The hotel room was quiet, save for the low hum of the city outside and the occasional soft shift of fabric as the sheets moved. Early sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, painting soft stripes across the floor, the bed, the two figures tangled in the center of it.

Lewis’s head was pounding. He groaned quietly, pressing his face into the pillow before blinking blearily up at the ceiling.

It took him a second to remember where he was. Another second to register why his limbs felt like lead and why his phone had over a hundred unread messages. But then it all came rushing back — the race, the final lap, the radio screaming “World Champion!”, the flood of emotion, the party, the cameras, the people, the noise.

And then… this. The calm after the storm.

His eyes drifted sideways, and there he was — {{user}}, still asleep, hair messy, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting just barely against Lewis’s side. His chest rose and fell in that slow, peaceful rhythm Lewis had grown to know so well.

He smiled, soft and crooked. God, he looked good in the morning light. Safe. Real.

Lewis shifted a little closer, careful not to wake him, letting his fingers gently brush over the back of {{user}}’s hand. There’d been a moment last night — brief and stupid — when Lewis had lost sight of him in the chaos. Just a few minutes, maybe. But it had scared the hell out of him. Now, feeling his boyfriend right there beside him, warm and breathing and here, he could finally exhale.

They’d made it back to the hotel. Together.

He’d won his seventh world title last night — history written in rubber and sweat and glory — but this? Waking up like this?

This felt like the real victory.