t just about the easy moments. It’s about weathering the storms together. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t respond right away just breathes you in, as if memorising your presence. Then, slowly, he nods. His arms wrap around you in return, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him from breaking.

And in that quiet, fragile embrace, you both find the courage to face the chaos ahead even if it means walking through fire.

Because sometimes love means holding on when everything else wants to let go.

And right now, that’s the only thing you know for sure.

But even as you hold him, a cold truth settles between you: the cracks have deepened, the foundations are shaky. No matter how tightly you hold on, the storm is coming.

And soon, everything you’ve fought to protect will begin to unravel.

It happens unexpectedly, like a slow drip that turns into a relentless flood you can no longer hold back.

The paddock is alive with noise - the distant roar of engines, the murmur of team radios and the restless shuffle of feet on concrete but in the middle of it all, Lewis stands at the centre of the team briefing, commanding attention. His voice is steady, professional, but you can see the edge beneath it, the tightness around his eyes.

His phone vibrates against his thigh. The buzz is persistent, insistent. He glances down and your breath catches.

The screen lights up with a message from Nico: “We need to talk. Now.”

Lewis’s face drains of colour, the warmth in his cheeks fading fast. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, the tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace. Without a word, he ignores the message and slides the phone back into his pocket, but the silence between you stretches wide and heavy.

Later, you find him pacing near the paddock entrance his mind clearly miles away. The restless energy in his movements feels like the calm before a storm.

The seconds stretch, then Nico arrives his face grim, jaw clenched tight, eyes dark with something heavier than disappointment.

“This isn’t working, Lewis,” Nico says quietly, but every word is sharp, like a carefully aimed blade. “We can’t keep pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not.”

Lewis stops pacing and turns to face him, voice rising, raw with anger and a kind of desperate pain you haven’t heard before. “So what? We just give up? Throw everything away because it’s hard? Because people expect us to be perfect? I’m not done fighting, Nico.”

Nico steps closer, his tone colder, more controlled, but with an undeniable edge. “It’s not about giving up. It’s about being honest with ourselves and with everyone around us. You’re not the only one hurting, Lewis. I’m struggling too.”

He pauses, takes a breath as if gathering courage. “I’m retiring this year. You know that. It’s been coming for a while. But this? This fight between us? It’s pushing me away from everything I thought I wanted.”

Lewis’s face hardens, but you can see the flicker of something vulnerable beneath the armour. “So, what now? You think stepping away will fix all this? That it’ll magically erase the mess?”

Nico shakes his head slowly; eyes locked on Lewis’s. “No. But I don’t know if we can fix it together anymore. Not like this. Not when every conversation feels like a battle.”

The words cut deeper than you thought possible. Your throat tightens, and your heart pounds so loud it’s almost painful to breathe. You watch from just a few steps away, feeling helpless as the fragile peace you’d hoped to hold onto crumbles in front of you.

Later that night, the paddock quiet but your world anything but, Lewis is distant closed off like a storm that’s about to break. When you finally reach for him, your fingers brush his arm gently, but he flinches away, frustration spilling out in a harsh whisper.

“I’m tired,” he snaps, voice brittle and raw. “Tired of fighting. Tired of pretending I can make everyone happy.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you swallow them, forcing your voice to stay steady. “I’m here, Lewis. I’m not going anywhere. But you have to let me in. We can’t survive this if you keep shutting me out.”

For a moment, his guard drops. You see the weight of it all press down on him with the exhaustion, the fear, the loneliness. His eyes search yours, vulnerability flickering through the storm in them.

Then, just as quickly, the walls slam back up. He pulls away, voice low and hard. “I don’t know if I can do this. Not right now.”

And with that, he turns his back, leaving you standing in the quiet night, feeling more alone than ever.

Because the unraveling has begun. The delicate threads holding you all together are fraying, pulled taut by pain, fear, and unspoken words.

The days after that night feel like you’re sinking beneath a thick, endless tide which is heavy, slow, impossible to fight. Every breath is a struggle; every step feels like wading through a fog of exhaustion and uncertainty. Lewis’s words echo relentlessly in your mind, each one a weight dragging you deeper into silence and doubt.

You reach for him, time and again, but each attempt is met with a cold distance sometimes a curt nod, a distracted glance, or no response at all. The warmth you once shared feels like a fragile glass sculpture, trembling on the edge of shattering, and you’re terrified that one wrong move will send it crashing to the floor.

To cope, you try to find small islands of calm amid the chaos. You bury yourself in books, the pages a temporary escape from the turmoil inside. You wander the paddock alone, watching the swirl of activity with detached eyes, searching for something steady to hold onto. But even the familiar sounds and smells with the hum of engines, the sharp scent of rubber and fuel can’t quite the ache in your chest.

When you do see Lewis, it’s as if a storm has passed between you, leaving only cold, brittle fragments. Your eyes meet briefly tense, guarded and then he pulls away, his expression unreadable, like a man trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. Words are clipped and careful, conversations unfinished, moments frozen in uncomfortable stillness. The easy laughter and soft touches that once came naturally feel like distant memories, unreachable beneath the growing chasm.

One afternoon, after a particularly tense team briefing, you catch Lewis moving past you without a word. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. The air between you is thick with everything unsaid, like a charged wire ready to snap. Your heart hammers painfully in your chest as you watch him disappear into the crowd unreachable and wrapped in his own storm.

You find yourself spiralling into a whirlpool of doubt. Is this the end? Can love survive when the world around it is crumbling? Is your presence a comfort, or just another burden on his already heavy shoulders?

Meanwhile, your encounters with Nico add a complicated layer to your emotional landscape. He remains a quiet but undeniable presence an echo of the past, a reminder of what was lost. Despite the distance and the fractured friendships, there’s an unspoken understanding between you.

You share unexpected moments small respites amid the madness. One morning, you sit across from him in the paddock café, the steam rising from your coffees like fragile barriers between your words. The silence between you is thick but not uncomfortable, a shared space where neither feels the need to pretend.

Finally, Nico breaks the quiet, his voice low and tinged with weariness. “It’s not just the racing anymore,” he says, staring into his cup. “It’s everything that came with it - the pressure, the expectations... the fights with Lewis. I thought walking away would make it easier. But it’s never that simple.”

You nod, your throat tight with unshed emotions. The tension between the two men isn’t just professional it’s personal, a brotherhood fractured by pride, pain, and unspoken regrets.

One evening, as the paddock starts to quiet, Nico pulls you aside. His voice drops to a whisper, vulnerable in a way you rarely see. “I never wanted it to end like this with us all at odds, with Lewis like strangers.”

You offer a small, bittersweet smile, the sadness reflecting in your eyes. “Neither did I. But some things break too deep to be fixed easily.”

He looks away, the regret settling on his features like a shadow. “I hope, someday we can find a way back. Even if it’s just a small piece of what we once had.”

Back with Lewis, the emotional distance stretches into an almost physical presence between you. You catch him some nights standing alone on the hotel balcony, staring out into the dark cityscape, jaw clenched so tightly it looks painful, his silhouette tense and unyielding. The weight he carries is almost visible, a heavy cloak dragging him down.

You try again and again to bridge the gap, offering quiet touches in the small moments - the soft brush of your fingers against his arm, gentle kisses tracing the lines of his neck, whispered promises meant to steady him. But each time, he pulls away a little more, the fight inside him ebbing away like grains of sand slipping through your fingers.

One night, finally, he breaks. His voice is barely above a whisper, trembling with raw fear and exhaustion. “I’m scared,” he confesses, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Scared of losing you. Scared of losing myself in all this.”

Your heart clenches painfully, but you hold him tighter, pressing your lips to the curve of his neck. “We’re not done yet,” you murmur firmly. “Not while we still have each other.”

But even as you speak the words, the cracks in your shared world grow wider. The relentless strain of divided loyalties, fractured friendships, and dreams slipping just out of reach gnaws at your foundation.

The storm is no longer a distant threat it has arrived.

And now, standing on the edge of everything you thought you knew, you wonder if love alone will be enough to weather the coming chaos or if it will be the thing that finally breaks you. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The final race of the season hums with tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The paddock vibrates with nervous energy from the mechanics muttering into headsets, team principals pacing, camera flashes snapping from every angle. But it’s not the usual race day buzz. No, this is different. This is the finale. The culmination of months of sweat, sacrifice and relentless pressure.

You stand beside Lewis in the Mercedes garage, the atmosphere around you choked with unspoken tension. His helmet rests on the table; visor down like a shield he hasn’t put on yet. You try to focus on the strategy sheet in your hand, but the words blur uselessly. Your mind keeps spinning, caught in the whirlwind of this year - of press conferences and podiums, of sneaking into hotel rooms and stolen kisses behind team trucks. Of fights and apologies and all the cracks you both tried to tape over.

Lewis doesn’t look at you. Not fully. His body is near, but the emotional distance between you is vast and echoing. It’s been growing for weeks, a canyon widening with every team debrief, every media headline that pitted him against Nico your brother. The lines have blurred too much. Now there’s barely any footing left.

The race begins like a storm building on the horizon. Nico is sharp, unrelenting, surgically precise. Lap after lap, Lewis fights to close the gap. But the fire you’re used to seeing in him the calm and ruthless hunger is dimmer today. Maybe it’s the weight of everything. Maybe it’s the fact that when he glances over toward the pit wall, he sees you and remembers why this all hurts more than it should.

The final lap comes too soon. You watch the monitors; breath caught painfully in your chest.

Nico crosses the finish line.

And just like that, your brother is World Champion.

Cheers erupt across the garage, team members pouring out into the pit lane, clapping, shouting, throwing their arms in the air.

But not Lewis.

He stays seated in the car for a moment longer, hands still clutched around the wheel. When he finally steps out, his face is unreadable stoic on the surface, but you see the tightness in his jaw, the tremble in his exhale.

He congratulates the crew with quiet civility, even nods at Toto, but there’s a deadness behind his eyes. You want to reach for him, but you don’t. You can’t.

Later, long after the champagne has dried on Nico’s race suit, after the interviews and the staged smiles, you find Lewis alone in the hospitality tent. The lights are dimmed now, the crowd long gone. He’s sitting in one of the corner booths, head bowed, fingers absently twisting the rings on his hand. His race suit hangs open around his waist, fireproof undershirt damp with sweat and defeat.

You hesitate before stepping closer. “Lewis.”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t speak. But you sit beside him anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It’s not enough. You don’t even know what you’re apologising for, Nico’s win? The fractured season? The fact that despite everything, you still love him?

He finally turns his head toward you, and what you see nearly knocks the breath out of you. His eyes are glassy, rimmed red. Exhausted. Hurt. Not just from losing the title but from the silent war between your heart and your bloodline.

“This isn’t working,” Lewis says. His voice cracks halfway through. “Everything’s falling apart. Nico…this whole damn season…you and me. I can’t pretend anymore. I don’t even know what I’m fighting for because I’m losing everything either way.”

You feel the sting of tears almost instantly. You try to hold them back, but the ache in your chest is unbearable.

“I know,” you say softly. “I feel it too. Every night I lie awake wondering if we’re still in this together or just trying to survive the idea of what we used to be.”

His eyes meet yours, finally, and something inside you breaks. The love is still there bright and burning but so is the pain.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Lewis whispers. “I don’t know who I am without you anymore.”

Your breath hitches. “But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we forgot how to be ourselves without hurting each other.”

And then, before either of you can stop it, he pulls you in.

His hand tangles in your hair, mouth crashing against yours like a dam finally bursting. It’s desperate, rough, hungry filled with everything he couldn’t say. His other hand grips your waist, anchoring you to him as your lips part and you kiss him back like it’s the last oxygen you’ll ever taste. There’s no hesitation, no restraint just pure emotion, raw and unfiltered. You feel his tears on your cheeks, mingling with your own.

You climb into his lap, straddling him without thought, fingers tugging at his undershirt, needing to feel him one last time. His hands slide up your back, memorising every inch like it’s a prayer. Your noses bump, teeth clash, but you don’t stop. You kiss until your lips are swollen and your lungs burn, and the sobs threaten to swallow you both whole.

Just as you pull away from Lewis, foreheads still pressed together breath uneven you hear it.

A voice like a crack of thunder slicing through the fragile quiet.

“What the hell is this?”

The words don’t register at first. You’re still lost in him, in the tremble of his lips, in the warmth of his hands on your waist, in the ache of goodbye sitting heavy on your tongue.

But the tone cuts deeper than the words. Sharp. Familiar. Unmistakably Nico.

Your blood turns to ice.

You freeze, still straddling Lewis’s lap, your fingers tangled in the damp fabric of his fireproof undershirt. Slowly, mechanically you turn your head toward the entrance of the hospitality tent.

And there he is.

Nico stands just inside the threshold, still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and tied around his waist. The championship laurel hangs limply over his shoulders; his hair matted to his forehead from champagne and sweat. A bottle dangles from his fingers forgotten now, swinging like a pendulum with his clenched jaw. His chest rises and falls in short, uneven bursts, and his eyes those usually light, teasing eyes are thundercloud dark.

They flick between you and Lewis. Between your flushed face and Lewis’s disheveled race gear. Between the space you share that has no room for anyone else.

His mouth twists. Not into anger not yet. Into betrayal.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Lewis is already shifting underneath you, hands guiding you gently off his lap with care that feels like a farewell. You barely register it. Your eyes are locked on your brother.

“Nico…” you breathe, like the name might somehow soften the blow.

But it only makes his expression harden.

“Was this going on the whole damn time?” he spits, stepping forward now, the champagne bottle thudding to the floor with a hollow echo. “While we were fighting tooth and nail, wheel-to-wheel, corner after corner you were screwing him?”

You flinch, arms instinctively crossing over your chest, as if trying to shield yourself from the words. From his hurt.

“Nico, please,” you manage, voice cracking. “It wasn’t like that.”

He scoffs. Bitter. Loud. “No? Then what was it? Enlighten me. Was this some kind of revenge thing? Rebellion? Or were you just so caught up in playing house with my rival that you didn’t give a damn how it might blow everything apart?”

You move toward him instinctively, palms open. “We didn’t plan this. I swear to you. It just happened.”

Lewis stands now, stepping between you and Nico with a quiet firmness. “It wasn’t about you,” he says, his voice level, though it carries the weight of a man already bracing for the fallout.

Nico laughs. It’s a hollow, empty sound that makes your stomach twist.

“Everything’s always about me and you, Lewis,” he sneers. “From the day we met in go-karts, it’s been a game of one-upmanship. Every season. Every race. Every conversation. And now…now you’ve taken her too?”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t say your name. Just her. As if saying it would make it more real.

You feel yourself crumbling under the weight of it. The guilt, the love, the ache. “Nico, please. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” he fires back. “You hurt me more than he ever did on track.”

His voice wavers at the end. That’s when you see it the wall beginning to crack. The hurt bleeding through the fury.

“I’m your brother,” he says, softer now. “You could’ve told me. You should have.”

“I wanted to,” you whisper. “God, I wanted to. But I was scared. Scared I’d lose you. Scared it would destroy everything.”

He shakes his head, taking a step back. “And instead, you let me find out like this? Just won the championship and I walk in to see you on his lap like I’m the last to know?”

You open your mouth to respond, but there’s nothing left that will fix this.

Lewis stays silent now, standing just behind you, hands in fists at his sides, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He's letting you speak, but he's close. Always close.

Nico’s eyes flick between you one last time. And whatever’s left of the triumph on his face the joy, the relief, the long-fought satisfaction of a world title is gone now.

“I was happy,” he mutters. “For the first time in a long time, I felt like I won something honestly. Like I earned it. And now…” he trails off, mouth twitching, voice going hoarse. “Now I don’t even know what it means anymore.”

The bottle on the ground wobbles where it landed. The silence between the three of you is absolute.

He doesn't wait for an answer.

With a final glance a mix of devastation and something that might be disgust he turns and walks out. The door swings shut behind him with a quiet click, and the sound echoes like a gunshot in the empty space.

You’re frozen.

Only when the silence stretches unbearably long do you feel Lewis’s hand ghost along your back.

“He was never going to take it well,” he says quietly, like he’s speaking to himself more than you.

You nod; eyes still fixed on the door Nico walked out of. “No. But I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

You lower yourself onto the bench slowly, like your knees can no longer hold you. Lewis sits beside you, not touching this time. Just there. A presence. Familiar and foreign all at once.

Tears slide down your cheeks, and this time, you don’t bother wiping them away.

You’ve just lost your brother.

And maybe - maybe you’ve lost Lewis too.

Not because the love wasn’t enough.

But because the truth came too late.

You don’t know how long the silence lasts after Nico’s exit. Could be minutes. Could be an hour. The party outside the tent has moved on music swelling, champagne corks popping, cheers echoing down the corridor but none of it touches you here.

In here, the air is heavier. Still. Like grief lives in the walls.

Lewis is still beside you; his thigh pressed lightly against yours. Neither of you has spoken since.

Finally, you turn to him, voice raw. “We ruined it.”

His head lowers, eyes fixed on the floor. “Maybe we did.”

The words fall between you like glass shattering.

You nod slowly. There’s no use pretending now.

“I thought we could keep this separate,” you say, voice trembling. “That if we were careful, if we stayed quiet it wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Lewis looks up at you, eyes tired. Haunted. “I thought that too.”

But love especially the kind that blooms in secret rarely stays clean.

“I’ve never seen him look at me like that,” you whisper, tears welling again. “Not even when we fought as kids. He looked at me like I was a stranger.”

Lewis leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Because to him, we were betrayal wrapped in silence.”

You can feel the words unspooling in your chest, ones you’ve tried not to think for months, even as the tension built behind your smiles and stolen nights.

“I don’t think we can come back from this,” you say quietly.

Lewis doesn’t answer right away. His throat moves with the effort of swallowing, but his voice stays even.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits. “But I don’t want to be the reason you lose your family either.”

The honesty in that so gentle, so resigned hurts more than anger ever could.

You turn toward him fully now. Take his hand, even though it’s shaking.

“I love you, Lewis.”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t look away. “I love you too.”

You both sit with it. The truth. The ache. The unrelenting weight of everything outside this moment.

Then, finally, you pull in a breath that feels like goodbye.

“But maybe,” you say softly, “loving each other��isn’t enough right now.”

His hand squeezes yours once. Long. Firm. Final.

“Maybe not.”

You let the silence fall again, but this time, it’s a different kind. A quieter kind. One that comes when there’s nothing left to say.

He rises first. Offers you a hand, helps you up. Your body still hums with the shape of him, with the echo of all the nights spent trying to pretend the world would wait.

You step into his arms one last time.

This hug isn’t heated or frantic. It isn’t full of promise.

It’s soft. Careful. Full of mourning.

You press your face into his chest and inhale the scent of him clean sweat, cologne, adrenaline. You want to remember it. Want to hold it just long enough to let go.

When you finally pull back, your eyes meet his and you see the same thing reflected there:

Love.

And the slow acceptance that it has to end.

He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. “I’ll never regret you.”

Your lips tremble. “I’ll never stop loving you.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing through the opposite side of the tent, his silhouette swallowed by the party he no longer wants to be part of.

You stand alone in the quiet now. The night outside is loud, golden, victorious.

But inside, all you can feel is the silence of a goodbye that came far too late.

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

2021

You grip the cue cards like they might fly away if you don’t hold on tight enough. The Spanish sun is ruthless this afternoon, radiating off the asphalt in waves that shimmer in the air, thick with burnt rubber and champagne. Cameras click. Cables snake over the ground. Media crews hustle for shots of the triumphant Mercedes garage.

But your focus is on one figure cutting through the controlled chaos.

Lewis Hamilton.

He walks toward the post-race interview zone like gravity bends slightly for him. Black race suit unzipped and hanging low around his hips, undershirt clinging to his chest with sweat. His hair is damp with champagne and effort, his skin glowing under the sun. There’s a fire in his eyes the kind that follows victory. But there’s something else too. Something softer. Something that tightens your throat.

Five years.

Five years since you last saw him.

Five years since Monaco 2016, since everything broke. Since your heart pulled in one direction and your loyalty was demanded in another. Since your brother told you he never wanted to hear his name in your mouth again.

Now here you are. Back in F1. On camera. Standing beside that very brother, Nico Rosberg and waiting to interview the man you once loved.

Nico stands to your left, mic in hand, posture military-straight, smile sharp but hollow. He’s been professional since you joined the media team earlier this season coldly civil, carefully clipped. The kind of brother who tells you he forgives you through a clenched jaw. The kind of colleague who reminds you, subtly and often, not to mess it up.

The producer’s voice crackles in your earpiece: “We’re live in 5…4…”

You exhale once shallow. The red light flicks on.

“Welcome back to post-race coverage here in Barcelona,” you say, thankful your voice doesn’t crack. “I’m joined by Nico Rosberg, and with us now is today’s race winner Lewis Hamilton, after an incredible strategic drive to take the top step of the podium.”

Lewis steps into frame, beaming. A practiced smile, but it softens when his eyes land on you.

“Hey,” he says, gaze lingering a fraction too long. “Good to be here.”

His voice hasn't changed. Still low, warm. Still a place your heart stupidly recognises.

You swallow. “Nice to see you again.”

He nods, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he holds your gaze. “It’s been a while.”

Nico clears his throat pointedly. “Hell of a race, Lewis. A lot of people figured Max had it in the bag by lap thirty.”

Lewis turns to Nico, his demeanour shifting just slightly not defensive, but guarded. “Red Bull’s been strong, yeah. But we stayed patient. Strategy came through in the end. That second stop was the turning point.”

You glance at your notes, hands steadier now. “Were you confident it would work? Or was it more hope than certainty?”

Lewis looks at you again, smile thinning into something quieter. “I had faith. Sometimes it’s not about being certain just about knowing who you trust. And what you’re willing to risk.”

It lands between you like a whisper with weight.

Nico’s eyes flick between the two of you, then back to the camera. “Tyres were gone, though. That was obvious. You had what? Eight laps left after the stop?”

“Roughly,” Lewis says, tone calm. “But I knew I had the pace. Just needed the right window.”

“Window,” Nico repeats, almost too casually. “That’s an interesting choice of word. Not always easy to find the right one.”

There’s a pause. Tense. Surgical.

You feel it in your ribs.

Lewis doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply nods, measured. “Timing’s everything.”

You step in before Nico can say something worse. “Well, whatever the strategy it was a masterclass. Sixth win here in Barcelona. Does this one feel different?”

Lewis meets your eyes again. His voice gentles, even though the crowd is screaming just beyond the fence.

“It feels like proof,” he says slowly. “That experience counts. That you don’t always have to rush. That some things are worth waiting for.”

You can’t breathe. Not properly. Not with all of it - the past, the years, the things you never said crashing under your skin.

Nico hears the breath catch in your throat. He turns, stiffening.

But the camera is rolling. And you are a professional.

So you smile. One hand on the cue cards. One heart in your throat.

“Well said,” you reply, voice even. “Congratulations again, Lewis.”

“Thanks,” he says, soft. Then to Nico, cooler “Good to see you too, man.”

Nico’s return nod is mechanical. “You too.”

Lewis steps off set, a brief nod to the crew. He doesn’t look back but you feel him in your chest long after he disappears behind the black screen wall of the hospitality zone.

You lower your mic, suddenly aware of how tightly you were holding it. Your knuckles are white.

Nico notices.

“You really held it together,” he mutters.

You look at him. “Was I supposed to fall apart?”

He shrugs, faux-innocent. “Just saying. He still looks at you like you’re the corner he never quite made.”

You narrow your eyes. “Does that bother you?”

“Not really,” Nico says and the lie is so thin it practically flickers in the air. “Just don’t expect me to be front row for the sequel.”

Then he walks off, posture stiff, jaw clenched leaving you with the echo of Lewis’s voice in your ears, and a heart that’s suddenly remembered how to ache.

You stand there for a long moment. Letting the noise of the paddock wash over you. Letting the truth settle like dust.

He saw you.

And part of you - the part that never stopped wondering suddenly feels seen again.

Maybe the past isn’t as buried as you thought.

Maybe nothing really is.

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

Your heels click too fast on the uneven asphalt, echoing sharp and frantic as you weave through the chaos of the paddock. It’s hot - hotter than it should be this late in the afternoon and the sun glints off the polished bodywork of parked haulers and garage carts, bouncing light in every direction.

You’re late. Again. Your next interview was shuffled forward someone from Red Bull, now waiting by the garage and your producer’s voice crackles in your earpiece with rising irritation.

“Thirty seconds. Where are you?”

“I’m on it,” you mutter under your breath, breath already hitching as you dodge a camera dolly on your left and a power cable snaking across the path on your right. You barely sidestep an engineer carrying a wheel gun.

The paddock is its usual post-race zoo with team staff packing up, media crews yelling over static, mechanics laughing, champagne still sticky in corners of the asphalt.

You round a corner at full speed.

So does someone else.

The impact is sudden and jarring with your body slamming into a taller figure at full force. Your clipboard clatters to the ground. Your bag slips off your shoulder.You stumble forward, a gasp caught in your throat.

But strong arms catch you before you go down.

Hands find your waist. Yours land instinctively on firm, familiar shoulders, fingers digging in for balance. You’re barely standing upright the only reason you don’t fall completely is because he steadies you, holding tight.

You look up.

Lewis.

The breath you had left disappears entirely.

His hair is pulled back, tied at the nape of his neck. Loose curls still cling to his temples, dark and damp from the champagne. He’s changed into a clean team t-shirt, but the edge of the collar is stained slightly, and a faint crease down the centre says he pulled it on in a rush. His lanyard swings lazily between you, Mercedes logo brushing against your chest. His thumb rests just above your hipbone - grounding. Too familiar.

Your heart thrashes in your chest.

“Shit sorry,” you exhale. “I didn’t see you—”

“Woah, are you alright?” he says at the same time, voice low, real concern threaded through it.

You’re both still holding each other. Too long. Too close.

You pull back half a step, just enough to breathe.

“Yeah,” you nod quickly, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face. “Just wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Me either,” he murmurs, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Some things don’t change.”

Your pulse skips.

He bends at the same time you do to retrieve your clipboard, his fingers grazing yours when he picks it up. He doesn’t let go of it right away. His hand lingers. Your fingers brush. And then he hands it over, expression unreadable.

“Thanks,” you say, softer now.

He takes a breath. His eyes rake over your face not in a way that’s romantic or possessive. It’s heavier than that. Reverent. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and the millionth all at once.

You feel exposed under it. Seen.

“I didn’t think…” he starts, but trails off. Then: “Didn’t think I’d see you again after the interview.”

You swallow. “Yeah. Didn’t think I’d run into you either. Guess this paddock’s still smaller than it looks.”

He chuckles and it’s warm, familiar. It pulls at something deep in your chest.

“Still fast, I see,” you say, trying for a tease to lighten the moment.

“Guess I haven’t lost it,” he replies, and for a second, he grins. That old, radiant grin. The one you used to kiss into submission behind hospitality units and closed hotel doors. The one he used when he couldn’t quite say I miss you, so he showed it instead.

But the grin fades quickly, like he remembers you’re not those people anymore. Not allowed to be.

He shifts slightly, like he wants to say something else, something meaningful but isn’t sure if he has the right.

You beat him to it. “I should go. They’re waiting.”

“Right,” he nods. “Don’t want Nico biting your head off.”

You pause, eyes flicking back to him. “He’s perfected the art of passive-aggressive lately.”

Lewis doesn’t laugh, but his expression twitches a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “He hasn’t forgiven me.”

You say nothing.

He doesn’t expect you to.

But then, softer: “Have you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “I…”

The words catch. Because what does forgiveness even mean when so much of what hurt you wasn’t what was done but what had to be left behind?

He sees the hesitation. Nods slowly, like he understands. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer that.”

You grip your clipboard tighter.

“Hey,” he says again, voice lower, warmer. More vulnerable. “It was really…really good to see you today. I mean that.”

You nod once. “You too.”

Then you turn. Take two steps.

And stop.

“Lewis?”

He pivots, immediately, as if he never stopped looking.

You hesitate, lips parted, unsure. “Good win today.”

There’s something in the way he smiles then smaller, but real. A glimmer of something unspoken, something ancient and tender and slightly bruised.

“Thanks.”

And then you walk away, heart in your throat, ears ringing with the echo of something you both left behind. The paddock noise swells back around you, but you don’t hear it.

You feel his gaze on your back the whole way like gravity, still tethering you even now.

Even five years later.

You don’t expect to see him again.

Yesterday’s run-in was enough more than enough, honestly. You’d spent the rest of the afternoon pretending your chest wasn’t tight and your skin didn’t hum. You buried yourself in post-race reports, edited clips until your eyes burned, and went straight to the hotel without dinner, half-dreading a text that never came and half-relieved it didn’t.

Clean break. A coincidence, not a pattern.

But fate doesn’t seem to care much for your emotional boundaries.

Because this morning, after your last driver interview and a quiet debrief with your producer, you push open the side door of the media centre - phone in one hand, coffee in the other and nearly walk straight into him.

Again.

He’s in the narrow hallway that leads to the press conference room, alone. Leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for someone or maybe avoiding everyone. His head is down, reading something on his phone.

For a second, you consider backing away.

Too late.

He looks up.

You both freeze.

He’s in soft grey joggers and a black hoodie Mercedes branded, but relaxed, off-duty. His hood is halfway up, casting a shadow over his face. There’s a moment where he blinks, like he’s unsure if you’re real. Then he straightens.

“Hey,” he says.

You grip your coffee cup tighter. “Hi.”

Silence.

You glance toward the conference room. “You hiding?”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Something like that. Just needed air.”

“In a hallway?”

“It’s quiet. Quieter than anywhere else this weekend.”

You lean against the opposite wall, keeping your distance. “Well. Congrats. You found the least exciting corridor in the paddock.”

Lewis chuckles, low and warm. “And yet, somehow, you keep turning up in it.”

That lands heavier than it should.

You sip your coffee to buy time. “This wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know,” he says, softer. “Just feels I don’t know. Like something’s trying.”

You look at him then. Really look.

He’s tired. Not in a bad way more like worn. Like the weight of everything, past and present, still lives in the set of his shoulders. But there’s light in his eyes too. Something vulnerable and a little tentative.

You exhale. “I kept thinking about yesterday.”

“Me too.”

“Not the bump,” you clarify. “Well. That too. My shoulder still hurts.”

His grin widens a little. “You hit like a linebacker.”

“And you’re still made of bricks.”

He laughs under his breath the kind of laugh that used to curl between your ribs when you were still his and he was still yours.

You watch him for a second. “Why didn’t you text?”

He looks down, thumb brushing against the edge of his hoodie pocket.

“I wanted to,” he says. “I opened the thread like ten times. Then closed it again. I didn’t know if I was allowed.”

“Allowed?” you echo, eyebrows raising.

He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re Nico’s sister.You were my girlfriend. I burned that bridge. And I hurt you.”

The hallway stills around you.

“I’m not mad anymore,” you say quietly.

He looks up at that. Eyes searching yours.

“I was,” you continue. “For a long time. I didn’t understand how you could let go so cleanly. But I get it now. You didn’t want possibility of ruining my relationship with Nico. You also had to choose your future. And I wasn’t in it.”

His jaw tenses. “You were. You always were.”

You shake your head. “No, Lewis. You picked your career. And I couldn’t fault you for that. But it still hurt.”

He steps forward, slowly, cautiously like you’re a wild animal he doesn’t want to spook. He stops a foot away. Not touching, not close enough to feel the heat, but close enough that your heart notices.

“I still think about you,” he says. “More than I should.”

Your throat tightens. You’re not ready for this. Not here, not now.

You take a slow breath. “We can’t do this in a hallway.”

He nods. “I know.”

“People talk.”

“I know.”

Another beat.

You glance toward the exit. “I’m flying out tonight.”

He nods again, slower this time. “Me too. Evening flight.”

You hesitate.

He watches you like he’s memorising every blink, every breath, just in case this really is the last time.

“I’ll be in the hotel lobby around five,” you say softly, without looking at him.

You don’t wait for a reply. Just walk away, coffee still warm in your hand, nerves buzzing like static beneath your skin.

You don’t see the small smile that forms on his face.

But you feel it in the way your shoulders drop the second the door shuts behind you.

Like something inevitable just opened. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The hotel lobby hums in low frequencies a string of polite murmurs from the concierge desk, soft jazz echoing faintly from the bar, the slow clink of a spoon against porcelain. The rest of the world is winding down, sun slipping like honey over the city skyline, casting golden warmth across the marble floors.

You sit in the corner, curled awkwardly in a chair that looks more elegant than it feels. Too deep, too stiff. Or maybe you're just too nervous to sit comfortably.

You've checked your phone three times in the last minute. Not for messages. Just to look like you're doing something other than waiting.

Your fingers are ice. Your heart is chaos.

The elevator dings.

You don’t breathe.

You look up.

Lewis steps out.

It’s him, even in the softened light, even in the unfamiliar hotel uniformity. Somehow, he still commands a room without trying. His hoodie is unzipped, white shirt fitted clean across his chest, dark jeans low on his hips. His chains catch the light when he moves. He scans the lobby just once and finds you like a reflex.

Your chest caves in around itself.

He doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight toward you with that same purposeful stride you remember the one he used in the paddock, on the grid, in the moments right before everything ignited.

When he stops in front of you, the air shifts. Warmer. Heavier.

“Hey,” he says, low. Careful. Like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“Hey.”

You stand slowly. You didn’t realise how much you needed to see him until he was standing inches away. There's no lanyard, no cameras, no fans just Lewis. Real and close. And yours for a few quiet seconds.

“You waited.”

You nod, a little breathless. “You showed.”

That flicker of a smile soft, almost shy flashes across his face. It vanishes just as fast, but you catch it. And something inside you exhales.

“Can we go somewhere quieter?” he asks.

You nod again, already moving. There’s a lounge just off the lobby lower ceilings, warmer light, privacy stitched into the fabric of the room. You guide him there like it’s muscle memory.

You settle onto a couch. He doesn’t sit far, but he doesn’t touch you either. That familiar restraint. Still reading the room. Still giving you the chance to run.

But you don’t.

You sit in the silence for a moment, letting it throb with unspoken things. You feel him looking at you, not with the intensity he used to, but something gentler. Sadder. Reverent, almost. Like he's mourning time he can’t get back.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, barely above a whisper. Honest in the way only someone exhausted by pretending can be.

Your eyes sting. “I’ve missed you too.”

He exhales, like your answer gave him permission to finally breathe.

“You were never just a fling,” he says. “Never just some hidden thing I tucked away in a box after Nico retired.”

You shift to face him more fully, hands folded in your lap. “Then why did it feel like one?”

He flinches not dramatically, but enough. “Because I didn’t know how to keep you and survive the rest. That year? I was angry. At the sport. At Nico. At myself. Losing you felt like the only option that didn’t burn everything else to the ground.”

“And now?”

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and earnest. “Now I’ve spent five years learning what it’s like to win with an empty chest.”

You feel it crack in you that wall you built to survive him. It fractures along old seams.

“I tried to forget you,” he says, voice quieter now. “I tried being with other people. They weren’t you. None of it ever felt like peace. You were my peace.”

You realise you’re shaking only when his hands reach for yours. He takes them gently, cradling them between his palms like he’s afraid they’ll disappear.

“I didn’t know how much I needed you until you were gone. And now that you’re here, I just…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how this fits into our lives. But I do know I never stopped loving you.”

It drops like a stone into your chest.

Your breath stutters.

You squeeze his hands, anchoring yourself to the moment. “I never stopped either. Not once.”

His thumb traces the back of your hand. “You still feel like home.”

You blink quickly, overwhelmed by the quiet intensity in his voice. Your voice nearly catches when you whisper, “Kiss me.”

You see it hit him. Relief, disbelief, longing all of it carved across his face like waves breaking. He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like you’re sacred.

His nose brushes yours. You close your eyes.

Then finally, finally his lips touch yours.

It starts as a question. The soft press of someone afraid the answer might still be no. But then your hands curl into the front of his hoodie, and his deepen on your waist, and you both breathe into it.

Years collapse between you. Every ache. Every almost. Every day you woke up missing him and didn’t say it.

The kiss grows not rushed, not desperate, but layered with emotion too heavy for words. His lips part slightly against yours, and you meet him there, both of you letting go and holding on at the same time.

His hands frame your jaw now, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, his breath warm and uneven. He tastes like spearmint and something unmistakably Lewis. You kiss him like you’re still in love. Because you are.

When you pull back reluctantly and slowly you stay close. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same pulse.

“I wish I’d done this sooner,” he whispers.

You give a quiet laugh, brushing your nose against his. “We weren’t ready then.”

“Are we now?”

You nod, soft and sure. “Yeah. I think we are.”

He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, like the words settled something deep in him.

The city outside glows with the last of the day. But in this small room, tucked into silence and soft light, you’ve rediscovered each other.

And in his hands steady and warm around yours - you know:

You never stopped being his.

And he never stopped being yours.

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

The door clicks shut behind you both with a soft finality. The hallway outside falls away. The world does too.

His suite is warm. Neutral tones. Floor-to-ceiling windows washed in amber light. A couch, a low table. The bed across the room remains untouched, still crisp from housekeeping. You barely notice. You're too aware of him, the way he moves around you like he remembers your rhythm, but isn’t assuming he still fits into it.

Lewis sets his keycard down quietly on the dresser, then turns to face you.

Everything slows.

This isn’t the rush of new love, or the dizzying heat of lust. It’s something heavier. Older. Worn-in. A kind of love that waited. That learned to ache in silence.

You step closer. He mirrors you.

His hands reach out again, hesitating just for a second before finding your waist. He holds you gently, like you might break or vanish. Your fingers slide up the front of his hoodie and curl into the soft cotton over his chest.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to touch you again,” he whispers, voice raw.

You look up at him. “You can now.”

The words hang between you, tender and real. He lowers his forehead to yours again, his breath slowing.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then one to his cheek. One to the scar above his eyebrow you’d traced so many nights ago in another country, in another version of this life.

He exhales shakily and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close your body against his, your face tucked under his chin.

It’s not about kissing now. It’s about being close. About memory and forgiveness.

You both stay like that, standing still, swaying almost imperceptibly. Like dancing without music. Like existing without needing anything else.

Eventually, he guides you to the couch. You sit curled into his side, his arm draped over your shoulders, fingers tracing light circles into your arm. Your legs come up over his lap, knees tucked. Like old times. But softer.

Quieter.

You talk in murmurs. Not because you need to be quiet, but because loudness doesn’t belong here.

He tells you about the nights he wanted to text you but didn’t. The way he thought of you during every champagne spray, every long flight, every hotel morning alone. He talks about his fears of hurting you, of being selfish, of pulling you into a spotlight you never asked for.

And you tell him what it felt like to watch him win from afar. How proud you were. How painful it was. How much you wanted to hate him but never could.

At one point, your eyes blur again. He tilts your chin up gently and kisses the tears away without a word.

It’s not a grand gesture. It’s not a proposal or a dramatic confession in the rain.

It’s Lewis, holding you like he’s afraid to let go. Stroking your hair back behind your ear like he’s relearning every piece of you.

“You still feel like mine,” he murmurs against your temple.

You nod, fingers fisting the edge of his sleeve. “You always were.”

There’s a long pause. Then he smiles into your hair and whispers, “I want to do this right. This time.”

You lift your head and kiss him soft, slow and certain. “So do I.”

Eventually, you fall asleep in his arms, not meaning to. Just drifting. The sun fades. The room darkens.

Neither of you could careless what Nico thought this time or even the media.

Because there’s no more running.

No more hiding.

Only this new beginning quiet, steady and real.

Together.

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