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He should’ve waited until quali ended. Should’ve stayed hidden in the back of hospitality or better, back in the apartment. Out of the sun. Out of sight.
But something had pulled him out. Maybe it was the stupid, familiar buzz of the paddock, or the glint of sunlight off the garages. Or maybe it was Lewis’s voice in his head “ I’ll feel better if I know you’re close”.
So now Nico was walking through the paddock.
He smoothed a hand down the front of his white linen shirt, tugging gently where it rested over the unmistakable swell of his stomach. Twenty-eight weeks. There was no hiding it anymore, not that he wanted to.
Every step made his back ache. Every shift in weight sent dull pressure through his hips. Every eye on him made his skin crawl.
And there were so many eyes.
Nico wasn’t someone who usually felt insecure about his appearance, but today was one of those days. He kept his chin up. Acted like the heat wasn’t making his skin slick beneath the linen shirt he’d buttoned over his dress. Like the weight of his stomach wasn’t pulling his whole body downward. When someone passed too close, he pressed a hand low over his bump, protective without thinking.
He’d worn clean flats. The dress skimmed his knees. His nails were painted a soft shell pink and he’d swiped on a bit of mascara that morning.
He didn’t know how he looked.
He just knew he had to look fine. Together. Collected.
“Nico?”
He turned to his back. He met Jenson wide-eyed blinking at him like he’d just seen a ghost. He was out of his polo and in jeans, probably between interviews.
Nico swallowed. “Hi.”
“God,” Jenson breathed. And then his whole face changed. Softened. “Hi.”
There was a long pause. Nico let it happen. Let Jenson look. His bump was impossible to hide taut under the white fabric, a hand still curled beneath it as if that might make it less real.
Then Jenson grinned wide and slow. “You look... radiant.”
Nico rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
“I mean it. It suits you.”
“It’s too hot. I’m swollen. And I forgot what it’s like to be stared at like a zoo animal.”
“So, still beautiful as ever, Britney.”
Nico huffed, but his lips tugged upward. Just barely. It felt good. Familiar.
Jenson glanced down then at the curve of Nico’s belly, the hand resting there and didn’t say anything. Just stepped in and gave him a one-armed hug, careful and warm.
“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice low.
“No,” Nico said truthfully. Then added, “I don’t know?”
Another pause.
“Come on,” Jenson said. “Let’s get you somewhere cool, then.”
Nico nodded before he could change his mind.
They walked slowly. No rush. Everyone still stared, but it was easier with someone beside him. Jenson didn’t say much just the occasional murmur about who was where, soft and grounding, like background noise he’d forgotten he missed.
Inside the hospitality suite, the air was cooler. Some faces were still familiar. Bono, in his usual spot, though others were strangers, probably new interns, Nico guessed.
He lowered himself into a seat slowly, one hand bracing his back. His spine ached. His ribs hurt from where the baby had wedged itself sideways the last two nights. He wasn’t sleeping. He was barely eating.
The last time he’d been in this building, he was a World Champion.
Now, they looked at him like he was fragile. Unknowable. No one asked questions. No one even looked like they wanted to.
Good.
Toto appeared a few minutes later. He looked at Nico for a long moment, something unreadable flickering through his expression disbelief, maybe. Surprise. But then he smiled the kind that warmed the whole room and clasped both hands over Nico’s shoulders, holding him steady.
“You’ve been missed,” he said, quietly.
And just like that, Nico felt something crack open in his chest. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d wound himself. How much tension he still carried, even now.
“Good to see you too,” he murmured.
Then he sat very still. Waited for the nausea to pass. For the ache in his back to stop throbbing.
The air inside the motorhome is thick, sweat, tire rubber, frustration. Someone had slammed a headset down. Someone else cursed. Nico heard both through the buzz in his ears, like he was underwater.
He stood near the back wall, pretending to read the screen showing the final classification, even though the only number that mattered had stopped climbing: P7. Lewis had finished P7.
Nico’s fingers curled around the swell of his stomach. His back ached. The baby felt like it was pressing on every internal organ he owned, and he could already tell the next half hour was going to be hell.
Toto came in first, muttering to Bono in clipped German. Then Bono veered off toward the engineers’ screens, jaw set tight, and Toto turned. He blinked once when he saw Nico. “You didn’t have to stay,” he said, not unkindly, but a little surprised.
Nico shrugged, the gesture stiff. “Didn’t come all this way for nothing,” he said dryly.
Toto gave him a fleeting smile. Then the door burst open again, and Lewis swept in.
Helmet off. Suit halfway unzipped. Anger rolling off him in waves.
“Fuck,” he spat, not to anyone in particular. “Man, What the hell was that strategy?”
Nico watched quietly from the corner, the baby kicking sharp into his side, like punishment. He pressed a hand against his belly, muttering silently not now, kid. This is about your father. Please don’t make a scene.
Toto held up a hand. “Let’s debrief...”
“No, I wanna know who thought that call made any fucking sense.”
His voice was sharp, all edges. But he caught sight of Nico, then his eyes flicking to the corner of the room, to the unmistakable roundness under the soft white shirt Nico wore and some of the fury softened. Just a little. Just enough that it stung worse.
Nico offered a tilt of his head. Not quite a smile.
Lewis’s shoulders lowered an inch. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.
“I wanted to be,” Nico said quietly, even though his back was on fire and his feet were killing him. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Lewis cracked a smile, but it didn’t last. “You okay?”
Nico’s throat tightened. He was supposed to ask that, Lewis was the one who’d had a shit race, not him.
“I’m fine,” Nico lied. “Tired. The chairs in the garage are shit.”
“You should lie down,” Lewis said, still keyed up, still buzzing, but now with a hand drifting to the small of Nico’s back, grounding them both. “I'll come find you after debrief.”
He looks defeated, Nico thought. But Lewis was always like this after a race didn’t go his way. but he also look guilty and why is that?. Nico nodded, then turned before the burn behind his eyes could pool into something stupid and wet. Fucking hormones, he thought bitterly.
He made it three steps before someone outside the door yelled about media commitments.
Nico found Jenson right where he expected him to be, lazily sprawled across a padded bench in the hospitality suite, one arm thrown behind his head, the other cradling a drink. He looked half-drunk already. Not that Nico cared.
“Britney!” Jenson grinned as Nico approached, making no move to get up.
Nico rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. “I told you to stop calling me that.”
Jenson patted the seat beside him. “Come on. Sit your glam ass down before you faint and I get blamed for it.”
Nico huffed as he lowered himself onto the bench, slow and careful. His spine was done for the day. His ankles too. But his heart felt a little lighter near Jenson. It was nice, having something familiar again.
“Rough race,” Jenson said after a beat.
“Don’t remind me.”
“I mean, I could’ve done better in a lawnmower, honestly.”
That got a real laugh out of Nico, sudden and sharp.
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. Around them, the low murmur of staff and engineers drifted like white noise. Safe, tucked away from the world.
“Media’s gonna eat you alive,” Jenson said eventually.
“Mm,” Nico hummed, eyes still shut. “I know.”
Then, quieter “But seriously, what happened Brit? You disappeared for months, and now all of a sudden you’re mated and knocked up.”
Nico’s mind flickered back to that final argument in November. His last race. The championship finally sealed. The overwhelming rush of achieving the only dream he’d ever had, the only thing anyone had ever expected of him. And then, right after the press conference where he’d announced his retirement, they were at it again. Shouting. Lewis bit, and Nico bit back just as hard.
That night, when Lewis came home to their shared apartment. What followed was ugly, furious sex that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But somehow, it did.
He opened his eyes again. “Things happened,” he said simply. “Bit of therapy there and there. Got knocked up along the way.”
Jenson squinted at him, but didn’t push. “Christ,” he said finally. “You two really don’t do anything half-assed.”
Before Nico could answer, Lewis appeared.
Still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist. Curls slightly damp. He looked exhausted, but the second his eyes landed on Nico, they softened.
“There you are,” Lewis said, stepping into the suite. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Jenson got to his feet, grabbing his drink. “Well, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it before I start gagging,” he said breezily. He winked at Nico. “Text me, Britney. We’ve got catching up to do.”
“If my schedule allows,” Nico replied with a tired smile.
Jenson just grinned and ducked out.
Lewis crouched in front of him, both hands resting on Nico’s belly. He looked up at him, searching his face.
“You okay?” Nico asked.
“I’m fine,” Lewis said, brushing his thumb along Nico’s knee. “You?”
“Everything hurts. But I’m fine too.”
Lewis smiled, crooked and soft, then stood and offered his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
Nico took it.
They didn’t make it three steps past the hospitality doors before the flashes started, paparazzi posted at the edge of the paddock, cameras ready. Nico instinctively ducked closer to Lewis.
Lewis slipped an arm around his back, shielding him with his body as they walked.
He’d always been possessive like that.
Silence settled over the apartment at last. It serve them right after a day spent around too many people and too much noise.
They moved through the familiar rhythm of undressing, peeling off sticky clothes, murmuring complaints. Nico hadn't even realized how sweaty he was until his shirt was off, and then all he wanted was a shower. They took one together, slow and unhurried, then changed into soft clothes.
Now Nico was curled on the sofa, legs stretched out, ankles slightly swollen. His belly rose under the thin knit of his lounge shirt, round and heavy. He exhaling slow, hand absently resting on the curve of his belly.
Lewis came back from the kitchen, holding a glass of water in one hand and a little bowl of fruit in the other.
“You were a fucking star today,” he said, nudging Nico’s feet aside to sit beside him.
Nico smiled without opening his eyes. “I was a bloated sideshow, is what I was.”
Lewis hummed. “You were beautiful, babe.”
“Charming,” Nico muttered. He accepted the fruit bowl, though he mostly just let it sit on his lap. “I thought I was going to pass out when that Sky reporter got within spitting distance.”
Lewis brushed a stray of damp hair off Nico’s forehead.
“Sorry I didn’t win today,” he said, quiet.
Nico opened his eyes. “What?”
“I wanted to. Thought I would. Kept thinking about you being there. Just... wanted you to see me win. First race with you back.”
Nico’s heart twisted.
He shifted and leaned in to kissed Lewis slow and deep, like he was trying to press something into him to keep. When he pulled away, he kept his hand on Lewis’s cheek.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he whispered. “Today might’ve been a bad race, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be a bad season.”
Lewis closed his eyes, pressing their foreheads together. “Yeah.”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
Nico nudged him again. “You hear me, Lew? You’re gonna win again next race, yes? You promised to beat that bitch for me.”
Lewis barked out a laugh. There it was Nico thought.
“I thought you and Seb already made up,” Lewis said.
“Yes,” Nico replied. “Doesn’t mean i can’t hold a grudge.”
Lewis looked at him again, serious this time. “I’ll win as many championships as it takes,” he said. He kissed each of Nico’s fingers. “For you. And for this little bean.”
He leaned down and kissed Nico’s belly.
“Lewis,” Nico groaned. “Don’t call the baby that.”
But Lewis was grinning again, his mood lifted, and Nico couldn’t help smiling too.
***
The Montreal sky was an unbroken blue by the time the chequered flag waved. Dry, clean sunlight beat down over the paddock; flags flapped high above the garages like the whole place was holding its breath.
Nico sat inside the glass-fronted Mercedes hospitality suite, curled sideways into a cushioned bench, ankles crossed, one hand braced beneath his stomach.( Twenty-nine weeks now. The weight of it was constant, heavy and grounding in a way that felt almost symbolic. He’d refused anything more than sparkling water, )turned down every offer to move closer to the pit wall. This was far enough. The monitor on the wall was clearer here anyway.
Lewis had already taken the lead by lap thirty. A clean restart, bold on the outside of Turn One, and he hadn’t looked back. But Nico still didn’t unclench until the final sector of the final lap. Until the silver blur of the W08 tore down the straight, bullet-clean and uncatchable.
First.
Nico let out a slow breath, shaky and soft.
The broadcast split to Lewis, still in his helmet, throwing a fist into the air. The garage burst into motion below - cheers, arms in the air, backslaps, the sound bled faintly through the glass, distant and euphoric. Bono had already vanished from the suite. So had Toto.
Nico stayed where he was, thumb circling slowly across the crest of his bump.
The broadcast cut to the podium soon after. A shaky, zoomed-in shot of Lewis stepping up onto the top step, he had put on his cap now, and smile so bright that it put smile on Nico face too. The Canadian anthem started, and Nico sat up just a little straighter. It was instinct, old muscle memory from all the times he’d stood on one himself, eyes to the flag, pretending he couldn’t feel Lewis two steps above or below.
But that had been then.
The camera caught a moment: Lewis looking out at the crowd, then glancing down, one hand pressed gently to his abdomen. A small nod. Like he was saying something only one person could hear, someone who, right now, was busy kicking Nico from the inside out.
“Yeah,” Nico murmured. “That’s your dad. He won.” Seems that’s enough to confince the baby to settle down.
Later, after the media scrum, Lewis found him again. Still in his race suit, grin not quite faded even though the weight of interviews had clearly started to wear on him.
Nico and brought both hands up to cup Lewis’s cheeks, fingers warm against sun-flushed skin, brushing lightly at the edge of his collar. Then he leaned forward and kissed him like the whole paddock wasn’t still spinning somewhere behind them.
Their bodies fit like they always had. Nico pressed close, his chest brushing Lewis’s, one hand sliding to the back of his neck with a kind of practiced tenderness. Lewis’s hands found his waist easily, fingers curling into the fabric of Nico’s shirt as if anchoring himself there.
Nico smiled faintly into the kiss. “Congratulations,” he murmured.
Lewis ducked his head a little, resting his forehead just beneath Nico’s jaw for a breath. He inhaled slowly, pulled in the scent of him, clean sweat and vanilla. His hand slid down, calloused fingers moving absently over the curve of Nico’s stomach with a touch that had grown more familiar with every week. “He kicked when I got on the podium, didn’t he.”
“He kicked when you overtook Seb. He hasn’t stopped since.”
“Well,” Lewis grinned, “we did just win. That’s worth kicking about.”
“I’m not carrying a tiny race engineer. You know that, right.”
Lewis didn’t answer. Just kissed his stomach again, slower now, then looked up, his sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose, eyes warm and shining beneath.
“Ready to go home?”
Nico didn’t answer right away. He was tired, the kind of tired that lived in his spine and made his vision blur at the edges.
The answer is yes. Always yes, lately, where Lewis was concerned.
The jet was already stocked and waiting when they boarded. A few Mercedes staff had helped Nico into the car back at Circuit Gilles Villeneuve, but Lewis had taken over from there pressing a hand to his lower back, carrying their bags, ushering him up the stairs with the quiet, stubborn protectiveness of someone who’d clearly decided Nico was now precious cargo.
Nico hadn’t minded. His back was killing him.
The cabin lights were low. It was nearly midnight local time, but Nico couldn’t sleep yet. He settled into the plushest seat near the rear, slipped off his shoes, and let his head fall back. He was still adjusting the angle when Lewis dropped into the seat beside him with a sigh, peeling off his jacket.
An hour later, somewhere over the Atlantic, Lewis was asleep across from him, legs stretched out, hoodie over his face. The lights were dimmed entirely now, nothing but the hum of the engines and the occasional shift of air.
Nico couldn’t sleep.
He stood slowly, wincing at the tug in his spine then padded toward the back cabin, one hand pressed steady over the bump.
The little bedroom was quiet. A soft nest of blankets, throws, the pillow from home. Familiar, Safe. He climbed in carefully, curling on his side, exhaling when the pressure eased slightly.
Ten minutes passed. Then small footsteps. A pause at the curtain.
Max.
His hair was a mess. He looked wide awake, one of his stuffed animals tucked under one arm like it had followed him through passport control.
“You can’t sleep either?” Nico murmured.
Max shrugged. “Too loud. I don’t like it when it hums.”
“You want to come here, pup?”
Max gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m not a pup. I’m an alpha now.”
Nico huffed. “Just get your ass in here, Maxy.”
Max hesitated, trying so hard to be brave, chin tilted just a little too high. Nico thought it might be Jo’s fault, all this alpha pride nonsense. Still, it made him impossibly fond.
“You’re restless,” he added gently. “And you’re disturbing the baby.”
Max’s eyes went wide. “I am?”
Nico nodded solemnly. “Very.”
Max edged closer, still reluctant, until Nico reached for his hand and pressed it to the bump where the baby kicked.
Max jolted. “Oh my God. It moves!”
“Mhmm.”
“That’s so gross,” Max said, but his voice was awed.
“You gonna keep him company or not?”
Max climbed in carefully, settling close but mindful of the bump. He looked conflicted, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to press his body against Nico or not. Nico blamed Jo’s shitty parenting again for that. If he didn’t know any better, how aggressive Max is on track, he’d think the baby alpha was still just a pup, especially with the way he was looking up at Nico, like he needed permission.
Nico sighed, pulled the oversized pup in tight, let his scent roll out warm and steady. He tugged the blanket around them both and closed his eyes.
~
Lewis found them maybe half an hour later, blinking sleep out of his eyes, padding barefoot down the narrow aisle.
He stopped in the doorway.
Nico was curled up on his side, back to the wall. One arm cradled under his bump, the other wrapped protectively around Max, who’d managed to wedge himself right up close, legs tucked, face smushed into Nico’s chest. The kid was out cold. His hand rested near the curve of Nico’s stomach, fingers still curled like he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence.
Nico’s eyes were closed. His other hand was stroking through Max’s hair absently, slow and repetitive. Half asleep but not quite gone yet.
Lewis leaned on the frame, quietly watching them.
After a beat, Nico cracked one eye open and looked at him through a sleep-slurred squint. “You spying on us?”
Lewis smiled. “You don’t even let me in the nest.”
“That’s because you snore and elbow me in your sleep,” Nico murmured without missing a beat.
“I do not”
“You do. You flail.”
Lewis crossed his arms, mock offended. “He elbows too. That’s genetic.”
“Then it’s your gene,” Nico said, eyes already drifting shut again.
Lewis’s heart squeezed. He moved closer, careful not to wake either of them, and crouched down beside the nest, just watching the slow rise and fall of Nico’s chest, the steady rhythm of Max’s breathing.
This was the kind of quiet Lewis cherished most. when everything slow down for a minute. Nico lay half-curled on the sofa, Max nestled into his side, foot resting gently against Nico’s thigh and Nico’s fingers moved lazily through Max’s hair, soft and steady, like it was second nature.
Lewis watched them with a small, unshakable smile tugging at his mouth.
He reached out and brushed his knuckles along Nico’s cheekbone, then leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Angel,” he murmured, voice low. Nothing else needed saying.
Nico didn’t even bother to answer, he only turned toward the touch, just slightly, and his breathing deepened.
Lewis stayed there a while longer, watching them both.
Eventually, he curled up in the seat beside the bed and drifted off too.
***
Nico woke slowly, his mind still fuzzy with the remnants of sleep. The first thing he noticed was the warmth behind him. the familiar press of Lewis’s chest against his back, one of his arms slung over Nico’s middle, the other drifting lower. He shifted slightly, his body instinctively arching back against the source of the heat. The sensation of Lewis’s cock pressing against the small of his back sent a jolt of desire through him.
Lewis’s hot mouth trailed kisses along his neck, his stubble sending tiny sparks of pleasure across his skin. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that resonated through him. he could feel the vibration of his words against his flesh.
Lewis’s hand slid beneath his shirt, smoothing over the taut swell of his belly with reverence, then up, cupping a breast already heavy and sore. Nico gasped softly when his fingers brushed a nipple, too sensitive this late into pregnancy, but not unwelcome.
"Morning," he said, his voice still heavy with sleep.
Lewis looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Morning, beautiful," he said, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Can I have my lucky charm today?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful growl.
Nico laughed, a sound that was half-amusement, half-arousal. "Lucky charm?" he teased.
Lewis chuckled, flipping him gently onto his back. Lewis kissed his stomach, his hands resting on either side of him. "please” he look up at him with his puppy eyes. "Let me have you, baby." He continue.
Nico laughed again, but it was more of a breathy gasp as Lewis's hands slid up his thighs, pushing his shirt up and exposing him to his gaze. "Lewis," he murmured, his cheeks flushing in spite of himself.
Instead, he let Lewis push his shirt higher. Let his thighs fall open just enough, Lewis mouth already finding his cunt. he sighed, his hands tangling in his hair as he began to eat him out with slow, deliberate licks. He knew just how he liked it, teasing his clit with the tip of his tongue before dipping lower, fucking him with it.
"Oh, God," Nico moaned, his hips bucking against his mouth. Lewis held him firmly in place, his hands gripping his thighs as he continued to devour him.
Lewis then work his way up, kissing Nico’s belly all the way to his full breast, taking it in his hand and bringing it to his mouth. He sucks softly, but as he feels Nico grow aroused by his touch, he begins to caress his sensitive nipple with his tongue while his other hand explores the rest of Nico's body. Nico tangle his fingers in Lewis hair, encouraging him to continue even when it starts to feel too good. His breath caressing Nico's skin only intensifies the sensation.
As Lewis suckles his breast, he feel growing wet between his legs. Unable to resist any longer, Lewis takes a moment to circle Nico clit with his fingertip before pressing harder, demanding entry. With a moan, Nico arch in pleasure as he finds the rhythm that drives him wild.
"Lewis, please," he begged, writhing beneath him. He held his gaze as he slipped the tip inside him, teasing him with a slow, shallow thrust. He moaned, he hips bucking against the restraint.
"Not yet," he growled, a wicked smile playing on his lips. He leaned down, his lips finding him in a hungry kiss. he could taste himself on him, sweet and musky, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He finally slid in deeper, filling him completely. he gasped, his fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Fuck, you feel amazing," Lewis groaned, starting to move with slow, deliberate thrusts. Nico could feel every inch of him, his body stretching to accommodate him. He was careful, but he could tell he was holding back, trying not to hurt him.
Nearly overwhelmed by sensation, Nico feel himself losing control as Lewis flips him onto his hand and knees. Lewis hands grip his hips firmly, holding him steady while he thrusts deep inside him. He starts slow, enjoying the tightness that surrounds him, but as Nico’s moans escalate into needy whimpers, Lewis speeds up his pace until They’re both caught in a frenzy of passion. Nico’s nails scratch at the bed sheets, leaving behind trails of frustration and desire.
With each thrust, Lewis presses deeper, feeling the heat of Nico’s body surrounding him. Nico can feel every inch of Lewis inside as he takes him with force, claiming him completely. His hips rock against Nico’s in perfect synchrony, driving them both closer to the edge. As his orgasm builds, Lewis changes his angle slightly, grinding against a spot deep within that sends Nico spiraling out of control. With a shuddering cry, Nico come apart beneath him, waves of pleasure washing over him as Lewis continues to pound into Nico until he follows suit, filling Nico with his heavy load.
~
By the time they reached Silverstone, Nico was barely holding it together. He was sore, and the fatigue was creeping up behind his eyes. He’d already skipped the last two races, his body was too tired after Montreal. But this was Lewis’s home race, he reminded himself. This one is important for Lewis.
He moved carefully through the paddock, one hand beneath his belly, sunglasses on, a loose coat thrown over his linen shirt. He’d forgotten how miserable the weather could be here. The Mercedes team had gifted him a branded windbreaker earlier, he’d shrugged it off. No way was he wearing that shit. He already looked like a box as it was. And he knew he looked like a proper WAG, just slumming it trackside for the vibes. He also knew that was entirely accurate.
Lewis kept close the whole time. Walked half a step behind him, hand always hovering near the small of Nico’s back, making sure he was okay.
Sometimes it was too much that made Nico’s skin buzz. But he let him do it. He knew it helped settle Lewis’s nerves.
The suite was packed, sponsors, friends, press, VIPs. Nico didn’t last long in the crowd. He slipped toward the back row, away from the glass, somewhere quieter. Nico didn’t even bother pretending he was fine anymore. His back was killing him. His ankle too. But Lewis lit up every time he turned and caught sight of him. That made it worth it.
He watched the race with one hand resting on his bump.
It was a blur of speed and strategy. If he was honest, he couldn’t care less about the rest of the grid, he was here for Lewis.
The crowd roared with every lap. It rang through the walls like a living thing. Nico held his breath during the tense moments and exhaled when the gap opened.
And when Lewis crossed the line
Nico’s eyes stung. He pressed his hand harder to his stomach. He murmured to the baby, “He did it again. Your Papa did it, mein Kleiner.”
The team handed him a box after the race. Silver, lined with soft foam. Baby sized noise cancelling headphones, with the Mercedes star on each side.
“For his first race,” Toto said, smiling. “Even if it’s just from the suite.”
Nico ran a hand over the tiny earpieces. His throat tightened. His eyes blurred.
“Thank you,” he managed, blinking fast.
When Toto lingered, watching him, Nico let out a helpless laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “Hormones. Driving me crazy.”
Toto hugged him. Nico cried harder.
~
The ride home slipped by in hush and shadows, the city fading behind tinted windows, engine humming soft beneath them. Nico curled into Lewis’s side the moment they were in the car. He let him rest there, leaned in, head tucked on Lewis’s shoulder, his breath fogging soft against the fabric of Lewis’s jacket.
Lewis knew how hard the pregnancy had been on him. How much it had taken. But still he looked so beautiful like this. So soft. So his.
His Nico. His only.
In Nico’s hand was the gift box from earlier. Still clutched tight, even in sleep.
Inside, nestled in the foam, were the tiny silver headphones meant for their son.
Lewis looked down at him. At the pale fringe of lashes. At the soft furrow of his brow, even in rest. The weight of what they were building together settled in Lewis’s chest like something holy.
He kissed the top of Nico’s head.
Barely a year ago, he’d nearly lost this.
He’d nearly lost him.
His beautiful Nico.
What the hell had he been thinking? Lewis smiled faintly to himself. God, he’d been so stupid.
***
The air was too hot to breathe. Even with the terrace doors wide open and the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him, Nico felt like his skin was sticking to everything. He shifted on the sofa for the third time in ten minutes, trying to wedge a pillow behind his lower back, then hissed when his spine gave a dull, stubborn throb.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered to no one. “How is it only July?”
He was thirty-eight weeks. Thirty-eight. It felt like a number that should have meant this whole thing would end soon, only God knew how much he missed his old body. But all it meant today was sweat-stained linen, swollen ankles, and being too pregnant to even waddle out to the corner café without needing to sit halfway.
Lewis had begged him to fly out for the Hungarian Grand Prix. Just to be there. Just for the weekend, though deep down Nico knew it was because of Lewis’s unbearable anxiety that something would go wrong if he wasn’t present.
Nico had shaken his head without hesitation. “You want me to go into labor in the paddock?”
Lewis had backed down pretty quick after that.
So now, here he was. On the sofa. Watching the race alone.
Sort of.
His phone was propped up beside him, FaceTime paused on Lewis’s flushed face. They’d talked just before lights out. Lewis had been in his race suit already, headphones around his neck, bouncing lightly on his feet like always. He’d looked excited, sharp, nervous in a way that Nico understood down to his bones. The call had dropped when Lewis got called to the grid, and now Nico was watching from the suite's private TV feed like some desperate WAG.
Which, he supposed, he absolutely was.
The baby kicked as the formation lap began. Nico pressed a hand to his belly, murmuring, “He’s on, little guy. Your papa’s going.”
The track blurred across the screen. Camera cuts, tire strategy graphics, familiar radio codes. It should’ve bored him. It would’ve, once. But now his heart beat a little faster every time Lewis took a turn, especially when he was under pressure.
“Come on, baby,” Nico whispered, hand cradling the back of his neck. “Not you,” he added to his stomach. “The other one.”
His hip cramped sometime after lap 40. He shifted again with a quiet grunt, lifting his foot onto the sofa to stretch. The GP was too long. Monaco’s heat was too much. And the silence in the apartment didn’t give him peace at all, It was missing something.
And Nico hated that he knew exactly what it was.
The race wrapped just past sunset. Lewis finished P4. Not bad, Nico thought. Still brilliant.
He wiped the corners of his eyes and called again immediately.
The call connected with a glitchy hum. Lewis was in the driver’s room, or maybe the motorhome, hair slicked with sweat, fire in his eyes.
“Babe,” he grinned, breathless. “Did you see it?”
“I saw,” Nico said, smiling before he could stop himself. “You were incredible.”
“You should’ve been here,” Lewis said, half laughing, half scolding. “I kept looking for you in the suite.”
Nico tilted the camera down slightly. “Yeah, well. Your son’s got me under house arrest.”
Lewis’s expression softened instantly. “How’s he doing today?”
“Feisty,” Nico murmured, stroking the bump. “I think he’s sick of the heat.”
“I miss you,” Lewis said suddenly, voice low.
Nico swallowed. “I miss you too.”
Then something going on there and Lewis added, “Alright. Gotta go, darling. I’ll be home soon.”
The screen dimmed a second later. Nico sat back against the sofa cushions, hand still on his stomach, blinking slowly at the empty room.
He whispered, “We’ll wait for him.”
~
The flight home was hell. Not the flight itself, though - it was private, smooth, quiet. But Lewis’s nerves made every hour stretch unbearably long. Like something in his chest had been wound too tight, ticking louder and louder the closer they got to Monaco. He hadn’t even changed out of his post-race hoodie, just kept bounching his legs in his seat, checking his phone for updates that never came.
Nico had gone quiet after their call. Not radio silent, but not like usual either. And that set off every alarm bell Lewis had.
So by the time he got to their house, it was almost midnight, and his nerves were fraying like wire.
He unlocked the door as quietly as he could. Inside, the lights were low. One in the kitchen, casting a warm gold glow. He could hear some noise from the TV,
Lewis dropped his bag inside the door, keys on the console table, and stood for a second just listening. he moved through the hall, quiet as he could, kicking his shoes off along the way.
He found Nico asleep on the sofa. One hand pillowed beneath his cheek, the other resting limply over his belly. He was barefoot, wearing one of Lewis’s old tees stretched tight across the bump, thighs bare, skin glowing and blotchy from heat. His hair was flattened on one side and puffed on the other. There was a half-eaten nectarine on the coffee table. A fan rotated slowly in the corner.
And Lewis never seen anything more beautiful.
God, he’d missed him. Even two weeks away felt too long. He missed the softness of him. The smell of his shampoo. The shape his mouth made when he was halfway through some dry, bratty comment. He missed the way Nico made everything feel like home, even when he was annoyed, even when they were bickering.
But most of all, he missed this.
Just being near him. Seeing that he was real.
After a long minute, he padded forward on aching feet and crouched beside him.
Nico stirred when he brushed the hair off his forehead. Blinked awake blearily.
“…Lewis?” His voice was scratchy form sleep.
“I’m home,” Lewis whispered. “Hi, baby.”
Nico yawned. “What time is it?”
“Late,” Lewis said. Lewis leaned down and kissed him, soft and slow.
Nico hummed into it, still half-asleep, then pulled back with a little frown. “You stink.”
Lewis laughed quietly, relief flooding his chest. “Sorry, love. I'll shower in a sec. Just wanted to see you.”
Nico's fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t go yet.”
“I won’t, lets get you to bed.”
“I was watching the replay,” Nico mumbled, shifting onto his back, then wincing. “Ugh. Everything hurts.”
He made a move to help, one hand slipping under Nico’s feet, the other under his back, but Nico grumbled, pushing himself up making his belly leading.
“don’t carry me lew, I’m heavy.”
“You’re very pregnant.”
Nico gasp “so you do think I’m heavy?”
Lewis grinned and Scooped him up without effort. Nico pretended to fight him for two seconds before curling into his chest with a sigh that nearly shattered Lewis’s heart.
“Flight okay?” Nico mumbled against his shoulder.
“Yeah, Boring I missed you.”
“You said that already.”
“Still true.”
He pressed another kiss to Nico’s hair. Since they were nothing but teenager, Nico always smelled like home. He was running hotter than usual, pregnancy always made his body burn a little warmer and Lewis could feel the heat of him through both their shirts.
Once they reached the bedroom, he slowly laid Nico on the bed. Nico tried to find a comfortable position to settle into. He propped two pillows under his knees, one behind his back, another between his thighs. Then he kicked off the sheet and complained about his ankles. Then he complained about Lewis’s hoodie shedding fuzz on the pillowcase.
Lewis just watched, smiling Softly.
Once Nico was finally still, Lewis reached over and gently laid a hand on his belly. He felt a nudge small, insistent and his chest cracked open.
“You missed me too, huh?” he murmured to the bump.
Nico glanced at him sideways, eyes half-lidded. “He’s been restless all day.”
“Like his papa.”
“is that even surprising?” Nico smirked, then closed his eyes again. “M’tired.”
“I got you now” He meant it more than anything. Every mile home, every sleepless night racing, every call dropped before he could say I love you, it was all worth it, just to get back here. Back to Nico. Back to this.
Their son wasn’t even born yet, and Lewis was already drowning in devotion.
And he'd do it all again. A thousand times over.
Sunlight bled in through the thin curtains, warm and golden, brushing gentle across the bedclothes. Lewis blinked awake to the scent of Nico’s skin, the faintest trace of his lotion and that sleepy, clean warmth he always carried after a shower the night before. He shifted, slow and careful, not wanting to disturb the shape curled beside him.
Nico lay on his side, back to him, breathing deep and even. blond hair spilling across the pillow like it belonged in a Renaissance painting. His shoulder was bare, the soft cotton of Lewis’s shirt clinging around his middle, stretched where it pulled over the swell of his stomach.
Lewis lay still and stared. Letting the moment sink into him like prayer.
God, he was beautiful.
Not just beautiful. Divine. There wasn’t really a word big enough for it. Nico didn’t even have to try, he just existed like this, glowing in the morning sun, his belly heavy with their son, his breath steady and slow. Lewis didn’t know how the world hadn’t cracked open from the sheer weight of him.
He shifted closer. Pressed the gentlest kiss to the back of Nico’s shoulder. He could feel the heat of him even now, even in the stillness of dawn. His omega ran hot these days, like a living hearth. Made Lewis want to curl around him and never leave.
He stayed like that for a while. Lewis counted freckles on Nico’s shoulder, His hand moved absently traced lazy patterns over the sheet, counting faint freckles like they’d rearranged themselves overnight. watched the baby shift under the skin of Nico’s belly.
Eventually, Nico stirred. Let out a quiet huff and tried to sit up.
He didn’t quite get there.
Lewis was up before he could try again. Slippers in hand, juice already half-poured, supplement dropped in without a word. It wasn’t fussing. Not really. It was just love. Quiet and constant. Like muscle memory.
Nico gave him a look, but didn’t argue.
They moved through the morning like they had nowhere else to be, sun on the terrace, soft chairs, slow breakfast. Everything lazy, everything soaked in the warmth of early summer.
Sometimes Nico grumbled. His back. His hips. The heat. The way mango suddenly tasted like soap. The injustice of trousers. And Lewis just watched him. Loved him more for every single moan and complaint.
He adored the way Nico balanced a bowl on his belly like a shelf. The way he muttered in German when Lewis fluffed the wrong pillow. The way he could still raise one brow, razor-sharp, even when he was eight months along and three shades past exhausted.
And when Nico handed him a bottle of lotion with nothing but a pointed grunt, Lewis didn’t mind. He didn’t even speak. Just knelt behind him on the bed and rubbed it in, slow and steady, hands following familiar lines now pulled tight by the weight of the baby.
One night, Nico sighed as he flopped onto the mattress like a man defeated. “I’m massive,” he muttered into a pillow.
“You’re an angel,” Lewis said, fingers still working slow over his calves. “A very dramatic one.”
“Flatterer.”
“Absolutely.” He leaned in and kissed his knee. “Can’t help myself.”
Nico didn’t answer, but he didn’t move either.
Lewis smiled to himself, hands still moving. He could live in this moment. Forever, if it meant staying here, touching him, caring for him, loving him in a way that felt more like breathing than effort.
Its was nearly 3 a.m. when Lewis woke up to an empty bed.
At first, panic gripped him tight. He reached out blindly, only to find the sheets cool and undisturbed. Maybe Nico had gone to the bathroom again. He tried to think rationally, to breathe. But the quiet stretched on, too long and too still.
He sat up. The air conditioner in the corner hummed gently. Beyond the windows, Monaco slept under silver moonlight, the city hushed and reverent. Light pooled across the floors in pale shapes, and something about it felt hollow without Nico in the room.
He got up, padded barefoot down the hall, There was a sound, low and muffled. A wet sniffle. And Lewis’s heart clenched and following the thread of it.
There, on the living room couch, he found him.
Nico was curled in on himself, swallowed by one of Lewis’s hoodies, sleeves bunched around his wrists. His face was blotchy, eyes red and glinting in the dim light. His hair looked silver in the moonlight, soft and mussed from sleep or crying. The baby bump stretched huge beneath the fabric, like it didn’t belong on someone so delicate, so breakable.
“Nico?” Lewis asked softly, stepping into the room like it might shatter if he moved too fast.
Nico startled. He scrubbed at his face with both hands. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” Lewis murmured, already crossing the room. “Come here.”
“I’m fine, I just..” Nico’s voice cracked mid-sentence. He inhaled sharply, like he could hold it all in if he just tried hard enough.
But Lewis was already kneeling in front of him, hands gently cupping Nico’s thighs. “Hey,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do that. Not with me.”
Nico’s chin trembled.
If Lewis were a lesser man, he might’ve fallen to his knees for a different reason, might’ve worshipped the vision in front of him the way he sometimes ached to, just to prove how much he adored him. Thought of course not now. Not like this. But later, he would kiss every inch of Nico in praise.
“What’s wrong, my love?” he asked.
And then it broke, everything Nico had been holding in, crashing out of him at once.
“I’m scared, Lew.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Lewis said, simply “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Nico blinked fast, angry at the tears that spilled anyway. “I’m so fucking scared. Of the birth. Of something going wrong. Of not being able to do it, or..or of you looking at me different after.”
Lewis’s chest ached. “Nico...”
“I know it’s irrational,” Nico went on, as if he hadn’t heard him. “But sometimes I wake up and I can’t breathe because I’m just… I’m not ready. I thought I was. But now it’s so close, and I don’t know if I can...”
Lewis pulled him forward, wrapped both arms tight around him and eased him down into his lap, holding him like something precious, something holy. Their bodies fit together like they were made like this was always the shape of them.
“You don’t have to be ready,” he whispered into Nico’s hair. “You just have to be here. I’ve got the rest. I swear to God, baby, I’ve got you.”
Nico shuddered against him. “I hate feeling weak.”
“You’re not weak,” Lewis said fiercely. “You’re growing a whole human inside you. You’ve been carrying both of us for months. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Nico clung tighter, fists twisting in Lewis’s shirt.
“I’m scared too,” Lewis admitted softly “I act like I’m calm because I need you to feel safe, but the truth is, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life to go right. I’ve never wanted anything more than to keep you safe.”
There was a long silence. Then, so quietly Lewis almost missed it:
“Sometimes I feel like a terrible mother,” Nico whispered, as if he was too ashamed of what he about to say, ““Because I’m scared. And… I don’t want to die.”
Lewis felt like his heart stopped.
“Oh, baby.” He reached up and wiped away the new tears that slipped down Nico’s cheeks. “You’re not going to,” he said, kissing his temple again and again, as if he could press the fear out of him. “You’re not. I’d burn the whole damn world before I let anything happen to you.”
Nico nodded, but his body still trembled, all that tension wound up in his limbs like wire.
Lewis cupped his face, his voice trembling now too. “You listen to me, Nico. I ought to keep you forever.”
Nico’s lips quirked, even wet with tears. “Forever ever?”
Lewis nodded. “Yes. If you die and I don’t, I wouldn’t survive it. You got me too good, baby. Too good to figure out how to live without you.”
Nico sniffled again, arms tightening around Lewis’s neck. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Lewis said. “So fucking much. Too much.”
He held him like that for minutes, maybe hours. He didn’t know. All that mattered was that Nico was here, that he could keep whispering I love you into the hush between them, soft and steady and real.
Eventually, Nico’s breathing evened out. His tears dried. Lewis helped him up, walked him gently back to bed, and curled around him and if it were up to him, he’d never let go again.
~
It was just after eight when Nico woke with a sharp, breathless awareness in his chest and then, oddly, the relief of being able to breathe.
Properly breathe.
He blinked at the ceiling, hand sliding over his stomach like it had a mind of its own. Everything felt heavier, shifted lower somehow. Not exactly painful. Just… unusual. Weighted. Like the baby had moved lower, right Dropped the baby has dropping.
He exhaled slowly, brows lifting toward his hairline. Oh. Well. That would explain the sudden pressure on his hips. The dull ache in his lower back. And the fact that turning to get out of bed felt like steering a tanker.
Nico shuffled to the bathroom, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, shirt hitched high on his belly, hair rumpled, eyes sleep-puffy. The drop was obvious now that he was looking for it: the roundness of his bump sitting lower, fuller. It almost made him laugh. His whole body felt like a slow-moving planet.
He didn’t tell Lewis. He should, he knew. But well. After the Braxton Hicks episode the other day, Lewis had gone into full tactical response mode, pacing the house like he was back on the pit wall. Calling doctors. Refusing to leave Nico’s side for more than ten minutes. Acting like every shift or wince meant the baby was crowning on their sofa.
They had already called their parents, though. Just to let them know things were close. His isä and Mama had even come by the day before, just to check in. Nico had not cried when he hugged them both in the doorway, thank you very much, and he’d waved them off with every intention of pretending like he wasn’t already a little afraid.
So Nico decide to stayed quiet.
He texted their midwife to confirm what he already knew, and when she said, Perfectly normal, just another sign it’s almost time, he let himself breathe easy again. Almost. Almost, being the operative word.
The house was quiet when he padded barefoot into the kitchen. He made himself some muesli and forced down a banana while Lewis hovered, kissing his temple and fussing over tea and vitamin supplements. Eventually, he vanished into his office to take a call, but not before extracting a solemn promise from Nico to “call me the second anything feels weird, alright? Even if it’s just like... a twinge.”
Nico had nodded and shooed him away with a smile. Then he waddled to the living room and stood by the open window, rubbing slow circles over his belly. The summer air was warm and light, sea breeze carrying in the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone.
“Soon, baby,” he murmured, one hand cradling underneath. “Mama can’t wait to meet you.”
Another tightening came, but stronger than before. He breathed through it, swaying slightly on his feet.
By the time dinner rolled around, the Braxton Hicks were more frequent. Nico didn’t mention them. Lewis was already watching him like a hawk across the table, eyes darting to every twitch or pause.
After they finished brushing their teeth that night, Nico caught Lewis watching him in the mirror again. Water was dripping from Lewis’s jaw, his curls pushed back messily, face soft and a little pink from the heat.
“You alright?” Lewis asked.
“Mhm,” Nico hummed, then reached for his hand. Guided it down, lower, to the curve of his belly. Slid his palm right where the weight had shifted that morning. “Do you feel it?”
Lewis tensed. “What? Is it time? Oh my god, is it”
“No,” Nico said, laughing quietly. “Not yet. But... soon, I think.”
He moved Lewis’s hand more firmly. “Here. The baby dropped this morning.”
Lewis’s eyes widened. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“The doctor said it’s normal,” Nico replied breezily. “It’s still a long way to go.”
“That’s not the point,” Lewis huffed, clearly trying not to pout. “You should’ve told me, babe.”
Nico kissed his cheek. “see, this is exaxctly why I didn’t tell you.”
“I’m a allowed to worry okay?.”
Lewis sulked the entire way into bed, pulling Nico close and wrapping around him like a safety net. He pressed soft kisses into Nico’s shoulder, his collarbone, the crown of his head. Nico smiled, eyes closed, feeling safe and stupidly loved.
And in the stillness of their room, with Lewis’s breathing slowly matching his, Nico let himself imagine the next morning.
Not long now.
He whispered it to the baby again, hand protectively over his belly, barely audible over Lewis’s heartbeat against his back.
It is absouloutly not long, Nico woke just before dawn, before the sky turned fully pink.
There was a different kind of pressure low in his abdomen this time. A quiet tug that curled into a cramp. More prominent then before, it felt different from Braxton hix. He blinked up at the ceiling, hand already moving to his bump.
Another pull came. Longer. He breathed in, breathed out.
Oh.
He didn’t move right away. The bedroom was warm and dim, Monaco still fast asleep beyond their windows. Lewis was curled around him like always, one leg between Nico’s, his arm heavy over Nico’s waist, hand splayed over his belly like it was his most treasured thing.
Nico let himself stay there a while. Just breathing. Just… being.
By the time he shifted, Lewis stirred too.
“Mmh,” came the sleepy mumble at his back. “You okay, baby?”
Nico hesitated. “I think so.”
Lewis’s hand tightened gently on his stomach. “Is it time?”
“I don’t know,” Nico said honestly, exhaling. “Maybe.”
Lewis was instantly awake.
He sat up too fast and blinked at him, curls flattened on one side. “Okay. Okay. What do you need? Do you want water? Are they regular? Should I time them?”
Nico bit back a laugh. “Lew. Relax.”
Lewis stared at him, wild-eyed.
“I’m not even out of bed yet,” Nico pointed out.
Lewis huffed, scrubbing his face. “Okay. Right. Yeah. Sorry. Just...fuck. Okay.”
Nico leaned up to kiss him. “I think today’s the day.”
They called the midwife, who told them exactly what Nico expected, wait until the contractions were regular. Timeable. Then come in. Everything sounded normal, healthy. The drop, the Braxton Hicks becoming the real thing now. The calm before.
The only child they'd decided on. The one they’d waited for.
They moved slowly through the morning. Lewis made toast and brought Nico tea, helped him into his most comfortable robe, kissed the top of his head every few minutes like he couldn’t help it. Nico had two more contractions before lunch, one of which made him stop mid-sentence and lean forward, gripping the counter.
They were still far apart. But they were real now.
By late afternoon, Nico was pacing the hall. Lewis hovered behind him, phone in one hand, the hospital bag already in the car. His voice had gone soft and serious. His smile was tight. Nico could tell he was holding back the sheer flood of panic and hope and mix off excitement.
Around six, the contractions were getting closer together, sharper now, pulsing low and hot in his back. Nico was pacing again, this time with Lewis beside him, step for step. When each contraction hit, he’d stop and lean into Lewis, one hand gripping his shoulder. He swayed his hips slowly, trying to ease the tension, breathing through the pain while Lewis held steady, solid and silent at his side.
They made it to the hospital just after 7 p.m. The midwife smiled when she saw them. Her touch was cool and practiced and gentle, and after one check, she confirmed what Nico already suspected.
“He’s almost there. You’re going to meet your baby very soon.”
Something in Nico cracked open at that.
He let himself lean into Lewis, bury his face in his shoulder. Just for a second. Just to ground himself. He didn’t cry thought. But everything inside him felt pulled taut, trembling.
They opted for the natural vaginal birth like they’d planned. The doctor said Nico was healthy, strong. That this was the safest way. That everything looked good.
That they were going to be just fine.
It was hours. Hours blurred together, swallowed whole by the rhythm of pain and pressure, his body surging and breaking open in waves he couldn’t hold back. Time folded in on itself, suspended between each contraction and the space between them, just breathing, just bracing, just trying to stay tethered.
And through it all, Lewis never left.
He was there, hands firm and sure, wrapped tight around Nico’s, knuckles pale from how hard Nico clutched him. His voice was a thread through the storm, low and steady, speaking straight to the center of Nico’s trembling self.
“You’re doing so good, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Sometimes it felt like he might fall apart completely. Once, a scream tore from his throat, hoarse and cracked. Another time, he bit down on Lewis’s wrist, not that he meant to, not really, it’s just the pain spiked sharp and he needed something to ground him. Lewis didn’t even flinch. Just pressed a kiss to his sweat-slick temple and whispered, “Breathe, love. You’re so close.”
The baby was right there, he could feel it, so heavy, so low it felt like the bones of his pelvis might split apart. The pressure between his legs was indescribable, a fullness that bordered on unbearable, and still, still nothing moved. He pushed again, breath ragged, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes as frustration bloomed hot behind his ribs.
“He’s not coming,” Nico gasped. “I can’t...he won’t...”
“Yes, he will,” Lewis said, gently but firmly, voice like hands anchoring him. “We’re gonna change positions, yeah? Just breathe for me. We’ve got you.”
Hands, so many hands, midwives moving around them like a practiced tide and then Lewis was behind him, warm and solid, lowering him carefully onto his knees. Nico braced on the birthing bed, arms trembling from the effort, and Lewis curled calluses around his back , his palm wide over Nico’s belly, the other sliding across his ribs.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Lewis whispered, lips brushing the curve of his shoulder. “Lean on me. Let go.”
And Nico did. He let himself fall back against Lewis’s chest, thighs shaking, whole body coiled tight as another contraction slammed through him. He sobbed against Lewis’s neck, open and hurting and raw. Lewis’s hand was stroking up and down his side, steadying him through the tremors, through the sharp ring of burning that tore through him.
“It’s too much...fuck, I can’t..”
“Yes you can,” Lewis whispered, voice rough with feeling. “You are. You’re doing it, Nico. You’re almost there, just one more, baby, I promise, just one more”
And Nico cried out, pushing through the pain his body feel like on fire, like his body was made to break apart and rebuild itself for this one moment. His knees slipped, Lewis caught him. The world narrowed to breath and noise and unbearable stretch
and then there was a gasp, a shift in the air, a rush of warmth and wet and relief.
He heard someone say “The head’s out, just one more push,” but it didn’t matter anymore. Nico bore down one final time, body trembling, and suddenly At just past 2 a.m. almost exactly twenty-four hours after that first real contraction, the baby arrived.
Their son.
The room went still in the second before his cry filled the air. And then Nico was laughing and crying at the same time, blinking through sweat and tears as the nurse gently laid the baby against his chest.
Tiny. Warm. Squalling. Perfect.
Lewis made a sound Nico had never heard before. Somewhere between a sob and a prayer.
“Oh my God,” Lewis whispered, kissing Nico’s temple, his jaw, his mouth. “You did it. Baby, you did it.”
Nico couldn’t stop looking. He stroked a trembling finger over their son’s cheek.
“Hi,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Hi, baby. We’ve been waiting so long for you.”
They stayed in the delivery room for a while after. Long enough for the nurses to finish their checks, to clean both him and the baby up, to tuck them beneath fresh blankets and dim the lights again.
Lewis hadn’t let go of his hand once.
Their son was small, lighter than Nico expected, but long. His skin still mottled from the strain of birth, his limbs curled tight to his chest like he didn’t quite trust the outside world yet. He made soft, tentative sounds against Nico’s collarbone, rooting instinctively.
“He’s hungry,” one of the midwives said gently. “Do you want to try breastfeeding?”
Nico hesitated. Then nodded.
They helped him adjust, helped the baby latch, and for a moment everything else disappeared. It was awkward at first strange, animal but then it settled into something wholly new, wholly natural. His son’s mouth suckled rhythmically, his tiny fingers flexing against Nico’s skin.
And Nico felt like crying again, he didn’t know if he even stop before.
He looked down at his baby, overwhelmed by how right it felt. How heavy and real and impossibly small this new person was.
He could feel Lewis watching him. Watching them.
When he finally glanced up, Lewis’s eyes were glassy. He looked completely undone.
“God, I love you,” Lewis whispered, voice breaking around it. “He’s perfect.”
Nico let out a soft, wet laugh, thick with exhaustion and something close to disbelief. “Yeah,” he said. “He really is.”
Lewis sat again at the edge of the bed, his hand moving gently through Nico’s damp hair, smoothing it back from his forehead like he couldn’t stop touching him. “Thank you,” he said, quieter now. “For him. For this. For giving me all of it.”
Nico blinked up at him, eyes glassy, lips parted like he couldn’t quite find the words.
Nico swallowed, and Lewis leaned down to kiss his temple. His hand found Nico’s again, squeezed it, thumb brushing soft over his knuckles.
“You gave me a family,” Lewis said, and it with full gratitude in his voice.
Nico closed his eyes for a second. Let the words land. Let himself have them.
Eventually, the midwives returned to weigh the baby, to record the numbers.
“3.5 kilos,” one of them said. “Strong lungs. Ten toes ten fingers, Everything looks perfect.”
They brought him back a few minutes later, swaddled snug, and placed him in Lewis’s arms this time.
Lewis stared down at his son like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.
And then one of the nurse with paper ask “So. Do we have a name?”
Nico nodded. He already knew the answer, they both did. They’d decided weeks ago. But saying it out loud made it real. Final. Forever.
“Emilian,” Lewis said. “Emilian Carl Davidson Hamilton.” He said proudly, lewis rarely showing his alpha nature but this shall be one of them
Lewis then getting close to nico and put the babe in his arms and he in return cradle them both in his arm
Nico’s smile trembled. “Hi, Emil,” he whispered. “it’s mama, Welcome to the world.”
Not long after, Nico’s parents arrived. They’d already been waiting at the hospital, pacing through the halls the moment they got the call.
His isä came in first, heading straight for Nico, already teary-eyed as he murmured that he wanted to see his baby. He didn’t say much else just brushed Nico’s hair back with a trembling hand, like he was still a child himself, like this was all still too impossible to believe. Then his mother followed, tears already streaming down her cheeks as she leaned in to kiss Nico’s face over and over again, whispering things in German he couldn’t quite hold on to, overwhelmed as he was. When she finally held her grandson for the first time, she broke into a full sob.
They stayed until the sun came up. Long enough to see Nico safe, glowing with exhaustion and love. Long enough to see the soft wonder in Lewis’s eyes and the tiny, sleeping weight of their grandson in Nico’s arms. Long enough to know that the worst was over and the best had just begun.
Before they left, they both reminded him gently that they were just a few minutes away. That help was never more than a single call. That Nico wasn’t doing this alone.
Lewis’s dad sent a bouquet so massive it didn’t fit on the bedside table. Nico’s phone buzzed constantly, full of messages from the people who mattered. Max.Toto. Susie. Valterri. Esteban. Even Seb, especially Seb, whose message was just two words:
Finally. Glückwunsch.
And then there was Jenson.
He didn’t even knock. Just grinned his way in, arms full of presents, looking like he’d run all the way from wherever he’d been.
“You absolute legends,” he said, stopping short at the foot of the bed. “Jesus Christ, look at him. He’s a miniature you, Nico.”
“He is not,” Nico said, instantly scandalized.
“He is,” Jenson insisted, already coming closer. “Look at his mouth. That’s the Rosberg pout if I’ve ever seen it. Tragic for the rest of us.”
Lewis laughed, leaning back against the pillows. “He hasn’t even been alive a full day and you’re already starting the rivalry.”
“Never too early,” Jenson replied, but his voice had gentled as he gazed down at the baby cradled in Nico’s arms. “He’s beautiful, you two. Truly. Congratulations.”
Then he looked between them, something a little more serious flickering across his face. “Godfatherhood still on the table?”
Nico nodded without hesitation, his heart squeezing tight and full.
“Then I’ll do you proud,” Jenson said, reaching out to trail one careful finger down Emilian’s tiny arm. “And I’ll teach him all the things you won’t.”
“Like what?” Lewis asked, instantly suspicious.
Jenson grinned. “Like how to live a little.”
Nico rolled his eyes. “Only if you wait until he’s at least ten.”
“Eight,” Jenson bargained.
They all laughed. It felt ridiculous and warm and perfect, like this fragile, impossible moment might actually last forever.
Eventually, Jenson slipped out again, with one last wink and a whispered promise. The nurses came in quietly, dimmed the lights, checked Nico’s vitals, checked the baby’s.
Lewis crawled into bed beside Nico, moving carefully around the wires and the small bassinet beside them. He kissed Nico’s temple, fingers curling gently over his hip.
Nico looked down at their son, warm and soft and impossibly small against his chest. His heart felt too big for his body.
The first day home was a blur. Emilian slept most of it, tightly swaddled, impossibly small, a warm little bundle in Nico’s arms that barely stirred except to feed. He smelled like baby and milk, and sometimes, when he blinked up at Nico with his dark, unreadable eyes, he looked so much like Lewis it made something in Nico’s chest twist up and full of love.
Lewis carried the bags in himself, even though the staff offered. Nico watched him set things down in the nursery with the kind of reverence people usually reserved for religious relics. He touched everything like it might vanish like the little cot, the rocking chair, the shelves lined with hand-picked books were all a dream he didn’t want to wake from.
They moved slowly through that first evening. Nico nestled into their bed, Emilian tucked close in the crook of his arm, while Lewis sprawled beside them, one hand always resting on both of them like he didn’t trust the world not to steal them away.
At some point Nico dozed off. He woke to the sound of Emilian fussing quietly and the feeling of his shirt clinging damp to his chest already soaked through with milk again. The baby’s cry had barely reached full strength before Lewis had sat up and reached for him, all sleepy-eyed tenderness.
“I got him,” Lewis whispered, voice thick with love and exhaustion.
But Nico shook his head, already pulling Emilian to him. “He wants me.”
Of course he did. He always wanted Nico. The warmth of him, the smell of him, the soft, endless rhythm of a mother’s heartbeat and breath. Lewis watched, mesmerized, as Nico guided Emilian to latch, breath catching at the way they fit together so perfectly.
“He’s like… a little alien,” Lewis whispered. “Like a squishy, hungry alien that thinks you’re his entire planet.”
Nico looked down at the baby, dazed with affection. “He’s not wrong.”
They didn’t sleep much. Nico woke to every sound, every shuffle, every hiccup. His body ached. His hips were sore. His nipples stung. And he couldn’t stop crying.
He cried when the sun came up, painting gold over the canopy of their bed. He cried when Emilian curled his fingers around one of his. He cried when Lewis brought him a tea and kissed his forehead. He cried when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered or eaten anything other than toast.
Lewis blessed his soul not even once tease him about it, He just held him, and rubbed slow circles on his back, and said, “I’ve got you, baby. You’re doing so good.”
And then, too soon, it was time for Lewis to leave.
He stood in the doorway of their bedroom, still in his travel hoodie, cap pulled low over his curls. His bag was packed. His car was waiting. Spa was calling.
But he didn’t move.
Nico sat propped up in bed, hair tied in a low, lopsided knot, shirt half open for Emilian access to attached to him
“You’re not allowed to cry,” Nico murmured, though his voice was thick with it already. “Or I will sob.”
Lewis stepped closer, sitting at the edge of the bed that Nico sure half his butt is hanging. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know. But you have to.”
“You’ll call me if anything’s weird? Or if you need anything? Or if you just want me to tell Toto to fuck off and come home early?”
“Yes, yes, and no,” Nico smiled through tears. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
Lewis leaned in, kissed him slow, kissed the baby’s head, kissed the curve of Nico’s milk-slick collarbone like a prayer.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered. “I hope you know that.”
“I feel disgusting.”
“You look divine mon cheri”
“your French is shit lewis”
They held on for another moment, and then Lewis stood. Shouldered his bag. And walked backward through the doorway, like he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off them.
Nico fed Emilian on the couch, curled in a ridiculous blanket nest Lewis had built before leaving. His shirt was soaked again. He hadn’t moved to change it. He smelled like milk already so there’s no point.
When the baby finally drifted off, Nico stayed still. For hours.
Outside, the garden shifted with wind. The pool sparkled untouched. Somewhere in the kitchen, someone was preparing tea. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He just looked at the small miracle on his chest and thought I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I love you.
That night he didn’t sleep. Not really. He held Emilian through the feedings and the restlessness and the quiet moments of perfect stillness, where he could just watch the soft rise and fall of his baby’s chest. He cried again, but softer this time. Less like breaking and more like letting go.
The next day, he watched Lewis race from the couch.
He managed to get Emilian down just a few hours before the lights went out in Spa. The baby was tucked close in a bassinet beside him, peaceful in sleep, while Nico stared at the screen like it was the last thing tethering him to the real world.
Lewis was brilliant. Fast. Precise. Even through the TV, Nico could see it, the focus in his eyes, the hunger. But there was something else, too. A softness. A different kind of gravity.
He won. Of course he did.
The reporters rushed to meet him at parc fermé, microphones flying, all noise and chaos and shouting. Lewis wiped sweat from his brow, turning, half-smiling, scanning the chaos around him. and then the camera caught him, properly caught him, and Nico saw the moment it all cracked open behind his eyes.
“Well,” Lewis said, breathless and glowing, “I had to win for my babies back home.”
The reporter said off-screen, the words audible over the buzz. “Congratulations, by the way—on the new arrival. That’s wonderful news.”
“Thank you,” Lewis smiling said. “They’re everything.”
And Nico, back on the couch in Monaco with milk staining his shirt and a sleeping baby at his side, absolutely did not cry.
He tucked his face into the soft cotton shoulder of the blanket nest and let the tears run warm and wet across his cheek. His chest ached with it. Not sadness. Not even pride.
Just love. A love so enormous and ridiculous and obscene that he didn’t know how he’d ever fit it back inside his ribs again.
He reached out, touched Emilian’s tiny hand. Whispered, “Papa won. For you.”
***
Nico wasn’t ready.
He’d packed the night before, three different outfits for three different team events, something formal for the FIA gala, something looser in case he needed to pump but nothing in his suitcase felt like it belonged to him. Not without Emilian. Not when his arms felt too empty already.
He hadn’t spent a single day apart from his son. Not since the birth. Not since the first time Emilian had latched to his chest, barely an hour old, and blinked up at him like he already knew who Nico was. Like he already loved him.
And now he was leaving.
Only for a weekend, he kept repeating to himself. Just three nights. Emilian would be with his parents in Monaco, spoiled and doted on and kissed endlessly. The nanny would help. Everything was planned. Everything was safe.
But Nico still cried when the car pulled away from the house, fingers twisting in the sleeve of Lewis’s hoodie, the one he’d stolen from the laundry and hadn’t washed because it still smelled like home.
Lewis was at his side, of course. Lewis, who hadn’t said a word when Nico wept through Emilian’s entire morning feed. Who had only kissed his damp cheeks and said, “I know, baby. I know.”
The flight to Abu Dhabi should’ve been easy like usual, but Lewis's nerves seemed to drag the hours into molasses. Nico could feel it in the way Lewis kept checking his phone for no reason, pacing the aisle, muttering half-sentences under his breath. And all the while, Nico’s chest only grew tighter. He hadn’t pumped on the plane, hadn’t wanted to speak about it. And now it hurt.
Badly.
By the time they reached the hotel, Nico’s shirt was damp. His chest throbbed in waves. His body didn’t understand where his baby was. His hormones didn’t understand that he had to be away. His hands shook when he took out the travel pump, tucked himself into the bathroom of the suite, and cried as the milk came down, hot and stinging and too much.
It was Lewis who found him there, sitting on the cool tile floor.
“Oh, love,” Lewis murmured, kneeling beside him. “You should’ve told me.”
“I’ts nothing lew,” Nico whispered, rubbing at his eyes. “I should’ve pump earlier”
Lewis said gently. “You’re bloody magnificent.”
Nico sniffed, not quite believing it, and leaned into Lewis’s chest. Milk soaked into the shoulder of Lewis’s shirt. Neither of them cared.
Nico face still little bit raw to fully hide, but nobody commented when they arrived in the paddock. Maybe they all knew better. Maybe they could all see it on him the sharpness of leaving your newborn for the first time. The way his eyes kept drifting to his phone, to the nanny’s updates, to the photo of Emilian asleep with his thumb pressed between his cheeks.
Toto didn’t say a word either, just offered him his paddock jacket after Nico sneezed twice in a row and looked like he might burst into tears about it.
“Rosberg,” he said, a little gruff. “Don’t shiver. It’s unbecoming.”
Nico gave him a watery smile. “Thanks.”
Sunday came fast.
Nico stood in the Mercedes garage, arms crossed tight over his chest, fingers clenching the sleeves of Lewis’s jacket, and watched the race unfold.
Lewis was sublime.
Sharp and fast, hungry without being reckless. Like he could taste the title, but didn’t need to chase it. It came to him, lap by lap, like the circuit itself bent to his will. When he crossed the finish line, Nico felt something unfurl deep inside him, pride so big it nearly eclipsed the ache.
His husband. World Champion. Again.
Lewis was swallowed by press, pulled into camera flashes and interviews, and still Nico stayed back, waiting. The sun dipped lower. The paddock buzzed, glittered, reeled with victory.
When Nico saw him again, Lewis was striding toward the hospitality entrance, head on a swivel, searching.
He met him halfway just outside the door and then he was in Lewis’s arms, wrapped tight, pulled close, Lewis kissed him hard . Champagne soaked and breathless, with celebration surging around them.
Nico gasped, hands gripping the collar of Lewis’s suit. “You... ”. Nico went again for a kiss.
Nico felt his chest dampen again as Lewis hugged him tighter but for once, it was masked by the soak of champagne over his dress. And he was almost thankful for it, for the small mercy of not being exposed again.
The team was roaring somewhere behind them - music thumping, corks popping. Lewis didn’t let Nico go. He kissed him again, slower now, reverent, then laced their fingers and tugged him toward the lights.
The celebration was chaos: champagne soaked hugs, chants, group photos, media flashes bouncing off every reflective surface. Lewis had his arm around Nico the whole time—tight and low around his waist, fingers occasionally brushing the hem of his dress, then drifting up to rest over his stomach. Possessive.
***
The villa was perched on the cliffs of Ibiza, sun-bleached and slow in the afternoon haze. Bougainvillea spilled from the balcony, bright against white stucco. Somewhere beyond the wide terrace, the sea stretched out in a lazy, glittering sprawl, waves kissing the rocks below. Inside, the air was cool with open windows and the clink of champagne flutes being arranged on a sideboard.
Nico padded barefoot across the tiles, hair still damp from the pool, a muslin cloth thrown over his shoulder where Emilian had last drooled milk. The baby, no, not a baby anymore, he corrected himself with a soft, almost wounded thought, had been passed off to his grandfather about twenty minutes ago and was now busy trying to dismantle a beach parasol while Keke watched him with fond resignation.
Nico’s belly curved gently under the gauzy cotton of his shirt. Just barely a bump, but enough now that the buttons sat a little differently. Two months along. He’d only thrown up three times that week, which felt like an immense victory.
The patio loungers were sun-warmed and dappled in shade from the stretched linen canopy above. Sebastian plopped down on the sun-warmed lounger beside Nico and scowled into his drink like it had personally offended him.
“That fucking rat bastard,” he muttered.
Nico didn’t even look up from where he was watching Emilian toddle unevenly across the grass, his little linen shirt already untucked, one suspender dangling from his shoulder. “Which one?”
“Mark,” Sebastian bit out.
“Ah.” Nico sipped his spritz and blinked slowly. “What now?”
“He said he was going to the circuit with the guys. Just some social laps and a few beers. That was three days ago. I’ve barely gotten a text since. You’d think he was dating Helmut Marko with how cryptic he's being.”
Nico snorted. “Well. You did mated a racing driver.”
“So did you!”
“Yes, but mine comes home,” Nico said smugly, gesturing toward where Lewis was half-wrestling Emilian away from the birthday cake table before his sticky hands made contact with the icing.
Sebastian gave him a long, unimpressed look. “That cheating fucking bastard. I’m going to sell all his fucking 911s collection. I’ll show him not to fuck with me!”
“Sebastian, that would cause a scandal”. Nico pleaded. He really really did not want to have to bail Sebastian out of jail.
“Fine,” Sebastian muttered, draining the rest of his drink. “But if Mark doesn’t call by tonight, I’m blocking him.”
“Didn't you just unblock him last week?”
They both turned when the terrace doors slid open and Lewis stepped in, towel slung low around his hips, droplets clinging to his shoulders. He was laughing at something Susie said behind him, but the moment his eyes found Nico, something softened in him instantly.
“Hi, baby,” he said, walking over to press a kiss to Nico’s temple.
“Hallo,” Nico muttered, tipping his face up for another kiss anyway.
Lewis smiled against his mouth.
“Ugh,” Seb groaned loudly, standing. “I’m leaving before someone gets pregnant again.”
“Coward,” Lewis called after him, but he didn’t let go of Nico’s hand.
Nico made a mental note to book relationship therapy for Seb and Mark.
The rest of the day slipped into warm, golden motion. A few more friends arrived just close ones, the kind who had already seen them bleary-eyed at three a.m. feedings or snuggled in matching sweatpants on facetime. There was no big theme. No balloon arch or hired entertainment. Just a simple cake, a paddling pool, and Emilian wobbling around on uncertain feet in a tiny linen romper, shouting “heiß! heiß!” at the sun. There was so much gibberish these days.
Nico leaned against the railing and watched him with something knotted in his chest. A year. One whole year. He didn’t feel ready for it to have passed.
Lewis joined him, wrapping both arms around his waist from behind and resting his chin on Nico’s shoulder.
“He’s so big now,” Lewis murmured, eyes on their son.
“I know,” Nico said, barely above a whisper.
“He looks like you.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Nico scoffed, but his voice cracked just a little.
Lewis didn’t argue. He just kissed the side of his neck, warm and quiet.
Later, when the sun began to dip low over the sea and guests lounged in a happy sprawl on cushions and deck chairs, they brought out the cake, simple and homemade, shaped like a little car with one crooked candle. Emilian looked at it with the wary suspicion of someone offered a piece of modern art, then, encouraged by cheers and clapping, promptly grabbed a fistful of frosting and smeared it into his eye.
“Alpha,” Seb declared, deadpan.
Nico laughed so hard he had to sit down. He couldn’t stop watching Emilian sticky-faced, babbling nonsense that swung wildly between German and something wholly invented, arms flapping like a triumphant goose.
They gave him a wooden push-bike, which he promptly tried to ride off the edge of the pool deck. Keke saved him. Again.
By twilight, the villa was quiet again, painted gold by the last sweep of sun across the sea. Guests had drifted into lazy conversation or headed home, and the summer air hummed with cicadas and the distant rush of waves.
In the nursery, Nico sat curled into the corner of the rocking chair, one leg folded beneath him. Emilian was nestled against his bare chest, heavy with sleep, his tiny mouth still latched as he suckled in slow, dreamy pulls. One chubby fist rested over Nico’s heart, the other curled tight into the soft cotton of his open shirt. His cheeks were flushed from the sun, a smear of frosting still faint behind one ear.
Nico brushed a thumb along his son’s temple and murmured, “Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, mein Liebling…” His voice was low, nearly a whisper. “Ein ganzes Jahr. Du bist mein ganzer Stolz.”
A creak at the door made him glance up but he didn’t startle. Lewis stood in the doorway, barefoot and still warm from the shower, watching them with something in his eyes that looked like awe.
Nico smiled, soft and tired. “Did I miss cake round two?”
“Only Seb trying to convince your dad to take a tequila shot,” Lewis murmured, stepping inside. “He almost did.”
“Classic Sebastian move,” Nico whispered dryly.
Lewis knelt down beside the chair, one hand reaching to smooth a stray lock of hair from Nico’s damp temple. Then, slower, reverent, he laid his palm over the small curve of Nico’s stomach. Barely a bump. Still so early. But real.
“You’re amazing,” Lewis whispered.
Nico rolled his eyes gently, shifting to glance down at Emilian, who was unlatching now with a sigh, already slipping deep into sleep. Nico adjusted his grip and rose carefully, cradling the baby close as he padded over to the crib. He laid Emilian down with practiced ease, covering him with the soft muslin blanket printed with tiny stars.
Lewis joined him at the edge of the crib. Together, they stood in silence, watching their son breathe.
Nico reached for Lewis’s hand without looking, fingers finding his instinctively. Their joined hands rested just barely against Nico’s hip.
“Happy birthday to our boy,” Lewis said softly, voice thick.
Nico leaned into him, head against Lewis’s shoulder, eyes still fixed on the tiny rising and falling of Emilian’s chest. “Danke,” he said at last, voice barely audible. “For him. For us.”
Lewis turned and kissed his temple, then his cheek, and finally his mouth slow and lingering, quiet in the darkened room where their son slept and their future stirred between them, warm and safe.
***
Nico sat barefoot on the floor, his legs curled sideways, one hand absently circling his belly as Emilian stacked soft blocks beside him and then knocked them down with triumphant glee.
“Boom!” Emilian declared, proud of his own destruction. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Mama, boom.”
Nico smiled softly. “Ja, Boom. Sehr gut, Schätzchen.”
He leaned forward to fix a block Emilian had slobbered on, and as he moved, a faint cramp curled through his lower back, just enough to make him pause. His hand pressed to the place instinctively. Still only five months. Too early to start aching like this.
“Maybe I’m just getting old,” he murmured under his breath, ruffling Emilian’s curls, which were growing longer and more stubbornly wild by the day.
The days had taken on a rhythm since Lewis left for the flyaway leg of the season. Morning walks through the narrow Monaco streets with Emilian snug against his chest. Quiet afternoons on the balcony, Nico sipping tea while Emilian babbled to the seagulls. Dinners eaten in the soft glow of a single kitchen lamp, Emilian in his highchair smearing mashed sweet potato on everything he could reach. Then bath time, lullabies, breastfeeding, bed.
And somewhere in between, the long minutes of longing. Of missing Lewis. Of pressing his phone to his ear and trying not to sound too tired, too hormonal, too much.
Tonight was no different. After Emilian had finally gone down, his warm little body heavy with milk, lashes damp against his cheeks, Nico padded quietly into the bedroom, phone already in hand.
It rang once. “Hey, love,” came Lewis’s voice, warm and low and familiar enough to make Nico’s eyes sting.
“Hey,” Nico breathed, lying back against the pillows, one hand still cradling the slight swell of his belly. “We’re okay. Emilian was… extra loud today.”
Lewis chuckled. “He’s just getting louder to make up for me.”
Nico laughed, quiet and a little shaky. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. Every second.”
They stayed on the phone like that for a while. Nico letting the silence stretch between his replies, too tired to hold a proper conversation but too heart-hungry to hang up. He could hear the bustle of Lewis’s hotel room in the background, bags being zipped, the faint beep of something electronic.
“He’s getting so big.” Lewis said eventually. He’s talking about the photo that Nico send earlier, of Emilian sleeping in his arms.
“He’s a giant,” Nico agreed. With the rate of him demanding to be feed, Emilian probably gonna be towered over them soon, which Nico didin’t want to imagine it yet.
He didn’t tell Lewis he’d cried earlier. That he’d been pumping even though he still breastfed, just to store extra milk in case anything happened, and he’d sat in the bathroom with the pump wheezing softly and tears spilling down his cheeks because he hated doing it alone. He didn’t tell him about the random leak during Emilian’s nap or the nosebleed that startled him awake this morning.
Lewis didn’t need the guilt. He needed to focus. He is going to win another championship.
But still… Nico clung to the sound of his voice like a lifeline.
“Okay,” Lewis said softly, like he could tell Nico’s eyes were drooping. “I’ll let you sleep. But tell Emilian his Papa loves him. And tell the baby too.”
“I will.”
“And you, angel,” Lewis added. “I love you most.”
Nico just nodded, lips pressed together, heart full and aching all at once.
***
Emilian hated socks. And shoes. And wearing the appropriate footwear for weather conditions. But that didn’t stop him from loudly demanding them when the mood struck.
"Links! Links!" he shouted one afternoon, pointing dramatically at his feet.
Lewis glanced down. He held up a tiny pair of sneakers. “You want shoes? Here.”
“Links!” Emilian yelled louder, face scrunched in rising frustration.
“Okay, these are shoes. Like Papa’s. Cool, right?”
Emilian threw one at the floor. “LINKS!”
Lewis squinted. “Do you want… a link? To a video? But we’re gonna play outside, remember?”
It wasn’t. Emilian began his patented T-Rex stomp of rage, arms flailing, feet stomping in angry rhythm, tears suspiciously close.
Nico walked in holding a smoothie, took one look, and said calmly, “He’s telling you that’s the wrong shoe. Links means left.”
Lewis looked down. Two right shoes.
“Oh.” He blinked. “Huh.”
Emillian, seated in the corner with a snack, folded his arms like a pissed-off politician and shook his head in judgment.
“So I’m the only non-German in this family now,” Lewis muttered.
Nico just leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Then maybe you should spend less time racing and more time learning your child’s language.”
~
They’d flown out just a few days after Abu Dhabi. Lewis had clinched his fifth World Championship, and Nico hadn’t let go of his hand for hours after, practically buzzing with pride even as his whole body throbbed with exhaustion. They’d flown back to Monaco, kissed Emilian all over, then packed up again for somewhere quieter, colder. Somewhere where Lewis could finally snowboard and Nico could sit still.
This was Emilian’s first snow.
He had screamed. Not in fear, but in giddy, furious delight. Like he couldn’t believe no one had told him the world could do this that the sky could fall and it would be cold and soft and everywhere.
Now he was outside in a puffy navy snowsuit that made him look like a miniature astronaut, arms stuck out and wobbling. Black curls peeked out from beneath a tiny helmet. Lewis had rigged some kind of contraption that wasn’t quite a snowboard but wasn’t not one either just a tiny board with boots strapped in, and Lewis crouched low behind him, guiding him in slow glides down a gently sloped hill behind the chalet.
Nico watched from the edge of the snow, tugging his puff jacket tighter over his growing belly, thankful it still zipped. The cold bit at his nose, but he didn’t care. The view in front of him, Lewis steady and patient, Emilian screeching with joy was better than any mountain.
He laughed under his breath, heart stinging with how much he loved them.
“Hey,” Lewis called, breath fogging as he turned toward him. “Still watching us?”
“I always do,” Nico murmured, and walked toward them, crunching snow beneath his boots. He tucked himself under Lewis’s arm, leaning into the warmth. “He’s obsessed. Reckon he’ll be a professional snowboarder?”
Lewis grimaced. “With our blood? Nah. Not a chance.”
Nico burst out laughing, then crouched stiffly in front of Emilian, who was still strapped into his tiny board. “Are you cold, baby?” he asked softly, brushing a gloved hand across the toddler’s cheek. “Du hast rote Wangen…”
“I think he’s tired,” he added, craning his neck to look up at Lewis. “His cheeks are turning pink.”
Lewis nodded and trudged forward through the snow, crouching beside their son. Emilian resisted at first, arms flapping, eyes wide.
“Nein, Papa!” he shouted. “Nochmal! Nochmal!”
But Lewis just laughed and scooped him up, spinning him into the air until Emilian shrieked with laughter, the sound echoing through the trees.
A few minutes later, they were back inside, peeling off layers in a warm haze of snowmelt and woodsmoke. Nico sank onto the couch with Emilian in his arms while Lewis stirred cocoa in the kitchen. The toddler wriggled and latched on with instinctive ease, small hands clinging to Nico’s shirt.
“You know what he said this morning?” Nico murmured, voice sleepy and soft.
Lewis came to sit beside him, arm stretched across the back of the couch. “What?”
“Kalt. He looked out the window and said kalt.”
Lewis smiled. “So we’ve got link, nein, nochmal, and now kalt. That’s a lot for a little guy.”
Nico kissed the top of Emilian’s curls. “He’s smart. Like his Papa.”
“You mean like his Mama,” Lewis murmured, and pressed a kiss to Nico’s temple.
They stayed like that until Emilian finished nursing, dozing off heavy and warm in Nico’s arms. Lewis took him gently, laying him down in the travel crib they’d set up by the fire. The flickering light painted them both in gold.
Nico leaned his head back against the couch. “He’s getting big.”
Lewis sat down beside him again, his hand brushing over Nico’s thigh. “He is.”
“Feels fast,” Nico whispered. “Like I blinked and suddenly he’s a toddler who corrects your German.”
Lewis laughed softly, then turned serious. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”
“You won’t.” Nico looked at him, eyes soft. “You’re here.”
They sat in silence, just watching their son sleep, the fire crackling beside them. Snow tapped softly at the windows.
Eventually, Lewis slid down until he was lying with his head in Nico’s lap, one hand cradled over Nico’s bump, thumb stroking slow circles through the fabric of his hoodie.
“You’re warm,” he murmured.
“You’re heavy.”
“Don’t care.”
Nico carded his fingers through Lewis’s curls, sighing deep.
***
Monaco in December always looked like someone tried to frost a warm country with fake snow and glitter, but Lewis had come to love it especially now, especially this year, especially with Nico curled up in his bed every night, belly heavy with their second child and a hand tucked absently over it like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Lights wrapped around every balcony railing, Christmas markets trying their best with mulled wine and piped-in carols. But Lewis had come to love it especially now. Especially this year.
Because Nico was here. Curled up in their bed every night, belly round and full of life, hand always resting over the bump like he couldn’t help it. And Emilian was here too, wobbling around their flat like a tiny, determined explorer, announcing every object he passed with proud, half-German gibberish.
The apartment felt alive in a way Lewis hadn’t realised he’d craved. Toys scattered across every rug. Crayon drawings on the fridge. The smell of something always brewing in the kitchen, usually tea, sometimes soup, once disastrously burnt waffles because Nico had gotten distracted kissing Lewis over the stove.
Emilian had changed after their holiday trip. He laughed louder now. Climbed higher. He’d discovered how to throw his arms around Lewis’s neck and say “Dada!” like it was a secret. And today Lewis had watched him toddle up to Nico, who was sitting on the nursery rug sorting baby clothes into piles.
Emilian had gone quiet, unusually thoughtful, and then reached both hands toward Nico’s bump.
“Hallo, baby,” he said, very seriously. Then he leaned forward and kissed it.
Lewis had been watching them in the doorway, heart squeezed so tight it hurt. Nico just looked up and blinked at him like did you see that? and Lewis couldn’t do anything except walk over and kneel down beside them, trying not to cry like an idiot.
“He’s going to be such a good big brother,” Nico whispered, brushing a kiss over Emilian’s curls.
That evening, the three of them ended up tangled together on the big sofa. A cartoon hummed softly from the TV, forgotten in the background. Emilian had fallen asleep slowly, head tucked under Nico’s chin, one small hand resting possessively on the swell of Nico’s bump as if even in sleep, he knew something important was growing there.
Nico looked up and caught Lewis’s eyes over the top of Emilian’s head. The smile he gave was soft, tired, and utterly full like everything in him was overflowing with love.
They stayed like that until the room dimmed with twilight.
Christmas came quietly. They didn’t leave the apartment. The tree leaned slightly to one side, covered in glitter stars, crooked paper snowflakes, and Emilian’s handprints turned into reindeer. Nico had insisted Emilian put the star on top, even if it meant Lewis lifting him like a trophy while Nico took photos, pretending to complain while his expression went unbearably fond behind the camera.
Later that night, after Emilian was tucked into bed and the flat had gone still again, Lewis kissed Nico on the sofa. It was slow and lazy, all warmth and mouths and familiar touch. Nico melted against him, soft and pliant, his breathing steady beneath Lewis’s hands. There was no rush. Just quiet sighs and long looks and love that didn’t ask for anything more than this.
At one point, Lewis leaned in and pressed his forehead to Nico’s. His voice came low, reverent. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Nico smiled without opening his eyes. The kind of smile that reached somewhere deep inside him.
And Lewis didn’t need anything else. Not right then.
New Year’s passed in a hush. Emilian was asleep by nine, cheeks sticky with mango purée and remnants of glitter from some craft project that had gone sideways. Nico barely lasted another hour, curled up against Lewis’s side, already half-snoring when the countdown reached thirty seconds.
When the first fireworks cracked over the harbour, Lewis didn’t move. He just leaned down and kissed Nico’s temple. Whispered, “Thank you,” into his hair like a prayer. Because it was all enough.
~
Nico had known since the moment he woke up.
It wasn’t pain exactly. Not yet. Just a strange, low heaviness in his back and hips, paired with the quiet, instinctive certainty that something had shifted. It wasn’t like before, all nerves and guessing. This time, his body was practiced. It remembered. And so did he.
He breathed through the sensation as he got up slowly from bed, careful not to wake Lewis. The morning light bled softly through the curtains, painting the room in warm, golden streaks. Nico padded quietly into the bathroom, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other over the firm swell of his belly.
The contractions were irregular and far apart, but they had teeth to them, not just Braxton Hicks. Not anymore. He timed a few, then stopped bothering. It was happening.
Still, he didn’t rush. He made breakfast. Emilian woke up babbling to himself and climbed into his lap for milk. Nico held him close, nursed him, brushed curls from his forehead. He didn’t say anything yet.
Not until Lewis came into the kitchen, hair still sleep-mussed, yawning into Nico’s shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the side of Nico’s neck, then blinked at him. "You okay?"
Nico tilted his head. "I think today’s the day."
Lewis froze. Then blinked again. "Wait... really?"
"Mhmm," Nico murmured, letting his fingers drift through Emilian’s soft curls. "They’re not close together yet, but they’re real."
That changed everything. Lewis moved like lightning after that, even though there wasn’t quite a rush yet. He packed the overnight bag, double-checked the hospital paperwork, and coordinated quickly with Keke and Sina, who arrived just before lunchtime to pick up Emilian.
Emilian clung to Nico for a long minute at the door, clearly confused by the sudden fuss.
"Komm schon, Liebling," Nico murmured gently, kneeling to kiss his cheeks. "Wir sehen uns bald, ja?"
"Baby?" Emilian asked, looking between them, patting Nico’s belly.
"Yes," Lewis smiled, crouching beside them. "We’re going to go meet the baby. You get to be a big brother today."
Emilian didn’t quite understand, but he seemed soothed by the words, nestling against Sina’s shoulder as they left.
The hospital was bright and clean and familiar. Just like last time, it felt oddly quiet once they were inside, the outside world sealed away. Nico labored through the afternoon and into the evening, Lewis never more than an arm’s length away, whispering encouragement, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead, holding him through every contraction.
It was hard, but not frightening. Nico trusted his body, and more than anything, he trusted Lewis.
And when it finally happened when their daughter arrived, tiny and pink and screaming into the world, Nico broke into tears as Lewis kissed his temple and whispered, "You did it, love. You did it."
She is beautiful. All blue eyes and tiny fists, already strong, already here. And just like before, the room shrank to only them. Just the three of them now, hearts beating in tandem.
And Nico, though exhausted, looked down at her in wonder and whispered the name they'd agreed on.
"Hallo, Anneliese. Willkommen."
~
The rest happened in fast-motion, then in slow. Lewis’s brain couldn’t decide which. They said something about uterine rupture. Hemorrhage. Internal bleeding. Then they were here, bright lights, cold air, a white bed soaked in red.
Lewis was at his side, gripping his hand. The machines beeped too fast, then not fast enough.
Anne was lifted from Nico’s chest. Lewis caught the moment in full clarity – her little cry, Nico’s gaze still fixed on her, something proud and trembling and undone in his eyes.
“Keep him awake, sir,” one of the doctors said, their voice breaking through the chaos. The room was frantic, nurses rushing, machines beeping, blood, so much blood.
Lewis was holding Nico’s hand, ice-cold now. His eyes were fluttering, too slow.
“No, darling, please,” Lewis whispered, his voice cracking. “Open your eyes.”
Nico looked so pale. A ghost. A smudge of color in a white room.
“Anne?” Nico croaked.
“She’s fine,” Lewis said quickly, urgently, his heart pounding. “She’s beautiful. You’ll see her soon, my love. Just - just keep your eyes open, please.”
Nico smiled faintly. “I love you, Lew,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.
Lewis shook his head. “No. No, no, baby - don’t close your eyes. Not yet.”
“I’m so tired,” Nico whispered, eyes slipping shut again.
“You’ll rest soon, I promise. Just - just let them stabilize you first, okay? Please . . .look at me,” Lewis said, slapping his chin lightly, desperate to keep him there. “Look at me, my love.”
Nico’s breathing slowed.
“Tell Emil… and Anne…” he rasped, “I love them so much.”
“No, you’ll tell them yourself,” Lewis said fiercely, his panic boiling into fury now. “You’ll tell them yourself, Nico.”
“I love you…” Nico whispered again, smiling with the last of his strength. He cupped Lewis’s cheek with a trembling hand. “Everything will be alright, Lew…”
“Yes, yes, everything will be alright my love. You’ll be alright .. please ... ”
“Everything…” Nico breathed out, voice fading.
“No. No, no, no, Nico – open your eyes, darling – please – please,” Lewis sobbed. He was shaking, holding Nico's face between both hands now, trying to will him back. “Don’t go, love, don’t go, please don’t –”
A nurse grabbed his arm, tried to pull him back. “Sir, we need space –”
He refused. “No. I’m not leaving him!”
They placed the defibrillator pads to Nico’s chest. The jolt made his body jerk but the line on the monitor stayed flat. Another jolt. No change.
Lewis didn’t wait for them to say it. He could feel it in his bones.
He lunged forward, wrapped his arms around Nico’s body, held him so tightly it hurt.
“No, not you, please, my baby” he whispered, over and over, but it was like shouting underwater. Nothing felt real. Not the cold hands. Not the alarms. Not the absence.
He wasn’t even aware he was crying. Just that Nico was still. That nothing in the world would ever be warm again.
He pulled back only slightly, stared at Nico’s face.
His Nico.
His beautiful, stubborn, soft-hearted Nico. Gone. Just… gone.
“How,” Lewis whispered, forehead pressing against Nico’s. How did I lose him while I was holding him?
He shook his head, as if that might undo it.
“My Nico,” he whispered, again and again.
Lewis didn’t know how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? It could have been days, the way his body refused to move.
At some point, someone must have touched his shoulder. He didn’t remember moving, but now he was sitting beside the bed, Nico’s hand resting in his lap, cold and pale.
That’s when he noticed them.
He turned his head, slow and stiff like it had rusted. Keke was there, his face lined with grief, arms wrapped around Sina, who was quietly sobbing into his chest. Keke’s own eyes were red, There were dried tears in his beard, though he was holding it together with clenched fists and a jaw like stone.
Sina’s sobs echoed across the room.
Lewis thought he should say something. Comfort them. They’d lost their son. Their child.
But even the idea of speaking felt impossible. It was as if his throat had sealed shut, like any sound would turn into a sob, and if he started sobbing again, he might never stop.
No one said anything for a while.
Then, finally, it was Keke who broke the silence. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “We need to prepare his funeral.”
Right.
A funeral.
For Nico.
Lewis curled forward, pressing Nico’s hand to his forehead. And cried.
He wasn’t sure how the next day passed. Or the one after. Maybe his father had already been in Monaco—he couldn’t remember if he’d arrived before or after the birth. Maybe he’d flown in as soon as he heard.
What mattered was that at some point, Lewis turned and his dad was there. Arms open. Face soft and stricken. Lewis let himself collapse into his father’s embrace and sob like a boy.
It took days to plan the funeral. Or maybe hours. Lewis couldn’t tell. Everything bled together.
He signed papers. He answered phone calls. He barely slept.
Sina insisted on watching Emilian, said he needed to be kept safe and calm through all this. Lewis didn’t argue. He didn’t know how to hold himself, let alone a toddler who would look into his face and ask, Wo ist mama?
He couldn’t say it.
Couldn’t explain that Nico wasn’t coming back.
How do you explain to a one-year-old that their mother is gone?
The day of the funeral was grey and windless. Monaco felt wrong, too still, too silent, as if even the ocean had stopped moving.
Lewis stood in the front row, black suit, black tie, ring still on his finger.
The funeral was held in a private garden, up in the hills above the city. Friends came. Former drivers. Old teammates. Current ones. Lewis saw Seb standing stiffly beside Mark with a hand on his shoulder. Toto and Susie arrived together, pale and silent. James Allison. Mick. Max. Daniel. Even Alain Prost. People who knew Nico in some way, loved or hated or fought him, but respected him. They came in quiet waves to pay their respects.
He barely heard what people said. Blurs of condolences. Arms around his shoulders. Tears falling from other eyes.
He noticed Jenson then, sitting just a few rows back, holding Emilian gently on his lap. Emil was in a tiny black button-down shirt and his dark curls had been combed neatly. He was playing with the edge of Jenson’s sleeve, unaware of the occasion. Unaware that his mother would never kiss his forehead again.
Lewis swallowed thickly. He hadn’t held his son in days. Not properly. Not without fear that he’d crumble into a thousand pieces with a single “Papa?” spoken in that small, sweet voice.
Keke gave a speech. Sina read something in German that made Lewis cry again. Someone handed him the microphone. Lewis didn’t want to speak. But when he saw Emilian’s eyes , dark and wide and trying to understand, he stood.
He stepped up to the front, standing beside the casket.
He stared at it for a long moment. His knees nearly buckled. The only thing that held him upright was the thought of Emilian and the baby girl who’d never know her mother.
He cleared his throat.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he began. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to the love of my life. I don’t think I ever will.”
The wind blew softly through the trees. Somewhere, a gull cried.
“Nico was... ” Lewis stopped. Closed his eyes. “He was impossible. Stubborn. Brilliant. He made me insane, and then made me laugh. He made me better.”
He glanced at Emilian.
“He gave me a family. He gave me himself. Every part of him. He made me believe I could be a father. That I could be loved.”
A pause. He closed his eyes, felt the wind shift through his hair.
“I loved him more than anything. And I don’t know how I’m going to raise our children without him. But I promise you, I will tell our children everything. Every story. Every soft moment. Every hard one. I will tell them how he laughed. How he swore in three languages when he was mad. How he looked when he held them for the first time. They’ll know him. I’ll make sure of it.”
He held it together until the burial. Lewis watched the coffin go into the ground.
Watched the dirt begin to fall.
And he felt something collapse inside of him that might never rebuild.
The apartment was starting to quiet. Most of the guests had gone. The muted murmur of voices that had filled the rooms since morning had faded, leaving only the occasional creak of floorboards or the clink of a teacup being set down in the kitchen. His parents had left. So had Keke and Sina, after lingering long enough to make sure Lewis ate something, or at least tried to.
Now the place felt too big. Too silent.
Lewis rocked Emilian slowly where he sat on the edge of their bed, arms curled around the small, warm weight against his chest. The baby had cried at first, overwhelmed by the crowd, the black clothes, the strange tension in the air but sometime during the late afternoon, he’d finally fallen asleep in Lewis’s arms, still clutching at the fabric of Lewis’s button up with his tiny fists.
The funeral had worn them both out.
Lewis didn’t even remember how he’d made it through. Just flashes: the coffin, the sound of dirt hitting the wood, the cold kiss of wind against his skin. The way Emilian had pressed his cheek into Lewis’s collarbone, sensing something wrong and not knowing what.
Now, with dusk just beginning to settle over the sea, Emilian stirred and blinked up at him, flushed and damp from sleep.
Lewis kissed his forehead. “Come on, Emil,” he murmured. “Let’s go see your sister.”
They took the quiet elevator up to the NICU. The hallways smelled like antiseptic and cotton and something vaguely metallic. Nurses nodded at him gently, already knowing who he was. The world here was muted, filled with the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of quiet shoes.
And then there she was.
Anne.
She was in a box, at least, that’s how it looked to Lewis. A glass incubator. A tiny, sterile cage. Tubes curled at her nose, tape holding everything in place. Her skin was so pale, almost translucent in places, and her lips were faintly dusky. But she was breathing. Softly, evenly. A mechanical hum rose and fell beside her.
Lewis leaned closer and saw her mouth twitch in a dream.
He lifted Emilian into his arms and held him up, letting him see.
“That’s your sister,” Lewis said quietly. “That’s Anne.”
Emilian blinked, thumb in his mouth. Then he pointed, his voice bright and awed. “Baby!”
Lewis let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah. That’s the baby.”
“She looks just like Mama, doesn’t she?” he whispered. “Same hair. Same nose. Those little curls… even now.”
Anne shifted again in her sleep, so faintly that Lewis thought he might’ve imagined it. His throat tightened.
“She’s beautiful,” he murmured into Emilian’s hair. “She’s perfect. Nico would’ve loved her so much.”
He had wanted a daughter. God, he’d talked about it like a dream. About braiding hair and little shoes and tiny ballet recitals. He’d never get to know her. He’d never even held her.
“She’s so small,” Lewis said, his voice fraying at the edges. “But she’s strong. She’s going to be alright.”
He had to believe that.
Everything will be alright, Nico had said, the last time Lewis ever heard him speak. He had to believe it.
But as if it was all a cruel joke, the phone rang the next morning.
It was still dark out. The city was silent, the kind of quiet that only existed in the blue hour before dawn. Lewis jolted upright, heart hammering like a gunshot in his chest. Emilian was still curled beside him, warm and soft, oblivious. He reached blindly for the phone, already breathless with dread.
“Mr. Hamilton?” came the voice. “I’m so sorry, but, , ,”
He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.
Something about a sudden turn. About her heart. They’d tried everything.
Anne was gone.
Lewis’s little girl. His daughter. His last tether to Nico.
Lewis was out of the bed before he even knew what he was doing. He pulled on the first clothes he could find, He called Anthony, Keke Maybe. He couldn’t remember what he said. The words came out strangled, jumbled just hospital, NICU, Anne, gone and then he was in the car, driving on autopilot through a city still asleep.
The hospital was nearly silent when he arrived. That awful sterile hush in the early hours, the sky outside still a slate grey. Someone at the desk recognized him and led him wordlessly to the NICU wing.
He sank to the floor, knees giving out beneath him like paper. He just stared ahead, hollow and still.
Then footsteps. Running this time.
“Lewis!”
His father.
Anthony was there, out of breath, dressed in sweatpants and a coat hastily thrown over pajamas. He crouched beside him,
And then Lewis broke.
The sob tore from him like it had been caged too long, violent, guttural, hopeless. He grabbed at his father’s jacket like he might fall apart without something to hold, fingers twisted in the fabric, shoulders heaving with each jagged breath.
“Why?” he cried, voice shattering in his throat. “Why did He take everything from me, Dad?”
Anthony wrapped his arms around him, cradled his grown son the way he had when Lewis was still small, still safe. His voice was quiet, cracked at the edges. “I don’t know, son. I don’t know.”
***
Anne’s funeral is quiet. Just family and few of their closest friends.
It was a small service, intimate and still. Lewis wore black again. So did Emilian, dressed in a little black suit with buttons too big for his tiny frame. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even fuss. Just clung to his father, thumb in mouth, as if he could feel the depth of grief humming through Lewis’s bones.
The burial was brief. No speeches. Just a kiss to the coffin from Sina, who was pale and silent. A trembling hand from Keke on Lewis’s shoulder. Anne’s name carved in white on polished wood:
Anneliese Nicolette Hamilton.
Lewis didn’t cry this time. He just held his son tighter.
***
Nico’s scent still lingered faintly in the apartment. His side of the bed smelled like him like cedarwood and sweet vanilla, something warmer underneath. It clung to the sheets, soaked into the pillows, lived in the folds of his worn t-shirts still hanging in the wardrobe. Lewis couldn’t bear to change any of it. The housekeeper had offered once, gently, and he snap no at instance. Like yanking a wound open before the skin could even scab.
Everyone kept saying it would get better.
Lewis just wished they’d all shut up.
That night, Emilian wouldn’t settle. Lewis tried everything milk, a warm bath, soft lullabies hummed through a throat that didn’t quite work. But Emilian kept crawling to the door, turning toward it like he was waiting. He patted it with his small palm and looked back at Lewis over his shoulder, voice small and hopeful.
“Mama?”
The first time, Lewis just closed his eyes. The second time, he nearly choked.
He scooped Emilian into his arms and held him tighter than he should have, arms wrapped like a shield, whispering, “He’s not here, baby. He’s not... he’s not coming back.”
But Emilian didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t. He wasn’t even two. He blinked up at Lewis, sleepy-eyed, then reached out with a searching hand and murmured, “Mama… Milch?”
Lewis’s breath hitched.
The baby still wanted to nurse. Still expected comfort from the only body he’d known. His mouth rooted faintly against Lewis’s chest, out of habit and instinct.
“Oh, baby,” Lewis whispered, rocking them gently. “Papa doesn’t have milk. I wish I did.”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Just kissed the top of Emilian’s head, slow and aching, and stood there in the nursery, broken swaying in place as the boy trembled in his arms and tears soaked through the collar of his hoodie.
That night, Lewis didn’t sleep.
Emilian finally drifted off in the crook of his shoulder, breath hitching now and then from leftover sobs. Lewis lay back on the bed with the baby on his chest, staring at the ceiling like it might split open and give him answers. The pacifier slipped from Emilian’s mouth with a faint, wet clack.
He thought of Nico in the hospital bed. Of Anne’s impossibly tiny body in the box.
Of everything he’d lost in less than a week.
It didn’t get easier.
Days blurred. People brought food he didn’t eat. Anthony stayed a while to help with Emilian. Keke and Sina offered to take the baby for a few nights, to give Lewis space. But he said no every time.
He couldn’t bear to let Emilian go. Not again.
But the questions didn’t stop.
“Wo ist Mama?”
“Wann kommt sie zurück?”
“Papa… warum weinst du?”
Lewis tried to explain, once. He showed Emilian a picture of Nico and whispered, “He’s in heaven now, baby. He can’t come back.”
Emilian frowned, puzzled. “Ist er beim Mond?”
Lewis nodded. “Maybe. Maybe he’s on the moon.”
But one night Emilian refused everything. Food. Sleep. Peace. He stood at the foot of the bed in his tiny pajamas, fists clenched, voice rising.
“Ich will Mama. Ich will Mama. Ich will Mama,,,”
And Lewis snapped.
“Stop speaking GERMAN!”
His voice cracked like a gunshot through the room.
Emilian froze. Eyes wide. Lower lip trembling.
Lewis stared at him horrified. He was already backing away.
“Your mother is gone,” he added, softer now, but no less broken. “He’s not coming back, and I...” His voice caught. “I can’t understand you when you speak like him.”
That was the worst of it, maybe. Nico’s language in Emilian’s mouth. A ghost’s voice. A boy too small to know how cruel it was.
Emilian started to cry.
Not a tantrum. Not a baby’s scream. Just a soft, crumpling noise. Like grief sinking into toddler lungs.
Lewis dropped to his knees.
“No, no, no,” he whispered, arms open, hands shaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, sweetheart - I didn’t mean it, I just - “ He pulled Emilian into his chest, buried his face into soft blonde curls. “You can speak however you want. However you need. I’ll learn. I’ll learn everything.”
He rocked him on the floor, whispering again and again.
“I’ll learn your words. I promise. I won’t let you lose that too.”
***
The paddock is quieter than usual this morning. Maybe it was just in Lewis’s head. Maybe it was just the way his own footsteps echoed louder than the rest, each one solid, steady, and carrying more than just his weight.
Emilian was perched on his hip, soft curls tousled by the breeze, tiny fingers tangled in the collar of Lewis’s hoodie. He blinked sleepily at the bright overhead lights. His legs kicked now and then, restless, but he didn’t ask to be put down.
Everyone was watching them. Its what to be expected really after everyting that happened
He walked through it with Emilian in his arms, the little boy perched on his hip, fingers curled loosely into the collar of Lewis’s hoodie. His curls were wild with the morning breeze, cheeks pink from excitement. Lewis had promised him he’d get to see the cars. That was all it had taken those wide hazel eyes lighting up, the word cars! said like it was the most important thing in the world.
Now Emilian was practically humming with joy, legs swinging with every step Lewis took. And still he clung to Lewis like he was afraid to let go. They walked like that, past team garages, past photographers who take photos of them
When it was time for the race, Lewis dressed slowly.
His gloves went on last, hands trembling only a little. He didn’t say much to the engineers. Just nodded. Just looked out at the track like it might open up and give him something back.
In the cockpit, before the mechanics lowered the halo, he pulled out a small photo from the inside of his fire suit. Tucked it just behind the steering wheel, where only he would see it.
Nico in a white t-shirt, Emilian still tiny in his arms, both of them looking up at something outside the frame.
Lewis exhaled. “Ride with me, babe,” he whispered.
The race was hard. Brutal in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Every overtake felt like clawing something back. Every lap like chasing something that might never be whole again.
He finished P2. It didn’t matter. It was the first time in Lewis’s career that a second-place finish felt like enough.
When he climbed from the car, Emilian was already running toward him, his little black shoes thudding against the asphalt, arms out, curls bouncing. Lewis dropped to one knee and caught him, held him tight. The little boy buried himself in Lewis’s chest and didn’t move.
Sebastian came over first. He didn’t say much just looked at Lewis for a long moment, eyes softer than usual. Then he reached out and ruffled Emilian’s hair.
The boy blinked up at him and cliging to his dad
“You racing for two now?” Seb asked quietly.
Lewis nodded. His voice was raw. “Always have been.”
And then after the press, after the podium and after the champagne lost all its taste he found himself standing alone at the edge of the paddock, Emilian in his arms again.
The boy was dozing now, his weight heavier with sleep.
They stared out across the track, empty now except for the ghosts.
Lewis kissed Emilian’s temple, held him close, and whispered into the hush
“It’s just you and me now, baby. But we’re going to be alright.”