Lewis’s victory was only natural.

He had the confidence to win—and to keep winning. After today’s spectacular race, he once again claimed the crown of World Champion for the year.

An eight-time champion—Lewis Hamilton had risen to glory.

And so, naturally, he went with his teammates to a nearby bar to celebrate. The lights swayed, the music pounded through the walls, and he, Charles, and the rest of the crew burst in—ordering drinks, clinking glasses, laughing, shouting, dancing.

Meanwhile, you had been sitting quietly in a booth for some time. Your phone screen was still replaying the highlights of that last lap. You were completely immersed in the roar of the track and Lewis’s perfect overtake, so much so that you barely noticed the shift in atmosphere around you.

That was when Lewis saw you—sitting there, calm and composed in your booth.

A shadow fell across your table. You looked up.

Lewis Hamilton had already stepped closer, now standing right before you. His smile was subtle, his gaze curious; sweat mingled with the flickering bar lights across his cheekbones.

He leaned in politely, as though careful not to intrude—drawn by the sight of you alone, and more than that, by the Ferrari cap on your head marked with the number 44.

Bending down slightly, he spoke softly, a gentle smile tugging at his lips so as not to startle you.

“You alone? ”