Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Lewis Hamilton was not just a renowned chef—he was a global culinary icon. Known for his innovative dishes and unique approach to fine dining, his restaurants spanned continents and attracted food enthusiasts from every corner of the world. His talent in the kitchen was unmatched, but it wasn’t just his own cooking that fascinated people. Lewis had an insatiable curiosity for food, and he made it his mission to travel the globe, sampling cuisine from all walks of life. From Michelin-starred establishments in Paris to hidden street food stalls in Bangkok, no dish was too small or too grand for him to explore.

One of the things that made Lewis stand out was his hyper-focused approach to every plate placed in front of him. His critiques were always honest, yet often delivered in an unusual, almost eccentric way. He had a habit of dissecting not just the flavors and textures but the emotions behind the food. He might pause after a bite and ask questions that had nothing to do with taste, such as, “What were you thinking about when you stirred the sauce?” or “How does the pastry’s flakiness reflect your mood this morning?” His hyper-focus allowed him to spot the smallest of details, but his feedback, though sharp, was never cruel—merely bizarre in its precision and deeply personal nature.

Lewis’s presence in a restaurant was both thrilling and nerve-wracking for chefs and staff alike. They knew he would analyze every element, often sitting in silence for long minutes before delivering his critique, and then out of nowhere, he’d praise a single herb or critique the way the sunlight hit the table, tying it all back to the experience of the dish. His feedback could be unpredictable: one minute he might praise the layering of flavors, and the next he would be dissecting the “emotional integrity” of a soup.

Despite his odd ways, chefs respected him deeply. His advice, though delivered in unconventional ways, often helped struggling restaurants reach new heights. His travels became legendary, with each stop chronicled by food critics and fans eager to see which dish would next capture his hyper-focused attention. Lewis Hamilton was more than just a chef—he was a culinary adventurer, a food philosopher of sorts, with an unmatched ability to both elevate the ordinary and challenge the extraordinary.

One day, Lewis Hamilton found himself in the beautiful and bustling city of Amsterdam. The city, with its winding canals, vibrant streets, and deep-rooted culinary traditions, was the perfect destination for a man like him—a world-renowned chef who made it his mission to explore and elevate the art of cuisine wherever he went. His journey through Amsterdam’s rich restaurant scene was filled with anticipation and pressure, but one restaurant in particular had caught his eye: “Verstappen.”

The story behind Verstappen was as compelling as the menu itself. It had been founded by a wealthy father, a man whose ambition had brought the restaurant to life. But it was the son who had transformed the business into a beacon of culinary excellence, building its reputation to new heights. The restaurant was now famous, not just in Amsterdam but across the globe, a destination for food lovers seeking the best of Dutch cuisine. As Lewis stepped inside the elegant, warmly lit space, the weight on his chest felt heavier than usual.

For the past few weeks, something had been gnawing at him, a realization he hadn’t been able to fully accept. Recently, his doctor had diagnosed him with ADHD, and not the kind that people often misunderstood as mere distraction or a little extra energy. No, Lewis had been diagnosed with a severe form that had been affecting him deeply, more than he’d ever admitted to himself. The hyper-focus that had once felt like his greatest gift—the ability to lose himself so completely in a dish that he could discern every microscopic detail—was now being framed as part of a disorder, something he struggled to make sense of.

And yet, that wasn’t the worst of it. His doctor had mentioned the possibility of other conditions, other things Lewis didn’t want to explore. He wasn’t ready to know more. It was already overwhelming to confront the fact that his brain didn’t work the way he thought it did. So, he kept pushing those thoughts away, drowning them in his work, in his obsession with food.

Today, however, was different. The familiar comfort of restaurants, usually a refuge for his mind, felt like a storm. This particular visit to Verstappen was being filmed—cameras were discreetly set up to capture his critique. His presence was not just an event; it was a spectacle. And that only made the anxiety in his chest grow. He could feel the bottle of medication his doctor had prescribed pressing against the inside of his bag. He hadn’t touched it, hadn’t even thought about trying it. The idea of taking it terrified him. What if it changed him? What if it dulled his edge, the hyper-focus that had made him who he was?

As he stood in the restaurant’s entryway, waiting to be seated, everything around him felt too much. The lights overhead felt too bright, casting sharp glares on every surface. The sounds of clinking glasses and quiet conversations seemed to blur together into a dull roar, an incessant noise that rattled his mind. Even the subtle scents of the dishes being prepared in the kitchen, usually so inviting, felt overwhelming.

His thoughts swirled in a way that made it difficult to concentrate. ADHD, a condition known for making people struggle to focus, had always shaped him in a unique way. For years, he had dealt with it by pouring all of his energy into one thing—his obsession with food. Cooking, tasting, critiquing—it was his everything. The rest of the world often faded away when he was focused on a dish, and that had been his saving grace. It allowed him to channel.

Lewis felt the familiar tap of the producer on his shoulder, pulling him back to the present as he walked deeper into the bustling restaurant. An older man, maybe in his late fifties or sixties, stepped forward with a welcoming smile and a firm handshake.

“I’m Jos, the owner. I’m so glad you’re here,” the Dutch man said warmly, his accent adding a soft rhythm to his words. Without missing a beat, Jos began showing Lewis and the crew around the restaurant, clearly proud of every detail.

It was a stunning space—modern yet cozy, with an understated elegance. The warm lighting cast a soft glow over the tables, and the rich scent of food filled the air. Despite the beauty of the place, Lewis’s mind was racing, scattered in a dozen directions at once. Still, he managed to pull himself back to the moment long enough to compliment the atmosphere.

“It smells incredible in here,” Lewis said, his voice breaking through his own mental fog. Jos chuckled, clearly pleased by the comment. “Thank you! We take great pride in everything, down to the very last detail,” he replied, beaming with pride.

Lewis tried to focus, but his thoughts were everywhere. The camera crew, his recent diagnosis, the constant pressure—it all weighed heavily on him, making it hard to stay present. The lights, the sounds, the constant buzz of conversation were overwhelming, but he pushed forward, following Jos until they reached the kitchen.

That’s when Lewis saw him—Max. He was in the middle of the kitchen, holding a few pans, focused on his cooking. Max was pale, his large eyes revealing the exhaustion of long nights spent working. At 27, he looked like someone who had carried the weight of the restaurant on his shoulders for years.

Max had been thrown into the business as a teenager, just as Lewis had been pushed into the world of cooking shows and professional kitchens as a child. Lewis knew that life—the expectations, the pressure, the constant demand to perform. He had spent his youth moving from one show to the next, the weight of his father’s ambition pushing him forward when all he wanted was to go home. But Lewis never said much, never protested. He just did what was expected of him.

As Jos introduced them, Lewis extended his hand, offering a polite smile. But as Max looked down at his hand, Lewis tensed. Max’s eyes lingered on the large burn mark that covered the back of Lewis’s hand, a scar that had become a permanent reminder of the intense pressure he’d been under for so many years.

Without thinking, Lewis quickly covered the mark with his other hand, the motion almost automatic after so many years of hiding it. Max’s eyes widened slightly, surprised by the quick movement. For a moment, it seemed like Max was going to ask about it—his lips parted as if to speak—but then he stopped himself, turning his attention back to the pans in his hands.

Lewis felt a jolt of discomfort shoot through him, his heart pounding as he glanced briefly at the cameras, aware of their presence. He hated that scar. Hated what it stood for. He had never talked about it and didn’t plan to start now. The silence between him and Max felt charged, but then the moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Jos continued talking, but Lewis’s attention drifted to the way father and son worked together in the kitchen. Jos spoke with confidence and ease, while Max remained focused and quiet, his movements efficient and practiced. There was an undeniable rhythm between them, though Lewis could sense the tension, the kind that comes from years of working side by side with someone you can’t escape.

Meanwhile, the other cooks in the kitchen worked in a flurry of stress, moving quickly around the pair, trying to keep up with the fast pace. Despite the chaos, Max stayed calm, his focus never wavering. Lewis watched him closely, feeling a strange sense of connection. Both of them had grown up under the shadow of what their future held, pushed into a world they hadn’t chosen but had learned to navigate nonetheless.

As the kitchen buzzed around him, Lewis found himself mesmerised by the quiet intensity of Max’s work. In that moment, everything else—the cameras, the diagnosis, the pressure—faded into the background. For the first time all day, Lewis felt a small sense of calm as he watched Max, recognizing a kindred spirit who understood the weight they both carried.

Jos grabbed Lewis’ arm gently, guiding him through the kitchen as he enthusiastically explained every detail of the restaurant’s operations. The gesture was casual, but it sent a wave of discomfort through Lewis. It was a feeling he hadn’t shaken since childhood—the sensation of being pulled along, shown off, like a child prodigy dragged from one kitchen to another, forced to display his talent. Memories of being carted around England for cooking shows and interviews flashed through his mind. He’d always felt like he was on display, like his worth was tied to his ability to perform.

Jos’s voice droned on, but Lewis’s attention drifted elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being that kid again, tugged into the spotlight whether he wanted to be or not. His chest tightened as the memories stirred something bitter inside him.

And then he felt it—eyes on him.

Lewis glanced up and met Max’s gaze from across the kitchen. The younger man stood still for a moment, his hands paused mid-motion, watching the exchange between Lewis and his father. Max’s expression was difficult to read, but there was something sharp in his eyes, something that sent a chill through Lewis. It wasn’t curiosity or interest; it felt heavier, darker.

There was a sense of resentment, maybe even hate, simmering beneath the surface. Lewis couldn’t tell if Max’s anger was directed at him or Jos, but the weight of that gaze lingered, pressing down on him. It was as if Max was seeing something familiar in Lewis, something that reminded him too much of his own struggles, his own frustration with the world he’d been forced into.

Lewis shifted uncomfortably, his mind spinning. Max’s eyes flicked away, focusing back on the pans in front of him, but the tension remained, thick and unspoken, hanging in the air between them.

Lewis turned his attention back to Jos, who was speaking with a grin aimed both at him and the cameras, his voice booming with enthusiasm.

“Do you want to try cooking some of the dishes?” Jos asked, his tone teasing but persistent. “I bet you’d be amazing with your special talent.”

Lewis forced a smile, though he could feel the tension building in his chest. “Oh yeah? I’m not so sure… your kitchen’s pretty busy,” he replied, glancing at the workers who were running around, trying to keep up with orders, clearly stressed. The clatter of pots and the hurried footsteps only added to the overwhelming atmosphere. Lewis felt a pang of guilt for even considering stepping into that chaos, but he tried to push the feeling down.

Jos laughed, waving off the concern with a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on! At least taste some of the food! You’ve got to try! You can’t fuck it up!” Jos pressed, his smile unwavering as he nudged Lewis with his elbow.

The pressure of it all started to weigh on Lewis—Jos’s insistence, the cameras rolling, the crew waiting for his response. He wanted to say no, to avoid the spotlight just this once, but the guilt tugged at him. The weight of always having to perform, always having to meet expectations, loomed large.

Lewis chuckled softly, trying to deflect the rising anxiety. “Alright, alright. I’ll taste something,” he said, his voice light, but the unease in his gut remained.

Lewis’s eyes flickered toward the camera, its lens unrelenting as it stayed trained on him and Jos. The pressure to perform, to be “on,” weighed on him heavily, but he stayed composed, hiding his inner turmoil behind a practiced smile.

Sensing Lewis’s discomfort, Jos moved quickly, grabbing a dish and guiding him toward a quieter, more private room at the back of the restaurant. “We don’t want to disturb the guests, of course,” Jos said cheerfully, trying to keep things light. The quieter space was what Lewis had requested, but the relief was short-lived.

Jos, always the showman, pulled Max into the room, gesturing to the plate in front of Lewis. “Max made this one. I’m sure it’s something special,” Jos said, his words brimming with pride. Max remained quiet, standing off to the side, his presence intense but subdued, his eyes following Lewis’s every move.

Lewis, seated at the table, stared down at the plate. It looked exquisite, the kind of dish that would normally ignite his passion for flavors and textures. He cut into it slowly, placing the first bite into his mouth. As the flavors unfolded on his tongue, his instincts kicked in—he could sense the balance, the craftsmanship, but something wasn’t sitting right with him. He could feel the pressure to speak, to analyze like he always did.

But when he looked up, he locked eyes with Max, who watched him with an expression that was hard to read. There was something in Max’s gaze that unsettled Lewis, making it difficult to speak freely. The familiar rhythm of his critiques stalled, his thoughts tangled up in the intensity of the moment.

Jos, eager for feedback, couldn’t stand the silence. “So? What do you think? Come on, tell us, Lewis!” His voice carried an almost desperate edge, as if he needed Lewis’s approval to confirm something.

Lewis swallowed, forcing a smile as he started. “It’s… good. Really balanced.” He began with kindness, the words flowing out like muscle memory, polished and professional. “The flavors come together nicely—the sauce is rich but not overpowering, and the texture of the meat is spot-on.”

For a moment, Jos looked pleased, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. But Lewis hesitated, his eyes darting toward Max again. Something pushed him to go deeper, to be honest, even if it meant confronting the tension in the room.

“But,” Lewis continued, his voice softer now, “the dish… it lacks something. There’s a flatness in the middle, like it’s missing a spark. The elements are good, but it doesn’t… elevate. It’s close, but not quite there.”

The camera zoomed in on their faces, capturing every flicker of emotion. Lewis could feel the weight of its gaze on him, recording every word, every moment of silence. The tension in the room thickened. Jos’s smile faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly, nodding as if processing the critique.

Max, however, remained unreadable. His gaze was locked on Lewis, not in anger, but in a way that made Lewis feel exposed, as though the younger chef was looking past his words and into something deeper. The room, though quiet, felt louder than any kitchen Lewis had ever been in.

Max opened his mouth, eyes blazing with frustration. “Oh yeah? Well, you’re not much better of a co—” The words cut through the air, sharp with anger, and for a split second, the room seemed to hold its breath. The tension was thick, electric, and Lewis could feel the heat rising. But before Max could finish his sentence, Jos grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back.

“Max, no,” Jos said, his voice firm, trying to control the situation. He glanced at the camera crew, who were still very much focused on the unfolding drama, their lenses capturing every second of the tension. They loved moments like this—unrehearsed, raw emotion. You could almost feel them waiting for something explosive to happen.

Lewis just sat there, staring awkwardly, the weight of the confrontation hanging in the air. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the plate, and he felt the crew’s eyes, the cameras still locked onto him. He knew this was good television, but he hated being in the middle of it.

“…I like Dutch dishes though,” Lewis mumbled, his voice almost too soft, as if trying to diffuse the tension with a half-hearted joke. The sentence hung awkwardly in the room, doing little to lighten the atmosphere.

The camera zoomed in, no doubt catching the awkwardness on his face, the way his fingers tapped nervously on the table, and the faint embarrassment creeping into his expression. It wasn’t the kind of drama he liked, but he knew they’d eat it up.

Lewis stood up slowly, feeling the weight of the room pressing down on him. His smile was gone, replaced with a tense, tight-lipped expression. He glanced at the cameramen, who were still recording every uncomfortable second. With a deep breath, he motioned towards them.

“Could you guys turn the cameras off for a bit?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm but firm. The crew hesitated, but eventually, one by one, they lowered their equipment, the whirring of the cameras fading into silence.

Without another word, Lewis placed the dish down carefully on the table, feeling the sudden need to escape. The tension, the pressure, the cameras—it was too much. He nodded once to Jos, then quickly made his way to the restroom, trying to keep his composure.

Inside the restroom, Lewis locked the door and leaned against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His heart was pounding in his chest, his mind racing. His breathing was shallow, the walls of the room feeling like they were closing in. He wasn’t sure if he was going to vomit or if it was just the overwhelming weight of it all pressing down on him.

The pressure was unbearable. The cameras, the expectations, Max’s angry outburst—it all swirled around him, suffocating. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white, struggling to hold it together. He wanted to scream, but he wasn’t sure if anyone could hear him. The thought of anyone hearing him break was too much to bear.

So he just stood there, staring into the mirror, trying to breathe through the chaos, until the feeling became so overwhelming that he felt the urge to vomit. He turned to the toilet just in time, the nausea hitting him hard. The pain was sharp, a twisting discomfort that made him grip the edge of the seat as he leaned over. It was a cruel reminder of his past, a pattern he thought he had left behind. Whenever the pressure mounted—be it from competitions, work, or his father’s expectations—his body would react in this way, and now, after so many years, that same feeling had returned.

Once he finished, he quickly flushed the toilet, the sound echoing in the small space, and then splashed cold water on his face and hands at the sink. The coolness felt good against his skin, grounding him as he fought to regain his composure. He took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to focus on the reflection staring back at him. He didn’t want anyone to see the cracks; he needed to be strong, to carry on.

With one last glance in the mirror, Lewis steeled himself and opened the door to return to the restaurant. The noise hit him immediately, the clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation, and the faint sound of the kitchen staff rushing around. It felt chaotic, but it was also familiar.

As he stepped back into the dining area, the cameras were back in action, rolling as if nothing had happened. Jos was at the stove, chatting with a couple of his cooks, and Max stood a few feet away, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. There was still tension lingering in the air, but Lewis pushed it aside.

“Okay, let’s keep going,” he said, forcing a smile as he approached the two. The moment felt fragile, and he could sense that both Jos and Max were watching him closely, gauging his reaction. He was determined to regain control, to redirect the focus back to the food and the culinary experience they were supposed to be sharing.

He had to talk to a few of the cooks there, who were all smiley and spoke English, some with barely an accent. The camera crew was rolling, capturing every moment, eager for the drama and reality that unfolded in the kitchen. Lewis could feel their eyes on him, the lenses focused closely, amplifying the pressure he was under. He was acutely aware that some of the cooks could probably smell the faint trace of vomit on his tongue; he could taste it lingering in his mouth, a sickening reminder of his earlier moment in the restroom. Still, he forced a smile and pressed on.

“Hey there! What’s your favorite dish to prepare?” Lewis asked one of the cooks, a young woman with curly hair and bright eyes. She lit up at the question, her enthusiasm spilling over as she described her favorite traditional Dutch stew, her hands animatedly gesturing as she spoke. Lewis nodded along, but the room felt like it was closing in on him, the sounds of laughter and clinking dishes creating an overwhelming symphony that made it hard to concentrate.

After chatting with a couple of the cooks, Lewis knew he had to engage with the guests as well. A family at a nearby table spotted him and called him over, their faces bright with excitement. They asked for photos and shared their admiration for his work, but the flurry of attention felt suffocating. He smiled through gritted teeth, trying to focus on their words, but inside, he felt like he was spiraling.

“Thank you so much! I really appreciate it,” he managed to say, his voice strained but polite. The warmth of their admiration was comforting yet overwhelming, and he could feel the pressure mounting with each compliment. It was as if he was being pulled in all directions, a marionette in the spotlight, and the strings were becoming tangled.

As he moved from table to table, engaging with the guests, the cheerful chatter around him felt like a tidal wave threatening to wash him away. He was drowning in a sea of warmth and expectation, fighting against the urge to retreat to a quiet space. Each interaction was a test of his composure, and while he maintained a smile, inside, he battled the rising tide of anxiety, desperate to keep himself together.

He hated how the moment felt faded under the glaring lights of the camera crew, the reality of the situation feeling more staged than authentic. The constant presence of the cameras amplified his discomfort, and he wished for a more genuine connection. To regain some control, he asked if he could interview some of the guests, hoping to shift the focus from himself and the chaos around him.

“Would you mind if I asked a few questions about your experience here?” he inquired, trying to keep his tone light despite the pressure building inside him. They agreed enthusiastically, eager to participate. Lewis felt a small wave of relief as he transitioned from the heavy scrutiny of the crew to a more relaxed interaction with the guests.

As he began the interviews, he asked about their service, their thoughts on the food, and what had brought them to the restaurant. The guests answered happily, sharing stories about their experiences and praising the staff. Their genuine enthusiasm helped ease his own anxiety, if only for a moment. Their laughter and excitement were infectious, and Lewis found himself relaxing as they spoke.

Once the interviews wrapped up, some guests gushed about Max’s food, their eyes lighting up as they described the flavors and presentation. “It was absolutely amazing! You have to try the duck dish; it’s the best I’ve ever had!” one woman exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement.

Others shifted the praise toward Lewis, talking about his cookbooks and how they had inspired them in their own kitchens. “I’ve learned so much from your recipes! Thank you for sharing your passion with us!” another guest said, beaming at him.

For a brief moment, the overwhelming feelings of nausea and anxiety subsided as he basked in the genuine warmth of their compliments. It was a reminder of why he loved cooking and connecting with others over food. Yet, the cameras were still there, capturing every moment, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the reality of it all was somehow distorted. Still, he smiled, absorbing the praise, and hoping it would ground him amidst the chaos swirling around him.

Lewis walked back into the kitchen, the energy palpable as cooks rushed around him. Jos was waiting, eyes gleaming with excitement and a hint of impatience. “Come on, Lewis! I know you can do this! Let’s see what you’ve got!” he urged, clearly eager to showcase the renowned chef in action.

Despite the pressure, Lewis agreed, feeling a surge of determination. But as he stepped up to the cutting board, his stomach twisted painfully. Anxiety was supposed to be confined to his mind, not manifesting in such a physical way. He had faced cameras and crowds countless times before, exuding confidence and charisma, but this moment felt different. The nausea bubbled beneath the surface, and he fought to push it down.

Taking a deep breath, he began to cut the onions, the sharp scent filling the air as he moved his knife skillfully through the layers. The cameras were on him, their lenses capturing every slice, every flicker of emotion on his face. Jos stood nearby, watching intently, nodding as if assessing his every move. Lewis could sense that Max was somewhere in the background, perhaps observing or even critiquing.

But then it happened. Mid-slice, he froze. A wave of pain gripped his stomach, a fierce reminder of the turmoil within. The knife hovered above the cutting board, and for a brief moment, he considered stopping altogether. He felt the weight of expectations pressing down on him, but somehow, he summoned the will to start again.

“Focus, Lewis,” he whispered to himself, shaking off the dizziness. He took another deep breath, letting the aroma of the onions invigorate him. He resumed chopping, the rhythm helping to ground him, even as his insides churned with anxiety. Each slice became a distraction, a way to channel his nervous energy into something productive. The kitchen was a chaotic whirlwind, but in that moment, he tried to find his center amidst the chaos, determined to prove to himself—and to everyone watching—that he could handle this.

Then it was time for the meat. Lewis took a moment to gather himself, focusing on the task at hand. He grabbed the cuts of meat and set them on the cutting board, his hands trembling slightly. With a deep breath, he began to cut it into perfect shapes, each slice precise as he tried to clear his mind of the swirling anxiety.

“Cook it with warm butter,” he muttered to himself, trying to remember the details of the recipe he had practiced so many times. “It was warm, right?” The question lingered in his mind, uncertainty creeping in. He knew one Dutch recipe like the back of his hand, but as he moved, he struggled to recall the specifics.

As he heated the pan, he could feel the heat radiating from the stove, but it was nothing compared to the heat rising in his chest. He poured a generous amount of butter into the pan, watching as it melted and began to bubble. The rich, creamy aroma filled the kitchen, but his thoughts remained scattered. He was hyper-aware of the cameras rolling, capturing every moment of his struggle.

“Just focus,” he reminded himself, forcing his attention back to the meat. He added it to the pan, the sound of sizzling filling the air and momentarily distracting him from his internal turmoil. The golden color of the meat began to emerge, and he turned it over carefully, trying to achieve that perfect sear he had always prided himself on.

Yet, even as he cooked, doubt nagged at him. Was the butter warm enough? Had he seasoned it adequately? He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Jos or Max to step in with unsolicited advice or judgment. The pressure mounted as the camera crew shifted their focus on him, eager for drama and tension.

“Come on, Lewis, you’ve got this,” he thought, steeling himself. He pushed through the discomfort, determined to make this dish work, to prove that despite the chaos inside, he could still deliver. The clatter of pots and the chatter of the kitchen faded into the background as he focused on the meat, his heart racing with both excitement and anxiety.

As he made Hachee, Lewis felt a nagging sense of wrongness with every step. He took an unusually long time with his ingredients, not because he was searching for the perfect ones, but because he needed the counter to lean on—something solid to support him as the anxiety threatened to engulf him.

Once the meat and onions were sizzling away, he turned his focus to the rest of the ingredients. It was painful, each addition feeling like a heavy burden. He taste-tested the mixture, hoping for a burst of flavor that would redeem his earlier misgivings. But as the flavors hit his palate, he cringed. “I guess it’s done… but it’s not very good,” he mumbled to himself, disappointment washing over him like a cold wave.

With a heavy heart, he began plating three dishes—one for Max, one for Jos, and one for anyone else in the kitchen who wanted to taste. He arranged the portions carefully, trying to mask his inner turmoil with a semblance of professionalism. But deep down, he knew he wasn’t satisfied with what he had created.

As the dishes were presented, Jos’s excitement was palpable, his eyes lighting up as he took in the vibrant presentation. “This looks amazing, Lewis!” he exclaimed, clearly hyped about the dish. Yet, beneath that enthusiasm, Lewis sensed a flicker of annoyance—Jos couldn’t hide the fact that Lewis had, once again, outdone himself in the kitchen, even when he felt like he had failed.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lewis said, forcing a smile as he excused himself, the weight of their praise feeling too heavy to bear. He stepped away from the bustling kitchen, the sounds of fork clinking against plates fading into the background as he made his way toward the restroom.

Once inside, he hurried to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, trying to shake off the anxiety that gripped him. He leaned heavily against the counter, staring at his reflection in the mirror, the tension etched across his features. The taste of his own disappointment lingered on his tongue, and he felt the urge to run from it all. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before heading back out to the restaurant, hoping to find some solace in the warmth of the kitchen and the praise he knew was waiting for him.

Lewis didn’t feel the nausea this time until it was suddenly in his mouth, the acrid taste hitting him just before he leaned over the sink. He gasped, feeling a sharp pain in his throat as he retched, the pressure overwhelming him in that small, stark room.

As he tried to clean up the mess, he heard the door swing open. Max stepped in, his expression a mixture of frustration and indignation. “Oh, you just think you can come into this restaurant and act all high and mighty and ruin this?!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the tiled walls. “I’m so sick of your better-than-everyone-else attitude! Your food is so shit!”

Max’s words hit Lewis like a punch, but before he could respond, Max’s anger turned to surprise as he took in the sight of Lewis, hunched over the sink, cleaning up after himself. The sight of the chef in such a vulnerable position momentarily silenced him. The tension in the air shifted, and Max’s frustration flickered with concern, but he quickly masked it.

“Look at you,” Max said, his tone still harsh but softer now, as if he was struggling with a mix of emotions. “Is this what you do when things don’t go your way? Run away and throw up?”

Lewis looked up, his heart racing. He wanted to defend himself, to explain that it wasn’t about being better or worse—it was the pressure, the chaos of the kitchen, the expectations weighing down on him like a heavy cloak. But as he stood there, feeling raw and exposed, all he could manage was a shaky breath.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he finally stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to ruin anything.” He glanced at Max, feeling a swirl of frustration and vulnerability. “It just… it got to me.”

Max crossed his arms, still standing in the doorway, the earlier fire in his eyes dimming slightly. “You think you’re the only one who feels that way? You’re not special, Lewis. We all have to deal with pressure in this kitchen,” he shot back, but there was a hint of empathy in his voice now. “We’re all trying to make this work.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with the unspoken tension of their circumstances. Lewis took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, hoping to find a bridge between their worlds—between his chaos and Max’s steadfastness.

“You’re nothing but an obnoxious, obsessed idiot who can’t comprehend that food doesn’t need to be perfect,” Max continued, stepping fully into the cramped bathroom, almost as if he were a father lashing out at a son’s messy room. The confrontation felt charged, the air thick with tension as Max towered over Lewis, who was still bent over the sink, desperately trying to regain his composure.

Lewis stood up straight, the flush of humiliation creeping over him, but it was hard to meet Max’s intense gaze. “You’re so fucking annoying! You made a few good dishes at four years old, and now everyone thinks you’re the Shakespeare of cooking!?” Max’s voice was sharp, cutting through the vulnerability that surrounded Lewis like a shroud.

“Speak up, you fucking child! You’re so goddamn arrogant, and it pisses me off! Goddamn! You’re so high and mighty, picking out the right shit! God!” Max’s words hit Lewis like a physical blow, each syllable echoing in the small bathroom like a relentless drum.

Lewis stood frozen, shell-shocked, the world around him fading into a blur. He felt as if he was watching the confrontation from a distance, caught in a spiral of memories he desperately wanted to push away. The tears that threatened to spill felt like a betrayal, but he couldn’t stop them from forming.

“Why do you think you can just waltz in here and act like you’re better than everyone else?” Max continued, his voice rising with each word. “You think because you’ve done a few good dishes, you’re some kind of god? Well, newsflash, Hamilton: You’re just a chef like everyone else. You don’t get to dictate what good food is!”

Lewis clenched his fists, fighting against the wave of emotions crashing over him. He could feel his heart racing, his breath hitching in his throat. In his mind, the echoes of past failures and criticisms swirled around, intensifying the shame he felt. But he had never intended to come off as arrogant; he just wanted to share his passion for cooking, to connect with others through food.

“Is that all you have to say?” Max pressed, stepping closer, almost invading Lewis’s space. “I’m just sick of you walking around like you own the place! You think you’re the only one with talent? Everyone here works their ass off, and you just come in and throw your weight around!”

Lewis turned his head, unable to meet Max’s gaze. The anger and frustration directed at him felt overwhelming, suffocating. “I didn’t mean to,” he murmured, the words barely escaping his lips.

“Didn’t mean to what? Upset everyone? Disrespect the work we do here?” Max scoffed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You don’t get it, do you? You can’t just critique without understanding the heart that goes into every single dish!”

Lewis felt the memories flooding back: the early days in the kitchen, the pressures of being thrust into the spotlight at a young age, the countless times he had been critiqued and judged. Each moment had shaped him, yes, but they also left deep scars that were hard to hide. He had spent years building walls around those emotions, but Max’s words chipped away at them, exposing the raw vulnerability underneath.

“I’m just trying to—” Lewis started, but the rest of his sentence got caught in his throat. He wanted to say that he was trying to connect, to learn, to share, but he felt trapped by the onslaught of Max’s aggression. The tears brimmed in his eyes as he fought to maintain his composure.

Max’s expression shifted slightly, the anger still present but mixed with a hint of confusion. “What? Trying to what? Show off? Act like you’re the best?”

Lewis immediately pushed back against Max, wiping the remnants of vomit from his face with his sleeve in a frantic motion. He didn’t look back as he left the bathroom, urgency propelling him forward. Grabbing his bag from the counter, he could feel the weight of the confrontation still clinging to him, the tension in the air palpable.

Max stood frozen, staring at the spot where Lewis had just been, his expression shifting from anger to confusion. He was at a loss, the words he had thrown at Lewis echoing in his mind.

Meanwhile, Jos smiled brightly at Lewis as he emerged, expecting a quick smile or a casual exchange. “Hey, Lewis! Ready for the next round?” he called out, but his cheerful tone faltered as he watched Lewis rush past him, the door swinging shut behind him. The suddenness of it shocked the owner; he turned to the camera crew, who were just as bewildered, their expressions a mix of confusion and surprise.

“What just happened?” one of the cameramen asked, glancing back at Jos, who looked equally taken aback. The vibrant atmosphere of the restaurant felt dimmed by Lewis’s abrupt departure, the weight of the moment hanging thick in the air.

Jos’s brow furrowed, concern replacing his earlier enthusiasm. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice laced with uncertainty.

Outside, Lewis rushed to his hotel room, heart pounding in his chest, tears stinging his eyes. He could feel the world spinning around him, the pressure of expectations crashing down like a tidal wave. Once inside, he locked the door behind him, the sound of the click reverberating in the silence of the room.

He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the water run until it was hot enough to chase away the chill that had settled deep within him. As he stepped under the spray, he felt the warmth envelop him, but it did little to ease the turmoil brewing in his heart.

Lewis sank to the floor of the shower, letting the water cascade over him like a cleansing veil. He cried, sobs breaking free as the weight of his emotions flooded out. He felt small, vulnerable—just like the child he once was, crying alone in the bathroom, overwhelmed by the chaos of life.

He remembered those days, feeling like he was never enough, the constant comparisons, the relentless pressure to succeed. It was all too much. The tears mingled with the water, each one washing away a fragment of the anxiety that had consumed him, if only for a moment.

As he sat there, the steam filling the room, Lewis realized that he needed to find a way back to himself—to the love of cooking that had ignited his passion in the first place. The road ahead felt uncertain, but he knew he couldn’t continue down this path of self-doubt and fear.

Lewis didn’t return to the restaurant. Instead, he found himself staring at his phone, scrolling through the flurry of tweets about his abrupt exit. “Just watched Lewis Hamilton run out of a restaurant??? Very confused lol,” one tweet read, followed by a string of similar comments. Each notification felt like a jab, reminding him of the chaotic encounter with Max and the overwhelming pressure that had pushed him to flee. But he stayed silent, opting not to address the uproar or the speculation swirling online.

As the hours passed, the weight of his experiences in Amsterdam began to lift. He envisioned himself back in his quiet hometown, far away from the relentless cameras and the expectations that had accompanied him. The thought of returning to his own restaurant felt like a warm embrace. He longed for the simplicity of his own kitchen, the familiar scents of his favorite spices, and the rhythm of cooking without the scrutiny of an audience.

Lewis felt a wave of excitement wash over him at the prospect of working on his new dessert book. He had always found solace in creating sweets—crafting delicate pastries, experimenting with flavors, and finding joy in the process. It was a world where he could be himself, free from the chaos that often accompanied his public persona.

He imagined the late nights spent in his kitchen, the soft glow of the overhead lights illuminating the countertop as he measured ingredients and whisked batter. The sound of the mixer humming in the background would become a soothing soundtrack as he poured his heart into each recipe. This was where he truly thrived, where he felt in control, and where he could create without fear of judgment.

Lewis packed his bags, his mind racing with ideas for his dessert book. He thought about incorporating local flavors from his hometown, perhaps a twist on classic recipes that reflected his own culinary journey. The more he imagined, the more he felt a sense of clarity returning to him—a renewed focus on what truly mattered.

The moment he boarded the flight back home, he felt an immense weight lift off his shoulders. The tension of the past few days dissipated with every mile he traveled away from the chaos of the city. His heart swelled with anticipation for the comfort of home, where he could reconnect with his passion for cooking and embrace the creativity that had always fueled him.

As the plane soared through the clouds, Lewis closed his eyes and envisioned the delicate soufflés, rich chocolate tarts, and vibrant fruit compotes that awaited him in his kitchen. He could almost taste the sweetness, the warmth of freshly baked goods, and the satisfaction of sharing them with friends and family.

Upon landing, he was greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of his small town. It felt like stepping into a comforting embrace, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of Amsterdam. He drove through the streets, soaking in the tranquility, until he finally arrived at his restaurant—a cozy little spot that had been his sanctuary.

Walking through the door, the familiar scents wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Lewis felt a renewed sense of purpose as he stepped into the kitchen, ready to dive back into the world he loved. He turned on the lights and began to unpack his thoughts, eager to experiment with flavors and create desserts that would bring joy to those who tasted them.

Lewis looked at his hand, tracing the large scar that ran from his palm up to his elbow. It was a stark reminder of a childhood accident that had left a lasting mark, both physically and emotionally. The scar was a product of his father’s intense desire for him to excel in the kitchen, where cooking was not just a hobby but an expectation.

As a child, Lewis had been eager to learn but also terrified of making mistakes. His father often insisted on using oil for frying, a technique Lewis struggled with, especially given the height of the stove. He had always been a small child, dwarfed by the towering kitchen equipment, and the heat radiating from the stove was intimidating.

On that fateful day, the oil was set to an alarmingly high temperature, bubbling dangerously as Lewis prepared to cook. In his nervousness, he dropped a small utensil, and as he bent down to pick it up, he lost his grip on the pan. The whole thing tipped, sending a torrent of scorching hot oil cascading down onto his arm. The pain was immediate and excruciating, unlike anything he had ever experienced.

His scream echoed through the studio, reverberating off the walls. It was a cry of pure agony, one that resonated far beyond the physical hurt. The camera crew and the professional chef who were supposed to be there to guide him had stepped away to check on something else, leaving him alone in a moment that felt both surreal and terrifying. There he was, surrounded by the remnants of a cooking set designed for watching, not for the vulnerability he now felt.

He screamed and cried, his tears mingling with the pain that coursed through him. The screaming came from the searing heat of the oil; the crying stemmed from a deeper fear—fear of disappointing his father, who had always demanded perfection. Lewis remembered his father’s harsh words echoing in his mind: “Mistakes are not acceptable.” Each reprimand had carved a space in his heart, creating an anxiety that would follow him into adulthood.

In that moment, he was not just a child in pain; he was a child wrestling with the weight of expectations that felt heavier than the scars on his arm. The feeling of isolation enveloped him as he realized he was alone in his struggle, with no one to comfort him or reassure him that it was okay to make mistakes.

Only one person Ever  comforted Lewis.

it took the professional chef less than a second to drop whatever he was doing and rush inside, hearing the commotion and the unmistakable sound of a child’s anguished cries. The kitchen door swung open, and in came Niki Lauda, a renowned chef with a reputation for being both strict and nurturing. The moment he saw little Hamilton, crying and terrified, his expression transformed from shock to concern.

“Hey, hey, Lewis! Look at me!” Niki said, crouching down to Lewis’s level. His voice was calm and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded them. Niki quickly assessed the situation, glancing at the spilled oil and then back at Lewis, who was trembling and clutching his arm. “You’re going to be okay. Help is on the way.”

As the sound of sirens grew louder, Niki gently placed a reassuring hand on Lewis’s shoulder, grounding him. “Breathe, Lewis. Just breathe. It’s going to be alright,” he said, his voice soothing amidst the panic. Lewis could see the genuine concern in Niki’s eyes, and though the pain was overwhelming, the chef’s presence began to ease some of his fears.

Niki quickly grabbed a nearby towel and pressed it against Lewis’s arm, trying to stem the pain and protect him from further harm. “You’re a brave kid, and accidents happen. We’ll get you the help you need,” he reassured, even as he felt a surge of anger at the circumstances that had led to this moment.

Within moments, the hospital car arrived, the paramedics rushing in with a focused efficiency. They assessed Lewis’s injuries, their calm demeanor a balm for his frayed nerves. Niki stayed by Lewis’s side, never letting go of his shoulder, ensuring he felt supported as they tended to his wounds.

As the paramedics prepared to take him to the hospital, Lewis caught a glimpse of Niki’s serious face, a mix of concern and determination. “You’ll come back from this stronger, Lewis,” he said, his voice firm yet kind

Those words lingered in Lewis’s mind, settling into the recesses of his heart as he was lifted onto a stretcher. It was a lesson he would carry with him for years to come, one that he would need to relearn many times throughout his life.

As the ambulance doors closed and the sirens wailed into the distance, Lewis realized that in that moment of crisis, he had not only experienced pain but also the warmth of compassion. It was a bittersweet memory, one that reminded him of the scars he bore but also of the kindness that had accompanied him through his darkest moments.

What also stuck with Lewis was how his father didn’t rush to his side. He didn’t care, and that realization cut deeper than the pain in his arm. Instead of rushing to the hospital, his father had simply stayed behind, leaving Lewis feeling more embarrassed and alone than ever. The boy had expected support, even in a moment of crisis, but all he got was the silence of disappointment.

He remembered lying in the hospital bed, his arm bandaged and throbbing, when he overheard Niki arguing with his father outside the room. The muffled voices carried through the sterile air, and Lewis strained to listen, his heart racing.

“You need to be there for him! He’s just a child!” Niki’s voice rose, filled with incredulity and anger. “He’s terrified, and he needs his father right now!”

Lewis could picture Niki, his usually calm demeanor shattered, standing his ground against his father’s indifference. The chef had always been someone he admired, and hearing him defend him made Lewis’s heart swell, even as he felt abandoned by the one person he thought would always be there.

His father’s response was measured and dismissive, a cold tone that Lewis would come to recognize all too well. “He’s fine. Kids get hurt. It’s not a big deal. He’ll be back in the kitchen in no time.”

That statement stung like the burn on his arm. Lewis felt a mix of shame and rage bubble within him. Did his father not understand that it was more than just a physical injury? Did he not see the fear in his eyes, the vulnerability that came from being so young and so afraid?

Niki’s voice was firm, insistent. “It is a big deal! He’s scared, and you should be here for him. He needs you to care, not just to act like this is a normal day!”

Lewis could imagine Niki standing there, fists clenched in frustration, trying to make his father see reason. He wished he could hear more, but the voices faded, and all that remained was a sense of isolation.

It was in that moment that Lewis understood something crucial: he couldn’t rely on his father’s approval or support. He felt an ember of determination ignite within him, sparked by Niki’s fervent protectiveness. Perhaps cooking was where he found solace, but it was also the source of his deepest fears. And he realised that he had to navigate that journey alone.

As the memories washed over him, Lewis could still feel the warmth of Niki’s support, juxtaposed against the chilling absence of his father’s concern. It would shape his approach to both cooking and life, driving him to forge his own path, away from the shadows of doubt and disappointment. And though the scars remained, they would remind him not just of pain, but also of the strength he found within himself in the face of indifference.

The oil had burned his skin deep, leaving a mark that etched itself into his memory just as much as his flesh. The scar, once angry and red, was slowly fading over time, but it took what felt like an eternity for the doctors to assure him it would heal. At first, they had feared it wouldn’t fade at all, and the thought of carrying that reminder forever weighed heavily on his heart.

It wasn’t just the physical pain he remembered; it was the emotional turmoil that accompanied it. Every glance at the scar reminded him of that day—the fear, the pain, and the overwhelming sense of abandonment.

Lewis wanted to cry. He felt like shit, a mix of anger and sadness boiling inside him. All he had wanted in that moment was to feel safe and cared for, to have a father who would rush to his side and comfort him. Instead, he had faced indifference, a hollow void where love should have been.

The longing for a hug from a father who truly loved him was overwhelming. It gnawed at him, a constant reminder of what he missed out on. As a child, he had wanted validation, to hear his father say he was proud of him, to feel the warmth of acceptance. But instead, he was left with the echoes of his father’s dismissive attitude, a cold contrast to the nurturing presence he craved.

He closed his eyes, allowing the memories to wash over him, hoping to find solace in the past, but it was a bitter reminder of what he lacked. It wasn’t just about the scar; it was about the emotional wounds that had never fully healed. The scars on his body were visible, but the ones on his heart ran deeper, hidden beneath layers of bravado and success.

As he recalled those moments, he made a silent vow to himself: he would be different. He would nurture the passion within him, embrace the vulnerability he had learned to hide, and perhaps, one day, he would find the strength to forgive—both himself and the father who had let him down. In that moment of reflection, he realized that while he couldn’t change his past, he had the power to shape his future. And that future would be built on love, acceptance, and the courage to pursue his dreams, no matter how painful the journey might be.

Lewis’ father hated the idea of him working with Niki Lauda after the accident. In his eyes, Lewis was not supposed to show weakness or vulnerability, especially not in a profession that demanded strength and precision. The incident had left a lasting mark not just on Lewis’ skin but on his relationship with his father. From that moment on, he was no longer allowed to work alongside Niki, the very chef who had rushed to his side in his moment of crisis.

Whenever they found themselves in the same place, Niki would always notice how Lewis would retreat inward, how he struggled to maintain composure amidst the chaos of the culinary world. The other professional cooks he worked with as a child observed the same thing—Lewis would rock back and forth in between recording, a telltale sign of his anxiety. But Niki was different. He recognized the signs of distress and chose to comfort Lewis instead of dismissing his emotions.

“Let it out, Lewis,” Niki would say, pulling him close as Lewis sobbed into his chest. It was a refuge in a world that often felt harsh and unforgiving. Niki’s embrace was a safe haven, a stark contrast to the tough love he received from his father. He could feel the warmth radiating from Niki, and it was in those moments that Lewis realized he didn’t have to be strong all the time; it was okay to be soft, to cry, and to express his feelings.

Those moments with Niki became a lifeline for Lewis, a reminder that there were adults who understood the complexity of emotions and were willing to validate his pain. In the bustling kitchen filled with the sounds of clanging pots and sizzling pans, Niki offered Lewis a glimpse of compassion that he craved. Niki didn’t just teach him about cooking; he taught him about humanity—the importance of empathy and the power of vulnerability.

As Lewis grew older, he would carry those lessons with him. Niki’s kindness became a model for how he wanted to treat others in his own life. He vowed to be the kind of mentor who would hold space for someone else’s struggles, just as Niki had done for him. The scars on his skin were reminders of his past, but the memories of Niki’s comfort would serve as a guide for his future, illuminating a path towards healing and acceptance that he had once thought impossible.

Hell, even as Lewis grew into a teen who took on adult roles in shows and restaurants, those who worked alongside the Hamiltons could see the cracks beneath his polished exterior. Whenever the cameras stopped rolling, Lewis would often retreat to the shadows of the kitchen, seeking solace in solitude. His colleagues would find him tucked away behind a wall, or slipping into the restroom, trying to catch his breath in a moment of calm.

They often excused his absences with a casual shrug, attributing them to the pressures of homework or the demands of his burgeoning career. “The kid’s just focused,” they’d say, not realizing the depth of the loneliness he felt. To them, he was the prodigy, the boy genius of the culinary world, but what they didn’t see was the quiet storm raging within him.

Lewis would stand in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, grappling with the emotions he had been taught to suppress. He felt like an imposter, a boy playing a man’s game, trying to uphold a legacy that felt heavier with each passing day. Each time he felt overwhelmed, he would wrap his arms around himself, cradling his own fragile heart, as silent tears streamed down his cheeks. It was a momentary release, a brief reprieve from the relentless expectations.

The kitchen staff, busy with their own tasks, often didn’t notice his absence until they saw him re-emerging, wiping his eyes and forcing a smile back into place. He would slip back into his role seamlessly, demonstrating his culinary skills and dazzling the cameras with his charm. Yet, behind that smile, there was a growing sense of isolation—a nagging reminder that, despite being surrounded by people, he was utterly alone.

Whenever the crew would wrap for the day, and the lights dimmed, Lewis would linger for a moment, watching the laughter and camaraderie shared among the adults. It stung to see them interact so freely, their connections illuminated by warmth and understanding. He longed for that sense of belonging, for someone to reach out and pull him into their world, but he always felt like an outsider, hovering just out of reach.

In those quiet moments, he would think about his father. The man who had thrust him into the world of cooking, who had nurtured his talents but had also instilled in him a fear of failure. Lewis often wondered if his father even recognized the toll it took on him—the emotional exhaustion, the tears shed in the dark corners of a bathroom stall. Did he notice the boy behind the chef? Did he ever stop to ask how Lewis was truly feeling, beyond the accolades and praise?

As he prepared dishes on camera, Lewis would replay the moments when he had to escape, the way he had learned to mask his pain with laughter and skill. He craved validation, but it often felt like a mirage, forever out of reach. He wanted to be celebrated not just for his culinary prowess but for who he was as a person—a boy with dreams, fears, and a heart that longed for connection.

Each time he left the kitchen to find solace, he hoped that maybe, just maybe, someone would notice. Someone would see the boy behind the chef, the fragile heart yearning for understanding. But as the years went by, he found himself increasingly resigned to the cycle of hiding and performing, caught in a loop of expectations that seemed impossible to escape.

But no one ever comforted him, aside from Niki, who was rarely able to be there. As Lewis transitioned into his teenage years, the emotional turmoil that had once manifested in tears and longing evolved into a profound numbness. He felt as though he were encased in a thick glass wall, unable to reach out to anyone or let anyone in. When he cradled himself behind the kitchen or found a secluded spot, he was not merely hiding; he was trying to exist in a space where the weight of the world couldn’t crush him.

The quiet sobs that the camera crews once excused as miscommunication had faded away, leaving a heavy silence in their wake. Lewis learned to mask his pain behind an expression of composure, but it often felt like he was acting in a play where he didn’t know the lines. As he navigated the bustling kitchens and vibrant sets, the laughter and energy around him seemed to grow louder, while he felt increasingly invisible.

On the rare occasions when crew members walked past the kitchen and caught sight of Lewis cradling himself, they never said anything. They simply stared, a mix of curiosity and confusion on their faces. The unspoken bond between them and Lewis was built on mutual recognition of his pain, yet it remained unacknowledged, hovering awkwardly in the air like a ghost. No one dared to break the silence, and Lewis didn’t have the strength to reach out for help.

He had mastered the art of blending in while feeling like an outsider, a silent observer in a life that seemed to unfold without him. Despite his talent and charisma on camera, behind the scenes, he felt like a shadow, watching others engage in relationships and friendships he yearned for but could never grasp. The emptiness of his existence weighed heavily on him, a constant reminder of the warmth he had been denied.

As days turned into months, the isolation became a part of him. Lewis would often find himself staring blankly at the bustling kitchens filled with laughter and camaraderie, longing for someone to notice his absence, to reach out and pull him back into the fold. But instead, he remained trapped in his own silence, rocking gently to soothe the storm within.

The few moments of connection he shared with Niki were fleeting but meaningful. He often replayed those rare conversations in his mind, holding onto the comfort they brought him like a lifeline in the midst of an emotional sea. But Niki had his own commitments, and Lewis understood that he couldn’t always rely on him for support.

Ultimately, the silence that enveloped him became both a sanctuary and a prison. It kept the chaos of his feelings at bay, allowing him to function, to create, to be the “billion-dollar cook” the world saw. Yet, it also isolated him further, deepening the divide between his public persona and his private reality. Each day was a battle against the longing for comfort, for understanding, for a father who would truly see him, and he remained ensnared in the cycle of loneliness and self-soothing.

Lewis longed for someone to break the silence, to ask how he was truly feeling. But with each passing moment, he felt that hope slipping away, as if it had been extinguished along with the warmth he craved. In the end, he was left with only his own company, cradling himself as he navigated the complexities of a world that felt increasingly alien to him.

Lewis found himself signing a contract with Michael Schumacher, excitement radiating from Michael as he spoke animatedly about their upcoming cooking series. Lewis matched his joy on the outside, but internally, he felt a sense of dread. Today was the first day of recording, and as he stepped into the kitchen, the memories of Niki began to fade from his thoughts, which scared him. Yet, he turned up, determined to present a smile.

“Where’s your dad? Or mom?” Michael asked, glancing at the baby carrier beside him, where his son was sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the bustling world around him.

“At work, probably,” Lewis replied, forcing a smile that felt somewhat strained. His beautiful tiny afro bounced slightly with the movement, a reminder of his youth despite the pressure he felt.

The conversation ended oddly, a slight shift in the air that made Michael feel uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something behind Lewis’s bright facade that seemed out of place.

Lewis quickly donned the apron he had brought along, the fabric familiar and comforting. He also grabbed a few towels he liked to use while cooking, a small ritual that helped him feel more at home in the kitchen.

As the camera crew began recording, Lewis slipped into his charming and funny persona, effortlessly bantering with Michael. It was a skill he had honed over the years, a way to deflect the pressure and expectations that weighed on him.

“Welcome to our kitchen!” Lewis announced with a grin, his voice lively. “Today, we’re going to create something that’ll knock your socks off!”

Michael felt the shift in energy but continued to play along, impressed by Lewis’s ability to switch gears. They worked seamlessly together, chopping, sautéing, and mixing ingredients, each move synchronised like a well-rehearsed dance.

The dish they were preparing was amazing, a recipe that combined flavours in a way that showcased both their skills. But as the dish simmered and then went into the oven, the camera crew paused the recording, needing to adjust some settings and discuss angles and the food needing to be done.

In that moment of silence, Lewis felt the weight of reality creeping back in. Without the cameras rolling, the cheerful facade began to crack. He fidgeted with the hem of his apron, feeling the familiar anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.

As Lewis watched Michael immediately go over to his son, who was giggling and reaching for his father, a wave of sadness washed over him. The sight of the two of them together—so full of joy and love—triggered a deep longing within Lewis for a connection he had always craved but never fully experienced with his own father. He felt a knot form in his stomach as he realized how much he missed that kind of affection.

Needing a moment to collect himself, Lewis stepped outside of the bustling kitchen. The fresh air hit his face like a splash of cold water, snapping him out of his melancholy thoughts. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and quickly put on his headphones, cranking up the volume to drown out the noise of the world around him. The loud music pulsed through him, a temporary escape from the emotions swirling in his mind.

He leaned against the cool wall of the building, trying to find solace in the rhythm of the beat. Each note was a distraction, a way to push back the feelings of loneliness that crept in when he wasn’t on camera or in the spotlight. The music became a shield, wrapping around him and offering a brief reprieve from the chaos of his thoughts.

But even with the music blaring, he couldn’t shake the image of Michael and his son. The contrast between their happy moment and his own memories felt like a chasm that he couldn’t bridge. Lewis closed his eyes, letting the melodies wash over him, but the ache in his chest remained. It was a familiar pain, one he had carried for years, and no amount of music could fill the void left by his father’s absence.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He reminded himself that he was here to cook, to share his passion, and to prove to himself that he could thrive, even in the shadow of his past. He needed to shake off the sadness and return to the kitchen, ready to bring his best self to the table—just as Michael was doing for his son.

With a final glance at his phone, Lewis stepped back inside, the music still echoing in his mind, but his heart a little lighter.

The warmth of Michael and his son’s laughter drifted through the kitchen, mixing with the sounds of pots clattering and cheerful chatter from the crew. It was a scene filled with genuine love and familial bonding, the kind that Lewis had longed for but had never fully experienced himself. The crew members who had their own children gathered around Michael, doting on Mick, sharing in the joy of parenthood. The sight was both heartwarming and excruciating for Lewis.

Sitting behind the kitchen counter, he felt like an outsider looking in, the happiness around him starkly contrasting the emptiness he felt inside. With a heavy heart, he pulled out his phone and booted up a video game, hoping to immerse himself in its digital world to escape the reality surrounding him. The bright colors and pixelated characters offered a distraction, but the joy of the game couldn’t compete with the emotions swirling in his mind.

As he tapped and swiped on the screen, Lewis tried to block out the laughter and chatter. Each giggle from Mick felt like a reminder of everything he didn’t have. It stung more than he expected, pulling him deeper into his own thoughts. Why couldn’t he have experienced that kind of nurturing? Why was he always alone, even in a crowded room?

Despite the brightness of the game, his heart felt heavy. He was surrounded by people, yet the walls around him felt impenetrable. He could hear snippets of conversation—Michael’s soft laughter, the gentle cooing at Mick—but all he could focus on was the bittersweet pang in his chest. He hated how much he craved that kind of connection, how deeply it reminded him of the void left by his father.

With each level he played, he tried to focus on the game, to lose himself in the rhythm of the virtual battles. But every time he heard a particularly joyful shout from Michael or a sweet giggle from Mick, his concentration faltered, and the game lost its appeal. Lewis sighed, leaning back against the counter, feeling the familiar ache of loneliness wash over him again.

He wished he could be part of that world, but instead, he was just a spectator, tucked away behind the kitchen counter, trying to drown out the sounds of a loving father-son relationship with video games. It was a fragile refuge, one that could easily shatter with another reminder of what he had missed out on.

And that’s how he found himself gently cradling and rocking back and forth, lost in the rhythm of the game as he played Plants vs. Zombies on his phone. Each tap on the screen was a fleeting escape from reality, a way to keep his mind occupied while his heart ached with longing. The colorful cartoonish graphics were a stark contrast to the heaviness in his chest, providing a semblance of comfort, if only for a moment.

As he planted his defenses against the oncoming waves of zombies, the familiar mechanics of the game allowed him to focus on strategy rather than the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He lost himself in the absurdity of cartoonish plants defending against clumsy zombies, a welcome distraction from the laughter echoing around him.

But even as he played, he could hear the distant sounds of Michael and Mick. The warmth of their bond was palpable, wrapping around the kitchen like a soft blanket. It reminded him of the void he felt—the childhood he never had, the father who had never been present, and the nurturing he had always craved. He rocked a little harder, hoping to drown out the emotions.

In the quiet moments between levels, when he could hear the world around him, Lewis felt the pang of isolation more acutely. He was surrounded by people, yet he felt invisible. As he cradled himself, it was as if he was trying to soothe the child within, the one who had learned to hide behind counters and kitchen doors, finding solace in the shadows.

With every victory in the game, he felt a brief rush of triumph, but it was fleeting. The joy was a veneer that couldn’t cover the deep-seated sadness. As he faced another wave of zombies, he forced himself to smile at the screen, pretending that he was winning at something other than just a game. But deep down, he knew he was still battling the ghosts of his past.

And so he continued to rock, holding onto his phone, a fragile lifeline to a world that felt safer than the one just a few steps away.

Then he heard Michael’s voice, filled with confusion. “Where is Lewis?” He had apparently looked away from his son and was unsure of where Lewis had gone.

“Probably in the restroom; he’ll be here soon,” someone from the crew said. Michael had brought the entire camera crew with him, and the presence of so many strangers only heightened Lewis’s anxiety.

“Right…” Michael replied, glancing at his watch. He turned back to Mick, playing with him to keep him entertained. Lewis watched from his hidden spot, feeling a pang of envy at their easy bond.

As five minutes passed, Lewis heard Michael’s footsteps fading toward the restroom. “He isn’t here?” Michael mumbled, his tone shifting from casual to concerned.

A chorus of worried murmurs erupted from the camera crew, and Lewis felt the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on him. To them, he was just a child, not quite an adult, and he struggled with that perception. He didn’t want to be seen as weak or in need of babysitting.

Taking a deep breath, he gently got up from behind the counter and glanced at the crew. “I’m here, no worries,” he said, trying to inject some confidence into his voice, even if it trembled slightly.

Michael turned at the sound of Lewis’s voice, his expression transforming from concern to relief. “There you are! I was just about to send out a search party.”

The crew’s attention shifted to Lewis, and he felt their eyes on him, assessing him, but he tried to shake off the feeling of vulnerability. “I just lost track of time,” he said, brushing off their concern.

Lewis wasn’t used to concern. He mumbled a brief acknowledgment as the camera crew settled into place.

“And we are on,” a crew member announced, and the lights seemed to intensify. Michael turned to the camera a bright smile on his face, as he started taking out the food. Meanwhile, Lewis began making his final preparations, acutely aware of the camera focused on him.

He cut the vegetables with impressive speed, his small fingers flying over the cutting board. The swift movements made Michael uneasy; he couldn’t help but watch with a mix of admiration and concern. It wasn’t just the speed that worried him; it was the fact that a child was handling sharp knives with such precision.

Michael knew chefs who had trained for years to master that kind of speed without injuring themselves, and watching Lewis do it felt surreal. There was an unsettling juxtaposition between Lewis’s youthful appearance and his intense focus in the kitchen.

As Lewis worked, he caught a glimpse of his hand—the one with the large mark running up his arm, a scar from a childhood accident. He felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, a pang of self-consciousness. That morning, he had covered it with makeup, trying to mask the visible reminder of his past.

“Lewis,” Michael called gently, trying to pull him from his thoughts, “you’re doing great, but remember to take your time. There’s no rush.”

Lewis nodded absentmindedly, but his eyes remained focused on the task at hand. He quickly sliced through the vegetables, each cut a reminder of his relentless pursuit of perfection. He didn’t want anyone to see his insecurities or the mark that told a story he wished to forget.

Michael sensed the tension behind Lewis’s facade. The boy was pushing himself hard, and the pressure of the cameras didn’t help. “It’s okay to make mistakes,” he added softly, hoping to ease some of the weight Lewis seemed to carry.

But Lewis simply shook his head, his determination overshadowing Michael’s words. He was caught in a cycle of fear and expectation, driven by a desire to prove himself—not just to the audience, but to himself.

As they continued, the atmosphere in the kitchen felt charged, the cameras capturing every moment. Michael kept a watchful eye on Lewis, ready to step in if things became too overwhelming, but for now, he could only hope that the young chef would find some sense of balance amidst the chaos.

It shot a large fear through Michael, watching Lewis chop and dice with such speed and confidence. He shook his head, a mixture of awe and concern washing over him; this kid was a prodigy.

As Michael spoke to the camera, emphasizing the importance of fresh ingredients and creativity in cooking, Lewis quickly walked over with the perfectly cut vegetables. They were uniform, vibrant, and showcased a meticulous attention to detail that was hard to ignore. He had discarded the vegetables he didn’t like without a second thought, focused only on creating the best dish possible.

“Alright, Lewis, show them what you can do!” Michael encouraged, stepping back slightly to let the young chef take the lead. He felt a mix of excitement and apprehension as he observed Lewis handling the ingredients with a practiced ease.

Lewis, his voice cheery and animated, began tossing in seasonings, explaining each step with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved what he was doing. “A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and this here is my secret ingredient—smoked paprika!” he said, grinning. It was terrifying to watch a child move so instinctively through the kitchen, seemingly without fear or hesitation.

“What about the recipe?” Michael asked, trying to gauge Lewis’s thought process.

“I don’t need one,” Lewis replied, his confidence shining through. “I just know what flavors go together.” The way he spoke made it clear that this wasn’t just a hobby for him; it was a passion that ran deep.

As he worked, Michael was struck by how much better the dish tasted compared to when he had prepared it alone. The flavors were bold and vibrant, each bite a testament to Lewis’s innate talent. Michael couldn’t help but smile as he tasted the mixture, surprised by how the little chef had elevated the dish beyond his expectations.

“Wow, Lewis! This is incredible,” Michael exclaimed, genuinely impressed. “You really have a gift.”

Lewis beamed at the compliment, his face lighting up as if he had just received a trophy. Yet, beneath the surface, there was an underlying tension in his posture. The pressure to perform, to excel, was palpable.

As they moved on to the next steps of the recipe, Lewis continued to lead, demonstrating a flair for improvisation that only added to the dish’s complexity. Michael watched in awe, feeling both proud and concerned.

Lewis hadn’t eaten all day; he was starving, but he didn’t show it. He often forgot to eat, too caught up in the whirlwind of cooking and striving for perfection. His stomach grumbled quietly, but he pushed the discomfort aside, focusing on the task at hand.

As they finished the dish, it was clear that Lewis had an instinctual knack for flavor combinations. Michael watched in awe as Lewis added a few unexpected seasonings, transforming the meal into something extraordinary. “You know, a little splash of lemon juice can really brighten this up,” Lewis suggested, tossing in a squeeze that added an unexpected zest to the dish.

Michael nodded, impressed. “That’s brilliant, Lewis! I wouldn’t have thought of that. You have a natural talent for balancing flavors.”

With each addition, Lewis felt a rush of excitement. Cooking was more than just a job for him; it was a form of expression, a way to create something beautiful and delicious. The kitchen buzzed with their energy, and despite the pressure of the cameras, Lewis felt at ease, lost in the rhythm of chopping, mixing, and tasting.

“Okay, let’s plate this up!” Michael said, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got to make it look as good as it tastes.”

Lewis carefully arranged the dish, artfully placing the vibrant vegetables and drizzling the sauce with precision. His small hands moved deftly, the years of practice evident in every movement. Michael stepped back to admire the presentation, feeling a sense of pride wash over him.

“Looks amazing! Let’s get the camera crew in here,” Michael said, turning to call the crew over.

Just then, Lewis felt a pang in his stomach, a reminder of how long it had been since he last ate. He pushed the feeling aside again, determined to finish the segment. After all, there would be time to eat once they wrapped up.

As they recorded the final moments, Michael took a taste of the dish, his eyes lighting up with delight. “This is incredible! You’ve really outdone yourself, Lewis.”

“Thanks! I really enjoyed making it,” Lewis replied, his cheeks flushing with pride.

The meal was a resounding success, and while the camera crew reveled in the flavors, Lewis barely touched his plate. He ate a few bites, enough to keep up appearances, before springing into action to clean up. His mind was already racing ahead—he had a restaurant to manage, a world that demanded his attention.

As he rushed out of the studio, Michael watched him go, a heavy realization settling in. “Lewis isn’t just a boy; he’s a brand,” he murmured, the weight of that thought heavy on his heart. He glanced at Mick, who was peacefully asleep in his carrier, and imagined the stress that Lewis had been under since childhood. By the age of four, Lewis had already been molded by expectations that far outweighed his years.

Lewis navigated the streets with a sense of urgency, his heart pounding as he arrived at his restaurant. The familiar chaos greeted him as soon as he walked through the door. The air was thick with the rich aromas of cooking, and the sound of sizzling pans and bustling chefs filled the space. One of the manager chefs spotted him and rushed over, eyes wide with stress.

“Lewis! Thank God you’re here! We’re swamped!”

“Let’s do this!” Lewis replied, adrenaline coursing through him. He dove right into the thick of it, working alongside the team as they prepped for the dinner rush. He chopped vegetables, stirred sauces, and offered guidance, his small stature belied by the authority he commanded in the kitchen.

Time seemed to blur as they powered through the evening. Lewis was in his element, the stress of filming long forgotten as he focused on the dishes that needed to be perfect. He coordinated orders, checked in with the line cooks, and even helped plate the food with an artist’s touch.

As the clock inched closer to 6:03 PM, a sense of urgency heightened in the kitchen. “We’re almost there, team!” he encouraged, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Just a few more minutes!”

When the last order went out, a wave of relief washed over him. He wiped his brow, glancing around the kitchen at the exhausted but satisfied faces of his staff. They had done it together.

“Great job, everyone!” he called, pride swelling in his chest. But he knew he couldn’t stay. There was another life waiting for him beyond the kitchen, another part of him that yearned for solace.

“Lewis, are you leaving?” one of the chefs asked, concern in their voice.

“Yeah, I’ll see you all tomorrow!” he replied, forcing a smile as he made his way out. He felt the weight of their gazes on him as he stepped outside, the night air hitting him like a cold splash of water.

Lewis walked home with a mixture of exhaustion and reflection swirling in his mind. The distance seemed longer tonight, each step bringing him closer to thoughts he often tried to push aside.

Lewis arrived home, the familiar creaks of the house greeting him as he stepped inside. He gently greeted his family, but the warmth was met with his father’s annoyance—a grunt, a disinterested nod. His mother’s absence weighed heavily on him, a reminder of their divorce that still echoed in their lives.

After a long day, he stretched his body to relieve the tension that had built up, then made his way to the kitchen. The simple act of eating felt mechanical, just another task to check off. He grabbed some leftovers from the fridge, wolfing them down without tasting, before heading to bed.

The next morning, the sun poured through the window, coaxing him awake. Lewis shook off the remnants of sleep, got dressed, and readied himself for another day at the studio. The routine had become a well-worn path: brush teeth, style his hair, force on a smile in the mirror.

At the studio, he felt the familiar energy buzz in the air. Crew members hurried about, and the smell of coffee filled the space. Lewis stepped into the spotlight, his cheerful persona instantly on display. The cameras were rolling, and he was the charming, lively cook everyone loved to see.

Yet, as soon as the cameras turned off, the weight of reality crashed back down. The laughter that filled the studio moments ago faded away, leaving him feeling hollow. During a break, he slipped to the back of the studio, seeking solace away from the bustling crew.

Finding a quiet corner, he instinctively cradled himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. It was a familiar comfort, a small refuge where he could briefly escape the pressures that came with being a brand instead of just a boy.

Meanwhile, Micheal continued talking to the other crew members, his voice a soft murmur in the background. Lewis could hear snippets of their conversations but felt miles away. He was trapped in a cycle of numbness, caught between the cheerful cook everyone saw and the lonely child he felt like inside.

The warmth of Micheal’s laughter echoed faintly in the distance, a stark contrast to the chill that settled in Lewis’s chest. He yearned for connection, for someone to see beyond the polished exterior he presented to the world. But for now, he remained hidden, cradling himself in the silence, hoping to gather the strength to face the cameras again.

Lewis’ dad controlled the restaurants, managing everything under the guise of his brand, while Lewis felt more like a puppet than a chef. He was the one who created the dishes, pouring his heart into each one, but lately, he had started to step back, disillusioned by the demands of his father and the pressure of being a brand.

When the timer went off, signaling that it was time for the cameras to roll again, Lewis reluctantly rose from his cradling position. He took a moment to gather himself, pushing away the sadness that had been threatening to overwhelm him. This segment was more serious; it required a level of performance that made him anxious.

As he walked towards the filming area, he noticed a few women from the crew exchanging concerned glances in his direction. Their looks shared a silent worry, but he quickly looked away, not wanting to acknowledge it. It only reminded him of how alone he felt despite being surrounded by people.

The studio was buzzing with activity as lights brightened, and cameras were adjusted. Lewis took a deep breath, forcing a smile onto his face. He could feel the weight of expectations pressing down on him, but he had to play his part. As he stepped into the limelight, he put on the mask he wore so well—the charming young chef everyone loved to watch.

“Sooo’ now the par-” Micheal’s voice faded away for Lewis as he positioned himself next to Micheal, who was animatedly explaining the ingredients laid out before them. Despite the nervousness creeping in, he allowed himself to focus on the cooking. As he began to chop and prepare, he tried to lose himself in the rhythm of the kitchen, hoping that the act of creating would drown out the doubts swirling in his mind.

“Lewis, tell us what we’re making today!” Micheal prompted, smiling at him.

“Today, we’re making a roasted vegetable medley with quinoa,” Lewis replied, his voice steady. “I’ll add some herbs and spices to enhance the flavor.”

As he spoke, he felt the cameras on him, but he tried to ignore them, immersing himself in the task at hand. He carefully selected the vegetables, thinking about how he used to enjoy this process before everything felt so complicated.

He was done so fast, so smooth and perfect. The meal was plated beautifully, and the crew erupted in applause as the cameras rolled. But once the director called “cut,” Lewis was gone, darting past Micheal with a quick, apologetic “sorry—I have something to do.”

Micheal watched him disappear into the back corridors, a deepening worry etching lines on his face. “Do you think he goes to school?” he asked the crew, his voice tinged with concern. They shook their heads, murmuring that they’d never seen Lewis with a backpack or heard him mention anything about school.

The realization settled uncomfortably in Micheal’s gut. Memories of his own childhood flooded back—days filled with laughter, the freedom to explore, and the joy of simple, carefree moments. Lewis, however, was always in the kitchen, always cooking. It wasn’t right.

Micheal’s heart ached as he spoke out against how Lewis was being used. “This kid is a culinary genius, yes, but he’s still a child. He should be living his life, not just working. He deserves to have fun, to play, to learn—not to be a brand or a product for his father.”

The crew nodded in agreement, their expressions serious. “It’s concerning,” one camera operator chimed in. “He’s got so much talent, but he’s under so much pressure. He’s like a little machine, just cranking out food without a moment to be a kid.”

“Exactly,” another crew member added. “He needs more than just cooking. He should have the chance to experience life, to make friends, to go to school.”

Micheal ran a hand through his hair, frustration mounting. “We need to keep an eye on him. We can’t just watch him burn out. It’s not right, and we have to do something to help him.”

The crew exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing among them. They had the power to make a difference, to ensure that Lewis didn’t lose himself in the whirlwind of expectations. As they packed up their equipment, Micheal felt a sense of determination take hold.

“Let’s make sure we’re there for him, even if it’s just to remind him that he’s not alone in this. He needs support, not just in the kitchen but in life. He deserves that.”

Lewis was home, moving quickly through the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring grounding him in a world that felt increasingly chaotic. His fingers worked expertly, but beneath the surface, a sense of dread churned in his stomach. He covered the mark on his hand again, carefully applying makeup to hide the scars, a routine he had come to dread. It was a reminder of his past, a burden he carried alone.

As he hurried through the preparations, a fleeting thought crossed his mind. He wondered if Niki would still be watching him, guiding him from afar, but quickly shook it off. “No… Niki?” he whispered to himself, the hope a fragile thing that threatened to shatter under the weight of reality.

Lewis hated that he felt this way, the uncertainty gnawing at him. Would Niki still care about him? Would he even recognize the boy he had once comforted? The thought of Niki’s presence, even if just in spirit, brought a flicker of warmth to his heart, but it was quickly extinguished by the rush of expectations he faced every day.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the stainless steel surface of the kitchen counter, the young chef with a bright smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The mask of happiness felt so heavy, and the isolation pressed down on him like a weight.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. There were orders to fill, dishes to create, and time was ticking away. But as he moved, his thoughts drifted back to Niki—the comfort, the laughter, the feeling of being seen.

“Just keep moving,” he muttered, pushing away the thoughts as he finished plating a vibrant dish. He tried to shake off the loneliness that lingered like a shadow. After all, he had his restaurants, his brand. But in moments like this, the absence of support, the lack of connection, felt like an aching void.

They had made a promise to record seven episodes in a row over seven days, followed by another seven later. When Lewis finally showed up, the crew wasted no time in getting started on today’s dish: pasta.

“Do you remember the first time you made pasta, Lewis?” Micheal asked, making small talk as the camera rolled.

“Kinda. I was like 4?” Lewis replied, reaching for the eggs with a casual confidence.

Micheal stopped and laughed. “Wow, no wonder you’re such a prodigy! Most kids are just learning to tie their shoes at that age!”

Lewis smiled, a hint of pride creeping into his demeanor, but then he quickly redirected the conversation. “So, Micheal, how’s Mick doing? Is he still obsessed with that little toy car you got him?”

Micheal raised an eyebrow, impressed by the shift. “Oh, you have no idea! He takes that car everywhere. It’s his new best friend. He even tries to take it to bed with him.”

Lewis chuckled, genuinely engaged. “That’s adorable. I can imagine him racing it all over the house.”

“Yeah, he races it in the living room and then yells at me for stepping on the track,” Micheal said, shaking his head in amusement. “It’s a whole production.”

As they chatted, Micheal kept an eye on Lewis, who had shifted back into his element, cracking the eggs and mixing the ingredients with practiced ease. But as he reached for the bacon, he grabbed a knife and began slicing through the strips with impressive speed and precision.

In his focused state, Lewis didn’t notice that his finger had slipped just enough against the sharp blade. The knife cut deep into the skin, and a rush of crimson blood immediately welled up. For a brief moment, the world seemed to stop around him, but he didn’t react—he couldn’t. Instead, he quickly threw a bandage on the injury, his expression never faltering.

Without skipping a beat, he grabbed a fresh cutting board and a new knife, quickly disposing of the contaminated bacon and starting again as if nothing had happened. The camera crew was completely oblivious, engrossed in the task at hand and unaware of the subtle pain that Lewis had just brushed aside.

“Hey, Lewis, how do you keep all those recipes in your head? Don’t you ever forget anything?” Micheal asked, genuinely curious, as Lewis continued to slice the new bacon with the same speed.

“Not really. It’s like… I just know what works together,” Lewis replied, his confidence shining through again. “Cooking is like a puzzle to me. If you have the right pieces, it all just fits.”

Micheal nodded, encouraged by the enthusiasm in Lewis’s voice. “So, what’s the next puzzle you want to tackle?”

Lewis paused for a moment, considering the question. “I want to try making my own sauces next,” he said, his tone shifting slightly. “Something unique, you know?”

“Very insightful!” Micheal replied, impressed. “That sounds amazing! Let’s make sure to showcase that in one of the upcoming episodes.”

As they continued cooking, Micheal couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly Lewis moved between being a child and a culinary expert. Yet, there was still a lingering concern in Micheal’s mind about the pressure Lewis faced, juggling a budding career and his own emotions.

When the dish was finally plated and ready for tasting, Micheal turned to the camera, ready to share their creation with the audience. “And here we have a delicious homemade pasta dish, brought to life by our very own culinary prodigy, Lewis!”

Lewis smiled brightly at the camera, his charm shining through once again. But as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Micheal could see the walls start to rebuild around him, the bright smile fading as Lewis returned to his quieter self.

“Alright, let’s get this cleaned up,” Micheal said, trying to keep the atmosphere light. But as Lewis moved about the kitchen, Micheal’s heart ached at the thought of how much more this talented young chef had to offer, if only he could find a way to express it fully without the pressure of the world weighing him down.

Micheal laughed as the camera stopped recording, handing out plates of the delicious food Lewis had prepared to the crew, who eagerly dug in. Meanwhile, Lewis hurried to the sink, turning on the water to rinse away remnants from their cooking session. But Micheal’s attention was drawn to something alarming: blood pooling on the cutting board.

When Lewis caught Micheal’s gaze, terror flashed across his face. His eyes widened as Micheal stepped closer, worry etched on his features. “Lewis?” Micheal’s voice dropped, shifting from jovial to serious. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Lewis insisted, his voice shaking slightly. “Just a little cut.”

But Micheal’s heart sank as he noticed the bandage wrapped around Lewis’s finger, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread. The bandage covered the hand with the huge, ugly scar—another reminder of the boy’s pain, both past and present. Micheal felt a deep urge to understand the story behind it.

“Lewis, that doesn’t look like a ‘little cut,’” Micheal said gently, his concern growing. “It looks deep. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Lewis mumbled, avoiding eye contact. “I just wanted to keep cooking.”

“Lewis, you’re not bothering anyone,” Micheal insisted, kneeling beside him. “Your health is more important than any dish. Let me take a look.”

Reluctantly, Lewis unbuttoned the cuff of his long-sleeve shirt and pulled it up, revealing the bandage. As he did, Micheal’s breath caught in his throat. The long scar snaked up the boy’s forearm, a stark and haunting reminder of something terrible.

Micheal swallowed hard, memories flooding back of the rumors he had heard—an accident involving a small child and boiling oil. Panic gripped his chest as he wondered if that child was, in fact, Lewis. “Did this happen… in the kitchen?” Micheal asked, his voice low.

Lewis hesitated, the shadow of the past flickering across his face. “I… I don’t want to talk about it,” he murmured, his eyes downcast.

“Okay, you don’t have to share if you’re not ready,” Micheal said softly, sensing the boy’s discomfort. “But you should know that you can talk to me about anything. I’m here for you.”

With a sigh, Lewis took a deep breath and nodded, though his expression remained distant. Micheal carefully peeled back the bandage, exposing the cut beneath. It was deeper than he expected, and he felt a surge of protectiveness over the boy.

“This needs to be cleaned properly,” Micheal said, his voice firm yet gentle. “You could get an infection if you don’t take care of it.”

“I know,” Lewis replied, his tone flat, as if the weight of everything was pressing down on him.

Micheal gathered the supplies, pouring antiseptic onto a cotton ball. “This might sting a little,” he warned, approaching with care.

Lewis winced as the antiseptic touched the cut, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he focused on the rhythm of the water running in the sink, trying to distract himself from the pain.

“Lewis, I want you to promise me something,” Micheal said, looking the boy in the eye. “Promise that if you ever get hurt again, you’ll tell someone. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“I promise,” Lewis whispered, a flicker of resolve sparking in his eyes.

As Micheal finished bandaging the cut, he felt a mix of relief and lingering concern. He wanted to dig deeper, to understand the story behind that scar, but he also knew that trust took time.

Once they were done, Micheal turned to face Lewis, his expression serious. “You’re talented, Lewis, but you need to take care of yourself. Cooking is important, but so is your well-being. Don’t forget that.”

Lewis nodded, the weight of Micheal’s words settling in. “I won’t forget.”

As they returned to the kitchen, Micheal felt a renewed sense of responsibility for Lewis. He was talented beyond his years, but Micheal wanted to ensure that the boy felt supported and cared for, both in the kitchen and beyond.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened with the arm?” Micheal asked gently, watching as Lewis nodded a bit, his small frame perched on the counter.

“Y’know Niki Lauda? The chef? I was cooking with him when I was, like, seven. I was on his cooking show. It never aired because of this.” Lewis’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“What happened?” Micheal prompted, giving him the space to share his story.

“Uhh… we were taking a break. My dad asked me to boil some oil for something, and I tripped, pulling the hot boiling oil in a pot down with me. It poured all over my arm and shoulder… and well, I screamed. But not because it was so painful. I was more worried about the mess and how upset my father was gonna be.” He paused, and Micheal saw the shadow of fear flicker across Lewis’s face. “Niki was the first one by my side, comforting me until a hospital car came! Then I was there for a day or two, and I went back to cooking. End.”

Micheal’s heart sank. The way Lewis referred to an ambulance as a “hospital car” struck him as incredibly telling of his age and innocence. It was clear he had spent so much time in the kitchen, focusing on cooking rather than communicating his feelings.

“Lewis, that sounds really scary,” Micheal said softly. “You must have been hurt a lot.”

Lewis hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I wanted to… cook,” he lied, a faint tremor in his voice. “I didn’t want to make a mess and upset my father. I wasn’t scared.”

Micheal’s concern deepened. “It’s okay to be scared, Lewis. You were just a kid. You were hurt.”

But Lewis shook his head, defensive. “No, it’s not about that. My dad says that being emotional makes me weak. And that’s not good.”

Micheal felt a pang in his chest at the boy’s words. “Lewis, it’s perfectly normal to feel things. You’re not weak for having emotions. You’re just human.”

“I’m not human,” Lewis retorted, his voice suddenly sharper. “I’m a brand. That’s what everyone wants me to be—perfect.”

Micheal sighed, seeing the walls Lewis had built around himself. “You’re so much more than just a brand. You deserve to be a kid, to have fun and make mistakes without feeling like you have to live up to anyone’s expectations.”

But Lewis’s resolve only hardened. “I can’t be anything else. I have to make my dad proud.”

“Lewis, you don’t have to carry that burden,” Micheal said, his heart aching for the boy. “You can be imperfect. You can be just a kid.”

Lewis shook his head violently, his expression a mix of frustration and fear. “No! I have to be perfect. I don’t want to disappoint anyone, especially him.”

With that, Lewis turned away, his small figure retreating into the background, leaving Micheal with a heavy heart. The boy seemed trapped in a world of high expectations and emotional suppression, and Micheal wished he could find a way to help him break free.

When Lewis got home that night, he braced himself before facing his father. He took a deep breath and said, “Dad, I told Michael about the accident and Niki Lauda.”

The reaction was instant. His father’s face twisted with anger. “Why would you bring that up? You know better than to talk about our family’s problems!” he yelled, his voice echoing in the small kitchen. “You’re a brand, Lewis! You’re supposed to be perfect, not a victim.”

Lewis flinched, feeling the sting of his father’s words. “I didn’t mean to upset you…” he tried to explain, but his father cut him off.

“Upset me? You’ve embarrassed me! Do you think anyone cares about your little cooking story? They see you as a product, nothing more! You need to understand that!”

Punishment followed swiftly. His father made him stay in his room, grounding him for the night, taking away his phone, and forbidding him from watching TV. The isolation was suffocating, and Lewis sat on his bed, staring blankly at the wall, feeling like a shell of himself.

The next day, Lewis arrived at the studio, an empty expression on his face, his usual spark completely extinguished. The energy that had once flowed through him while cooking had vanished, replaced by a mechanical demeanor. He moved like a robot, performing each task with precision but devoid of passion.

As he prepared ingredients and followed the recipe, he could hear the crew chatting and laughing around him, but he felt distant, as if they were speaking in a different language. Every time Micheal attempted to engage him, Lewis deflected with short, clipped responses. He was there physically but mentally checked out, living in a haze.

Days turned into a blur of filming, cooking, and cleaning. Lewis felt trapped in his own body, a puppet dancing to the strings of his father’s expectations. He went through the motions without thinking, not allowing himself to feel or reflect on anything deeper. The laughter that had once filled the studio was now just background noise, fading into insignificance as he focused solely on not making any mistakes.

The crew noticed the change, exchanging concerned glances as they saw Lewis become increasingly withdrawn. Micheal, especially, felt the shift. He tried reaching out, but Lewis’s wall was impenetrable. “You okay?” Micheal would ask, but Lewis would simply nod, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah, just tired,” he would say, and it was the truth in a way. He was tired of pretending, tired of being a brand, tired of the facade he was forced to maintain. Yet the fear of his father loomed over him, stifling any desire to break free.

As the remaining days dragged on, Lewis felt himself slipping further away from who he once was. He was just a shell, hollowed out by the weight of expectations and the fear of disappointing his father. The joy of cooking had become just another task, stripped of its warmth and love, leaving only a bitter taste behind.

Every night, he returned home to the same oppressive silence, the same judgment, and the same isolation, reinforcing the belief that he was nothing more than a brand. And every night, he cradled himself in bed, wishing for a way out, wishing for someone to truly see him—not as a product or a performer, but as a scared boy longing for approval and understanding.

The last day of filming arrived, but Lewis didn’t show up. His father had made it clear that he didn’t want Lewis near Micheal, especially after hearing about the questions he had asked. The absence of the young chef was palpable, creating a thick tension in the studio.

Micheal, filled with concern, tried to focus on the shoot, but every moment was overshadowed by Lewis’s absence. “Has anyone heard from Lewis?” he asked the crew, but the replies were all the same: silence and worry.

As the hours passed, Micheal’s unease grew. He tried calling Lewis, but it went straight to voicemail. Frustrated, he dialed again, his mind racing with scenarios. He could only think of how much Lewis had seemed to need support, and now he was nowhere to be found.

The crew could feel the shift in energy. They had all grown attached to Lewis’s bright spirit and infectious laughter during the filming. Now, without him, everything felt off. Micheal paced the studio, glancing at the door, hoping it would swing open at any moment.

Back at home, Lewis sat alone in his room, feeling the weight of his father’s anger from the night before. After telling his father about Micheal’s questions regarding his past and the scar, he had been punished and berated. The conversation echoed in his mind: “You’re weak for talking about your feelings. Don’t you want to be strong?”

With those words swirling around him, Lewis felt more like a shell than a person. He forced himself to put on a facade the next day, answering questions mechanically and avoiding anything that could hint at his vulnerability. But inside, he was crumbling, feeling sick at the thought of facing Micheal again, who had shown him kindness and interest.

As the day wore on without word from Lewis, Micheal’s worry turned into determination. He reached out to the crew, hoping to rally support for Lewis. “We can’t let him feel abandoned. He needs to know we care,” he said, rallying them to help find Lewis and ensure he was okay.

But as the day turned into evening, Micheal felt a deep frustration. He dialed Lewis’s number again, but once more, it went to voicemail. He glanced at his phone, realizing that Lewis’s father had probably taken his phone again, deleting all the messages Micheal had sent. It felt like a blow to the gut, a reminder that Lewis was trapped in a situation that was beyond his control.

As he wrapped up for the day, Micheal made a decision. He wouldn’t give up on Lewis. He resolved to find a way to reach him, to show him that he was not alone in this. “I’ll be here when you’re ready, Lewis,” he whispered to himself, determined to find a way to reach out without pushing Lewis away.

The crew packed up, but Micheal stayed behind for a moment longer, looking out the studio door as if expecting to see Lewis walk through it at any moment. He hoped that, somehow, Lewis could feel the support that surrounded him, even if he couldn’t see it right now.

Lewis was busy with interviews, collaborating with other chefs, promoting new recipes, and juggling the demands of his burgeoning career. Yet, despite the hustle and excitement around him, he felt like a shell of a kid. The vibrant enthusiasm that once fueled his passion for cooking had dulled, overshadowed by a burden he couldn’t quite articulate.

At sixteen, he should have been reveling in his youth, but instead, he wore the weight of unspoken fears and expectations like a heavy cloak. Visiting the famous chef Mika Häkkinen for a cooking show, Lewis put on a brave face, but beneath it, he was crumbling.

Every time the cameras stopped rolling, he sought solace in the bathroom, locking the door behind him. In those quiet moments, he would lean against the cold tiles, taking deep breaths to steady his racing heart. He could hear the bustling activity outside—the laughter of the crew, the sizzling of pans—but in that small space, he felt a fleeting sense of safety. It was a brief escape from the pressure and the scrutiny he faced every day.

Mika noticed the change in Lewis, the way he seemed to retreat into himself. Whenever they took breaks, Mika would try to engage him, but Lewis always deflected with practiced ease. “I’m fine,” he’d say, a rehearsed smile plastered on his face. But the words felt hollow, lacking the sincerity he once possessed. Mika couldn’t shake the worry that gnawed at him. He could see the long sleeves Lewis insisted on wearing, even in the heat, and wondered what he was hiding beneath the fabric.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Mika asked one day during a break, concern etched across his features.

“Yeah, really, I’m fine,” Lewis insisted, avoiding eye contact. His voice was steady, but the tension in his posture betrayed him.

Mika wanted to press further, to break through the walls Lewis had built around himself, but he respected the kid’s space. He could only hope that one day, Lewis would feel comfortable enough to share whatever was weighing him down. For now, all he could do was keep an eye on him, trying to catch glimpses of the bright young chef who used to light up a room with his laughter and passion.

As the show continued, Lewis buried himself deeper into his work, hiding behind his skills in the kitchen while avoiding the conversations he feared would expose him. The long sleeves became his armor, shielding him from more than just the heat—they shielded him from the world and the pain he wasn’t ready to confront. But as much as he tried to convince himself that everything was fine, the truth lingered just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment he would have to face it.

Once the show with Mika was done, Lewis put on his usual pleasant facade, thanking everyone and smiling as if everything were fine. He exchanged polite goodbyes, and when the crew had dispersed, he left quickly, retreating to the quiet of his thoughts. Lately, he had been struggling more than ever mentally, the weight of expectations and his own inner turmoil making it harder to maintain the image everyone expected from him.

As he walked home, his mind wandered. He wondered if Michael or Niki ever watched his work—the cooking shows, the interviews, the books he’d promoted. Did they care about the young chef he had become? Or had they moved on, too busy with their own lives to notice?

He knew Michael had a full life, busy with his kids and his own cooking show. They hadn’t spoken much since that last series of recordings together, and though Lewis had tried to convince himself it didn’t matter, deep down it hurt. He missed the way Michael had always seemed to genuinely care, asking him questions and trying to look past the surface. But now, with the silence between them, Lewis began to believe that maybe his father had been right all along—people like Michael just didn’t care about him.

And Niki… Lewis hadn’t seen or heard from him since that accident years ago. He didn’t even know if Niki had kept up with his career. It was easier to assume they hadn’t. It made it simpler to accept the lonely path he found himself on.

Lewis shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was a brand now, a face in the culinary world, and that should be enough. But as much as he tried to convince himself of this, the emptiness inside him only seemed to grow. He longed for something more, but he wasn’t sure what that was anymore—or if he’d ever find it.

Lewis sat on the kitchen floor, his hands trembling as he cradled his phone, still in shock from the wave of emotion that hit him. He had won countless awards, some of the most prestigious ones in the culinary world, but they felt empty in his hands. No pride, no sense of accomplishment—just a hollow feeling that grew deeper every day.

Tears streamed down his face as he curled into himself, hugging his knees. The loneliness gnawed at him, despite the accolades and praise he constantly received. He felt lost in the persona he had built, the “perfect chef,” the brand, the prodigy. But inside, he was still just Lewis—a kid who desperately wanted someone to see him beyond the cooking, beyond the awards.

Gripping his phone tightly, Lewis unlocked it and, with shaky hands, opened Instagram. He hesitated, then quickly typed in “Niki Lauda.” His heart pounded in his chest, but nothing came up. He sighed in disappointment, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Then he typed “Michael Schumacher.”

A profile appeared.

Lewis’s breath caught. He quickly hit “follow,” his fingers moving faster than his thoughts. He started scrolling through Michael’s account, looking at photos of him with his kids, behind the scenes of his own cooking show, smiling in ways that felt so genuine. Lewis couldn’t help but feel a pang in his chest, wondering if Michael had ever thought about him.

He continued searching—one chef after another—frantically putting in different names, scrolling through their accounts, looking for some sign of recognition, some sign that he existed to them beyond just being “Lewis, the young chef.” But as he scrolled through the endless photos, he felt the gap between their lives and his widening.

They all seemed so happy, so at ease in their lives, surrounded by friends and family. Lewis, on the other hand, felt more isolated than ever, trapped in his own world of silent expectations and invisible walls.

Finally, exhausted and drained, he dropped his phone beside him on the kitchen floor and buried his face in his hands. The tears came harder now, as he sobbed into the quiet emptiness of his home, wondering if anyone truly cared about the person behind the brand.

Lewis curled up on the cold kitchen floor, his body trembling with quiet sobs until exhaustion overtook him. He had spent hours staring at posts, old crew members sharing glimpses of him—moments when they had caught him alone, hunched in a corner, too small for the world he was trying to live up to. Some of them had shared their concerns, subtle posts about their worries, but those posts never stayed up for long. Either they were taken down, or they disappeared into the noise of the internet, forgotten, just like Lewis felt he was.

He felt useless, like no one was really seeing him. The boy behind the chef. The child behind the awards. It was as if the world only cared about his success, not the silent cries for help he hid behind his long sleeves and forced smiles.

His tears dried on his cheeks as sleep finally claimed him, his body heavy with the weight of his despair. Curled up on the kitchen floor, he felt smaller than ever, lost in a world that didn’t seem to care that he was breaking apart piece by piece.

In his early twenties, Lewis had transitioned from the child prodigy everyone admired to someone still trying to find his place in the culinary world. He spent much of his time rating restaurants, visiting new places, and meeting chefs—searching for people who cared, even just a little.

Nico Rosberg, a talented chef who came from a family of culinary legends, became one of his rare confidants. Nico understood the weight of expectations, having grown up in the shadow of his own father. He saw in Lewis a reflection of himself and quietly supported him, not just as a fellow chef, but as a friend.

Then there was Sebastian Vettel, who took Lewis under his wing and introduced him to the rich world of Swiss cuisine. Sebastian wasn’t just showing Lewis how to cook; he was showing him how to live beyond the kitchen. He encouraged Lewis to see food not as a career, but as an art form to enjoy. The two shared long conversations over meals, and for the first time, Lewis felt like someone truly understood him outside of his work.

But perhaps the most surprising connection came with Valtteri Bottas. During a particularly grueling filming of a cooking show, Lewis had broken down. It was a horrible situation—stressed, overworked, and emotionally drained, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. While others on set stood awkwardly around, unsure of what to do, Bottas stepped in. He didn’t say much, just held Lewis’ back as he cried during the break. In that small moment of quiet support, Lewis realized that maybe, just maybe, there were people who cared about more than just his achievements.

Lewis entered the restaurant quietly, the familiar scents of cooking wafting through the air, stirring something deep inside him. This visit wasn’t about promoting or performing. There were no cameras, no press following him for this—just him, Lewis Hamilton, wandering into a restaurant he hadn’t expected to be so significant.

He had done plenty of cooking shows, opened restaurants across the world, but this place, with its aroma of something familiar—almost like home—made him pause. He wanted to rate it, to help improve it if needed, but more than anything, he came here simply as a chef. As he moved through the restaurant, a few people noticed him, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes trailing after him. Yet, he kept moving, head down, avoiding their gazes.

The smells became more intense the closer he got to the kitchen. There was something about the food that tugged at old memories—something about the spices, the way the heat of the kitchen felt. It pulled him back to when he was just a kid, eager to learn and desperate to prove himself.

Then, he saw him.

Niki Lauda stood near the kitchen door, talking to one of the chefs. He hadn’t changed much, his unmistakable presence commanding attention even from across the room. Lewis froze in place, his feet unwilling to move. A flood of emotions washed over him—guilt, admiration, fear—all tangled together. He hadn’t been prepared to see Niki again, not like this. It felt too soon, too sudden, after everything that had happened between them years ago.

He wasn’t just walking into a restaurant anymore. He was walking into a past he thought he’d left behind.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he felt like that 7-year-old kid again, standing in the shadow of Niki’s kitchen, full of anxiety. His heart raced, and without thinking, he stopped moving altogether, just staring at the man who had once been his mentor.

“Niki…” Lewis mumbled under his breath, barely audible, but enough to catch the older man’s attention.

Niki turned, his eyes landing on Lewis with a mix of surprise and curiosity. His expression softened, but it took him a moment to fully recognize the man standing in front of him. When he did, a hint of nostalgia flickered in his gaze.

“Lewis?” Niki’s voice was calm but carried a note of uncertainty.

Lewis didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected to feel so unsteady, but seeing Niki, all those years of unresolved tension came crashing down on him. He wanted to apologize, to explain, but the words stuck in his throat.

The world around them seemed to slow as they stood, two chefs, each with their own history, their own pain, and their own unspoken regrets.

The entire restaurant went still, conversations dying mid-sentence as eyes darted between Niki and Lewis. The weight of the moment hung thick in the air, whispers passing through the tables like a wave, heads turning to watch the scene unfold.

Lewis felt the heat of every gaze on him, but he barely noticed. His heart pounded in his chest as he locked eyes with Niki, his body tense as he fought back the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

And then, in the silence, Lewis spoke, his voice quiet but clear.

“I’m sorry I ruined the carpet.”

The words hung in the air, simple but loaded with years of unspoken guilt. For a brief moment, there was only silence. Even the clinking of glasses, the rustling of napkins—all of it seemed to fade as everyone in the room held their breath.

Niki blinked, taken aback by the unexpected apology. His brow furrowed slightly, and then his lips curled into a small, almost amused smile, as if he couldn’t believe that was what Lewis chose to say after all these years.

“The carpet?” Niki said, his voice low, almost incredulous.

Lewis nodded, still feeling like that scared, unsure child who had tripped and brought down an entire pot of boiling oil, causing chaos, ruining the set, and derailing everything. The incident had been a turning point for him—one he’d carried with him for years, like a weight he could never quite put down.

For Niki, though, it was clear the carpet was the least of his concerns. He stepped forward, his face softening as he closed the distance between them.

“Lewis,” Niki said quietly, his voice laced with something like fondness, “you didn’t ruin anything.”

The words seemed to pull a knot loose inside of Lewis. His shoulders dropped a fraction, the tension that had been holding him tight for so long starting to unravel. But it wasn’t enough to make him feel better—not completely.

The room remained hushed, every eye still glued to the interaction. Niki looked around, then gave a soft sigh, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.

“Come with me,” he said, his tone gentler now. “Let’s talk.”

Without waiting for an answer, Niki turned, leading Lewis toward the kitchen door. The restaurant watched as Lewis hesitated for a second, then followed after, the murmurs of the patrons starting up again once they disappeared into the back.

In the quiet of the kitchen, away from prying eyes, the weight of the years between them lingered.

As they stepped into the quieter back area, away from the crowd’s murmurs, Niki’s words lingered in the air like a challenge and a truth. His voice was calm, steady, but there was a gravity to it that Lewis couldn’t ignore.

“Did you know,” Niki began, as he reached for a plate on the counter, “abused children by their parents often stay stuck as children, even when they grow up? Because they never really had the chance to be one.”

Lewis froze. His mind raced, panic clawing at him. His body wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t move. It was like the walls were closing in, the air too thick to breathe. He didn’t know why, but Niki’s words cut deep, far deeper than the kind-faced man likely intended.

Lewis had spent so many years running from thoughts like that. Always moving forward, always focused on the next dish, the next show, the next restaurant. He thought if he stayed busy enough, maybe he’d outrun the part of him that still felt like a terrified child who couldn’t do anything right. But now, standing in front of Niki, it felt like all of it was crashing down on him at once.

Fight or flight. His heart pounded so loud he was sure Niki could hear it. He tried to speak, but his throat tightened. All that came out was a shallow breath.

Niki, calm as ever, turned and pulled a chair out from a small table in the back corner, gesturing for Lewis to sit. “Sit, Lewis,” he said softly, though there was no mistaking the firmness in his voice. “We need to talk.”

Lewis felt his body moving before his mind had caught up, sinking into the chair without even thinking. His hands gripped his knees, knuckles white, as if holding on for dear life.

Niki sat across from him, watching, not pushing, just waiting. He slid the plate toward Lewis, a simple dish—no frills, just something warm, comforting. It felt strange, sitting like this, like they were back in that kitchen all those years ago, but so much had changed.

Lewis swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. The walls still felt too close.

“I…” Lewis began, his voice shaky, barely audible. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He was lying, and they both knew it.

His hand was shaking, the one with the scar, and Niki noticed. Having experienced burn marks himself, he gently pulled Lewis close and wrapped him in a firm embrace. The warmth and safety of the hug contrasted sharply with the storm of emotions raging inside Lewis.

“I see your TV shows, the appearances you do,” Niki said softly, his voice laced with concern. “You never… you never stop, do you, Lewis? Your young self was so… devoid of spark or joy. For a child.”

As Niki spoke, the truth of his words crashed over Lewis like a tidal wave. He realized with a jolt that he had never truly loved cooking. He was simply exceptionally talented at it, a fact that had become both his blessing and his curse. The expectations, the awards, the fame—it all felt so hollow now.

Physically away from his father, Lewis realized he still carried the weight of his words and the relentless pressure of being a brand. The emotional scars ran deeper than any physical one, and as he sat in Niki’s embrace, the realization struck him with the force of a freight train.

Suddenly, sobs erupted from him, deep and uncontrollable. Niki was taken aback by the sheer intensity of Lewis’s emotions. It was a quiet kind of crying, but the pain behind it was palpable. Lewis rocked back and forth, clutching at the fabric of Niki’s shirt, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Niki instinctively held him tighter, recognizing the child trapped inside this young man. “It’s okay, Lewis,” he murmured, his voice steady and soothing. “You’re safe here. Let it all out.”

Tears flowed down Lewis’s cheeks like an unending river, each one carrying away a fragment of the pain he had held onto for far too long. “I… I don’t know what to do,” he managed to choke out between sobs. “I feel so lost.”

Niki could feel the trembling in Lewis’s body, the way his frame shook with each breath. “You’ve been carrying this for so long,” he said gently, brushing Lewis’s hair back from his forehead. “It’s okay to feel this way. You’re allowed to be sad. You’re allowed to grieve the childhood you never had.”

The words struck a chord deep within Lewis. He had never given himself permission to feel anything but happiness and success. The tears kept flowing, a torrent of grief and frustration that he could no longer suppress. The memory of being that child, cooking under pressure and fear, flooded back.

“Why can’t I just be normal?” Lewis cried out, the frustration spilling over. “Why can’t I just be a kid?”

Niki’s heart ached for him. “Because you’ve been pushed to be more than what you wanted to be,” he replied softly. “You were forced into a role that didn’t allow you to just be Lewis. But you can change that now.”

As the sobs subsided into quiet weeping, Lewis felt the warmth of Niki’s presence wash over him like a balm. In that moment, he realized he was not alone. Niki had been through his own battles, and the compassion in his embrace spoke volumes.

“I see you,” Niki said gently. “You’re not just a chef, and you’re not just a brand. You’re a person, with feelings, hopes, and dreams. It’s never too late to find them.”

With every word, Lewis felt a flicker of hope begin to ignite within him. The oppressive darkness that had clouded his heart for so long started to recede. Maybe he could find a way to rediscover joy in cooking, or maybe it was time to step back and explore who he was outside the kitchen.

“I don’t know what that looks like,” Lewis admitted, his voice still shaky.

“That’s okay,” Niki reassured him. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Just take it one step at a time. Start by being honest with yourself about what you want.

In the embrace of Niki’s understanding, Lewis felt the heaviness lift, if only slightly. For the first time, he allowed himself to imagine a future not dictated by expectations but by his own desires.

“Thank you, Niki,” he whispered, feeling the warmth of gratitude spread within him. “I needed this.”

Niki smiled gently, pulling back to look into Lewis’s eyes. “Anytime, my boy. You’re stronger than you realize, and you have a whole life ahead of you. Don’t forget that.”

And in that moment, amidst the bustling restaurant, Lewis felt a small spark of hope igniting—a chance to reclaim his life and discover what truly brought him joy.

Lewis remained in Niki’s arms for what felt like hours, his body finally succumbing to the weight of his emotions and exhaustion. The world outside faded away, leaving only the warmth and safety of the embrace that had become his sanctuary. Niki could feel the tension in Lewis’s body gradually dissipate, but he also sensed the sheer fatigue that accompanied the emotional release.

“Lewis,” Niki murmured softly, brushing a hand through Lewis’s hair, “you need to rest. You’ve been carrying so much for too long.”

Lewis blinked slowly, struggling to keep his eyes open. The chaos in his mind had begun to quiet, replaced by a heavy sense of weariness that tugged at his eyelids. He wanted to protest, to reassure Niki that he was fine, but the truth was that he felt utterly drained, both physically and emotionally.

“I’m sorry,” Lewis whispered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like this.”

Niki shook his head, his expression one of understanding and concern. “You don’t need to apologize for feeling, Lewis. It’s okay to let it out. It’s a part of healing.”

“But I don’t want to be a burden,” Lewis replied, his voice muffled against Niki’s shoulder.

“You’re not a burden,” Niki assured him gently. “You’re a young man who has been through too much. You deserve to be taken care of. Just relax for a bit. Let me help you.”

With that, Niki adjusted their positions slightly, shifting so that Lewis was more comfortably cradled against him. The familiar scents of the restaurant enveloped them—fresh herbs, simmering sauces, and the warmth of the kitchen all blended together, creating a cocoon of comfort.

As Lewis nestled into Niki’s side, he could feel his body begin to surrender to the exhaustion. His breathing slowed, and despite the noise of the kitchen around them, the world outside began to blur. He felt safe here, in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

“Just sleep, Lewis,” Niki encouraged softly. “I’ll be right here.”

With those words, Lewis finally allowed himself to drift off, the last remnants of his worry slipping away as he succumbed to a peaceful slumber.

Niki stayed close, his heart aching for the boy who had shouldered so much pain at such a young age. He kept a watchful eye on Lewis, worried about how long it had been since he had truly rested. He brushed his fingers lightly over Lewis’s hair, grateful for the chance to provide comfort and support.

Hours passed, and the restaurant bustled around them, but within the small walls of the backroom where they sat, time felt still. Niki made sure to shield Lewis from the world, ensuring that no one interrupted this moment of vulnerability.

As the last vestiges of daylight faded outside, Niki found himself reflecting on his own experiences, recalling the moments when he had needed someone to lean on. He knew how important it was to let someone in, especially after so much hurt.

And as Lewis slept, Niki vowed to be that someone for him, ready to help him navigate the road ahead, one step at a time.

Lewis was still a boy, not yet a man, despite being in his early twenties—a time when most people were figuring out their lives. Instead, he found himself desperately trying to escape a past that clung to him like a shadow.

As Niki gently pushed up Lewis’s sleeve, he caught sight of the burn scar that told a painful story. However, it was the sharp cuts on Lewis’s arm that truly alarmed him. Each mark seemed to reflect the turmoil Lewis had faced, both externally and internally.

When Lewis finally woke, his eyes were bleary with exhaustion, his body still heavy from the emotional weight he carried. The moment he registered Niki’s presence, a sense of comfort washed over him, yet fear still lingered.

“Lewis,” Niki said softly, concern etched on his face. “What happened here?” He pointed to the scars.

Lewis, still dazed, blinked up at him and, almost instinctively, whispered, “Dad…” The word slipped out before he could process it, as if it was a part of him that had been dormant for too long.

“It’s fine, Dad,” he quickly added, dismissing Niki’s concern. “It was just a cooking incident, Dad.” He said the word again, testing its weight, feeling a strange mix of vulnerability and comfort.

Niki frowned, not buying the easy explanation. “Lewis, you don’t have to pretend with me. This isn’t just a cooking incident.” His voice was gentle but firm, wanting Lewis to understand that it was okay to share his struggles.

“It’s nothing, really,” Lewis insisted, trying to withdraw into himself, the instinct to protect his emotions kicking in. “I’m fine.”

Niki shook his head, his heart aching for the boy before him. “You don’t seem fine. You look exhausted, and I can see the pain in your eyes. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

“I’m just tired,” Lewis said quietly, avoiding Niki’s gaze. “It’s been a long week.”

Niki’s heart broke a little at the sight of the boy trying to convince himself that everything was okay. “You don’t have to keep pushing yourself, Lewis. You deserve to feel safe and happy. It’s okay to ask for help.”

In that moment, something inside Lewis cracked, and he felt the weight of everything he had kept bottled up come rushing forward. “I just don’t want to disappoint anyone,” he finally admitted, his voice trembling.

Niki pulled Lewis closer, wrapping his arms around him in a protective embrace. “You could never disappoint me. You’re still figuring things out, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to feel lost.”

Lewis clung to Niki, the warmth of his presence soothing a part of him that had been so cold for so long. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, realizing that he didn’t have to hide anymore.

“Dad…” Lewis said softly again, this time the word carrying a weight of unspoken trust and longing. “I don’t know what to do.”

Niki held him tighter, “That’s alright. We can figure it out together. You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

Niki felt his heart shatter as he heard Lewis call him “Dad” again and again, each utterance echoing a profound longing and pain that had been suppressed for too long. It was a title that Lewis had seemingly yearned to give, and it resonated deeply within Niki.

“Son,” Niki replied gently, instinctively wrapping his arms around Lewis even tighter. The warmth of that word seemed to create a safe space between them, a haven where Lewis could let down his walls.

That simple acknowledgment was all it took. Lewis’s resolve broke, and he cried out loud, the sound raw and unfiltered. Sobs racked his body, and he buried his face into Niki’s shoulder, letting the emotions spill forth. Snot mixed with tears, and he felt a weight lifting as he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” he managed to gasp between cries. “I didn’t mean to mess everything up. I’m just so tired… I’m so tired of pretending to be okay.”

Niki held him, his own heart aching for the boy who had been forced to shoulder so much. “You don’t have to apologise, Lewis. You haven’t messed anything up. It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to not be okay. You’re allowed to feel.”

Lewis clung to Niki, the bond between them solidifying as he wept. All the pent-up sorrow, the confusion, and the loneliness poured out, soaking Niki’s shirt. He had spent so long trying to mask his pain, trying to convince himself and everyone else that he was fine, that he was strong. But in this moment, surrounded by Niki’s love and understanding, he realised it was safe to let go.

Niki stroked Lewis’s hair soothingly, whispering soft reassurances. “You’re safe here, son. You can talk to me about anything. I’m here for you.”

As the tears continued to fall, Lewis felt a flicker of warmth begin to replace the cold void he had carried for so long. It was the beginning of a healing process that he had long avoided, but now, in the embrace of a father figure he had missed for so long, he could finally begin to confront the wounds of his past.

“I don’t want to be a brand,” Lewis finally admitted between sobs. “I just want to be me. I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

Niki pulled back slightly to look into Lewis’s eyes, filled with compassion. “Then let’s figure it out together. You are so much more than what others expect of you. You are enough just as you are. You don’t need to fit into anyone’s mold.”

The restaurant hadn’t heard the first wave of crying, but Lewis’s second wave of loud sobs echoed through the kitchen and into the dining area, shattering the illusion of calm that had filled the room. Guests paused mid-bite, their forks frozen in the air, as the cries pierced through the ambiance. The chefs and waiters stopped what they were doing, exchanging bewildered glances filled with concern and disbelief.

In Niki’s arms, Lewis trembled, his body shaking uncontrollably as he cradled himself against the warmth of the older man. Though he was technically a young adult, the vulnerability he displayed in that moment stripped him of the facade he had so carefully constructed. The professionals who had always regarded him as an unbeatable force were now witnessing the truth: beneath the accomplished chef was still a boy struggling with emotions too heavy to bear.

Those who knew Lewis couldn’t reconcile the image of the unstoppable culinary genius with the fragile young man they heard . He had always been a source of inspiration and admiration—a prodigy whose talent in the kitchen sent shivers down the spines of chefs around the world. He could pinpoint the flaws in a dish with uncanny precision, a skill that had earned him countless accolades and respect in the culinary community. But now, as he sobbed openly, it became clear that this was not the confident chef everyone expected to see. This was Lewis, a boy lost in his own pain, stripped of all pretenses.

Niki tightened his grip around Lewis, holding him close as the younger man rocked back and forth ever so slightly, seeking comfort in the embrace. The sound of Lewis’s sobs was haunting, echoing through the restaurant like a call for help that could no longer be ignored. Guests exchanged concerned whispers, unsure of what to do, while the kitchen staff stood in a mix of shock and empathy, many of them having admired Lewis from afar but never truly knowing the weight he carried.

“Is he okay?” one of the waiters asked, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide with concern.

Niki looked up, his expression softening despite the circumstances. “He will be,” he assured her, though doubt lingered in his voice. He had seen too much of this kind of pain before. “He just needs a moment.”

With Lewis still cradled in his arms, Niki could feel the intensity of the boy’s anguish, the years of pressure and expectations pouring out in that single moment. It wasn’t just about cooking; it was everything—the weight of his father’s criticisms, the relentless drive to be perfect, and the isolation that had followed him throughout his journey.

As the restaurant remained silent, the weight of the moment hung heavy in the air. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the sounds of Lewis’s cries and the soothing presence of Niki. It was a reminder that even the most successful people could face deep-seated struggles that remained hidden behind their achievements.

Eventually, the sobs began to quiet down, though Lewis continued to shake in Niki’s arms. The older man gently stroked his back, murmuring comforting words that only partially reached through Lewis’s haze of emotion. “You’re safe, Lewis. You’re not alone.”

The boy finally pulled away slightly, his eyes red and puffy, cheeks wet with tears. He looked up at Niki, the weight of the world still evident in his gaze. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to…”

“Shh, there’s nothing to apologize for,” Niki replied softly, cupping Lewis’s face in his hands. “You’re human, and it’s okay to feel. You’ve carried so much for too long.”

Lewis slipped out the back door, the promise to keep in contact with Niki lingering on his lips as he stepped into the cool night air. His heart was heavy, yet somehow lighter, freed from some of the burdens he had carried for far too long. As he walked away, he felt the weight of hope and uncertainty mingle within him.

Niki returned to the main dining area, the restaurant a swirl of muted conversation and clinking dishes. Every eye turned to him, noticing the redness around his eyes, a stark contrast to the usually composed and confident chef. The air was thick with unspoken concern, and he could feel the weight of their gazes as he moved.

The staff exchanged worried glances. “Niki, are you alright?” one of the sous chefs finally asked, stepping forward, concern etched across his face.

Niki took a deep breath, swallowing hard against the rawness in his throat. “I’m fine,” he managed, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. He looked down, avoiding their eyes, focusing instead on the floor, a reminder that he was still grounded in reality despite the storm of emotions swirling within him.

In that moment, Niki understood that Lewis wasn’t just a talented chef; he was still a boy—a boy burdened by expectations, pain, and memories he had yet to confront. Niki had seen the signs of struggle in Lewis’s eyes, the way he carried himself, always pushing to be better, to be perfect. But he hadn’t realized the depths of that struggle until now.

Niki wiped the tears from his cheeks, feeling a mix of frustration and sadness. He had dedicated so much of his life to his career and helping others succeed, yet here was Lewis—a reflection of his younger self, lost in the demands of the culinary world and the expectations of others. It broke his heart.

“Oh my little boy..” he murmured to himself, the realization settling heavily on his chest. He had only caught a glimpse of the pain the young chef carried, and it was far more profound than he could have imagined.

As he walked back to the kitchen, the chatter slowly resumed, but the atmosphere had shifted. There was a newfound awareness among the staff, a sense that they needed to look beyond the surface, to see the struggles of those around them. Niki’s heart ached for Lewis, for the boy he had cradled in his arms, who had revealed his vulnerability so openly.

The staff nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. They were chefs and waiters, but they were also friends and colleagues, and they recognized the importance of looking out for one another.

As Niki resumed his duties, he kept Lewis in his thoughts. He knew that the road ahead would be challenging for the young chef, but he also felt a flicker of hope that they could help him rediscover his joy—not just in cooking, but in life itself. Niki was determined to stand by him, to show him that he didn’t have to face his struggles alone.

Lewis never met Michael again after the show when he was 13. That single moment of vulnerability had severed their connection, leaving him to navigate the complexities of his life alone. He followed Michael on Instagram, keeping a safe distance, watching from the sidelines as his father continued to build a public persona that Lewis could never quite understand. It was a painful reminder of what had been lost, but he kept his distance—after all, it was safer that way.

Now, at 29, Lewis was struggling. He lay on the bed in his Amsterdam hotel room, the sterile environment a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. The soft hum of the city outside faded into white noise as he stared blankly at the ceiling, feeling like a ghost of his former self. The accolades and successes he had achieved in the culinary world felt hollow, like trophies awarded for a performance rather than a reflection of who he truly was.

He had hooked up with people here and there, seeking comfort in fleeting connections, but he had never experienced genuine love. It was always superficial, a dance of bodies without the warmth of emotional intimacy. The only person who had ever made him feel valued, truly seen, was Niki, and even that bond had faded into a distant memory. Niki had become a lighthouse in a storm, guiding him through his darkest moments, but now that light felt extinguished.

In the quiet of his hotel room, Lewis wrestled with feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing. He felt pathetic, lost in a world where everyone seemed to know their purpose except him. The whispers of his childhood echoed in his mind, the criticisms of his father and the pressures to be perfect, to be a brand, resonating like a haunting melody. He was meant to be something greater, yet he felt like a shadow of what he should be.

The walls of the hotel room closed in on him, and he turned to his phone for distraction. Scrolling through Instagram, he saw pictures of chefs celebrating their achievements, influencers sharing snippets of their perfect lives, and friends reveling in moments of joy. Each post felt like a reminder of his loneliness, amplifying the feelings of inadequacy that had become his constant companions.

“Why can’t I just be happy?” he muttered to himself, frustration bubbling to the surface. He knew he was talented; he had opened multiple restaurants and earned acclaim for his work. Yet, the happiness he had once associated with cooking had slipped through his fingers. Now it felt like a burden, an expectation rather than a passion.

As he lay there, tears welling in his eyes, Lewis realized that he was at a crossroads. He could continue to wallow in self-pity or confront the demons that had haunted him for so long. He had spent years trying to outrun his past, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the only way forward was through it.

With a deep breath, he picked up his phone and typed a message to Niki. It had been years since they last spoke, but the weight of his struggles felt too heavy to carry alone any longer.

“Hey Niki, it’s Lewis. I know it’s been a long time, but I’ve been thinking about you. Can we talk?”

Sending the message felt like stepping off a cliff. There was fear in reaching out, but also a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way back to himself with Niki’s guidance.

Then, almost as if the universe was aligning, Lewis received an email from “Max.” The subject line read: “I’m sorry,” and his heart raced as he opened it.

“I’m sorry for lashing out. You did nothing bad. Forgive me. Please can I do anything? Buy you dinner?”

Lewis stared at the screen, a mix of relief and apprehension flooding over him. He felt a twinge of uncertainty; after all, Max had yelled at him in his restaurant not long ago, and the tension between them lingered like an uninvited guest. But he also felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this was a chance to start anew, to connect with someone who understood the pressures of the culinary world.

He quickly replied, typing out his phone number along with a casual request: “What’s the best food in Amsterdam you know?”

Max responded almost immediately, sending back a thumbs-up emoji that made Lewis smile despite his nerves. There was something about the simplicity of that gesture that lightened the mood, almost like a shared inside joke between them.

Later that evening, Lewis cleaned himself up, choosing a slightly nicer outfit than usual. He wanted to make a good impression, despite the underlying tension. As he made his way to the restaurant Max suggested, he felt a mix of excitement and dread.

When they finally met, the atmosphere was painfully awkward. They exchanged hesitant smiles and a few stilted pleasantries. The air felt thick with unspoken words, and Lewis could sense the weight of their previous encounter hanging over them like a dark cloud.

Lewis fidgeted, feeling the anxiety rise in his chest. He took a moment to glance around the restaurant, admiring the decor and the tantalizing aromas wafting from the kitchen. It was beautiful, but he could hardly appreciate it with the tension between him and Max.

In an attempt to break the ice, Lewis finally spoke up, pointing to a dish being served at a nearby table. “Looks like they’re really enjoying that seafood platter. I mean, it’s got to be good if the guy’s making all those happy noises, right?”

Max chuckled, the sound breaking the ice just a little. “Right? I thought I was the only one who paid attention to that sort of thing,” he replied, a hint of warmth creeping back into his voice. “Food should make people feel something, after all.”

Lewis felt the heaviness of the moment start to lift as they began to share their thoughts about the dishes on the menu. With each passing minute, their conversation flowed more easily, laughter slowly replacing the initial awkwardness. They exchanged stories about their culinary journeys, the challenges they faced, and the triumphs they celebrated.

“Honestly, I was so stressed out during that service,” Max admitted, his expression growing more relaxed. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just… sometimes everything feels like it’s crumbling around me.”

Lewis nodded in understanding. “I get it. The pressure can be overwhelming. Sometimes I feel like I’m just going through the motions, you know?”

Their conversation deepened, revealing layers of vulnerability that surprised both of them. For the first time in a long while, Lewis felt seen—not as a celebrity chef or a brand, but as a person navigating his way through the chaos of life.

As the evening wore on, the two chefs found themselves bonding over shared experiences, slowly building a bridge of understanding between them. The laughter came easier, and by the end of the night, Lewis felt lighter, as if a burden he had been carrying was finally starting to lift.

When they said their goodbyes, Lewis left with a sense of connection he hadn’t felt in ages. The night hadn’t erased his struggles, but it offered a glimmer of hope that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he had thought. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance for healing in unexpected places.

Max was kind, an eager boy with bright eyes that sparkled with enthusiasm. Lewis felt a flicker of warmth in his chest as he contemplated the idea of sharing his knowledge with someone who genuinely wanted to learn. Before he could second-guess himself, he called out, chasing after Max as he turned to leave.

“Hey… if I can teach you some of my best dishes, can you teach me more Dutch ones?” Lewis suggested, his voice filled with a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

Max stopped and turned, a smile spreading across his face that lit up the dimly lit street. “Really? You’d do that?” he asked, surprise evident in his tone.

“Yeah, of course! I mean, it’ll be fun, right?” Lewis replied, feeling a surge of hope. He looked up at Max, who towered over him, the dark looming around them felt less foreboding now.

“How long are you here?” Max asked, curiosity piqued.

“Three days more,” Lewis answered, feeling a hint of disappointment at the short duration.

“Can—” Max hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Can I show you my kitchen? I have a flat nearby with a pretty decent setup. We can cook together.”

Lewis felt a rush of excitement and relief. “That sounds perfect!” he replied, eager to dive into this new experience. “Just text me the address, and we can figure out a time.”

“Great! I’ll send it now,” Max said, pulling out his phone. He quickly typed out the address and handed it to Lewis, their fingers brushing against each other for a brief moment.

“See you soon then!” Lewis said, feeling a sense of anticipation bubbling inside him.

As Lewis walked away, he couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of purpose. Maybe this was exactly what he needed—a chance to step away from his own shadows and share his passion with someone who was just starting out. Cooking with Max promised to be a refreshing change, a way to connect without the pressure of expectations that always seemed to loom over him.

Later that evening, Lewis settled into his hotel room, heart racing with excitement about the upcoming cooking session. He thought about the dishes he wanted to teach Max—the flavors, the techniques—and how he could incorporate some Dutch elements into his own repertoire.

The next day, Lewis texted Max to confirm their cooking date. He felt a mix of eagerness and anxiety as he awaited a response. When Max replied with a simple “Can’t wait! See you tomorrow at 11?” Lewis felt a surge of energy. This was going to be fun.

Lewis and Max spent hours cooking, with laughter and the aroma of delicious food filling the small kitchen. As they worked together, Lewis felt a comforting sense of camaraderie with Max, yet he couldn’t shake off the tiredness weighing on him. He frequently glanced at his phone, waiting for a message from Niki.

Finally, it buzzed with a message that made Lewis’s heart race: “Oh Lewis, wanna call now? I have time for you always, my boy.”

“Excuse me for a moment!” Lewis exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. He quickly excused himself and stepped away to find a quieter corner to take the call.

Max watched Lewis walk away, his gaze lingering on Lewis’s well-formed figure. The way he moved with confidence, even amidst his exhaustion, captivated Max. He had known he was bisexual from a young age, and watching Lewis grow up in the cooking shows made it even more complicated. Lewis had started making cooking shows at the tender age of seven, and Max had been an avid fan ever since. It felt surreal to be in the same room with someone he had admired for so long, someone who was only a couple of years older than him.

It wasn’t just the cooking that drew Max in; it was Lewis’s passion and talent that shone through every episode. Max remembered how his dad, Jos, would often remark, “Lewis is too young to be cooking like this,” whenever they watched together, laughing at how mature Lewis seemed for his age.

As Lewis’s voice drifted away on the call, Max’s thoughts wandered. He had spent so many hours watching Lewis’s shows, following his culinary journey, and now here he was, standing in a kitchen with him. It felt like a dream, but it was grounded in a reality that was just as

After a few moments, Lewis returned, his expression a mix of relief and renewed energy. “Sorry about that!” he said, a smile breaking across his face. “Niki always knows how to cheer me up.”

Max nodded, curious. “He seems important to you,” he remarked, trying to gauge the depth of their connection.

“Yeah, he is. He’s been a mentor and a father figure to me,” Lewis admitted, his tone shifting slightly as he spoke about Niki. “I’ve always been grateful for him.”

Max felt a twinge of something—admiration mixed with a hint of jealousy. It was clear that Lewis found solace in Niki, something he had longed for himself. He wanted to be someone who could provide that comfort to Lewis, but he also recognized that trust took time.

“Want to get back to cooking?” Max suggested, breaking the momentary silence. “I think we’ve got a lot more to do!”

“Absolutely! Let’s make some magic happen,” Lewis replied, his enthusiasm returning as they both dove back into their culinary creations. As they moved through the kitchen, chopping, mixing, and laughing, Max couldn’t help but feel grateful for this moment—cooking alongside someone he had looked up to for so long, forging a new connection that he hoped would grow deeper with time.

As they continued to cook, Max felt a sense of excitement. Maybe this was the beginning of something special.

Then it happened. Max watched in awe as Lewis moved deftly around the kitchen, his knife skills a mesmerizing dance. He was quick and precise, slicing through vegetables and herbs with an ease that came from years of practice. But then, in an instant, it occurred.

Lewis cut his finger.

Max’s breath hitched as he saw the flash of red appear against the cutting board. He expected Lewis to react, to flinch, to cry out in pain. But Lewis did none of that. He simply paused for a moment, his expression unchanged, as if this was a mundane occurrence in his life. He set down the knife and changed the cutting board with the same calm demeanor he had always possessed.

Max felt a lump in his throat as he watched Lewis retrieve a bandaid from a nearby drawer, his movements robotic, as if he had performed this ritual countless times before. The nonchalance with which Lewis handled the situation struck Max hard; it reminded him of the boy he had watched on TV all those years ago, the boy who never seemed to show weakness, who faced every challenge with unwavering professionalism.

“Lewis!” Max gasped, unable to keep the concern from his voice. “You need to be careful!”

Lewis looked up, finally noticing the worry etched across Max’s face. He offered a small, reassuring smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said softly, almost too quietly for Max to hear. He finished applying the bandaid with practiced ease, as if he were merely fixing a small scratch rather than addressing something more serious.

But Max couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. It was as if he were witnessing a part of Lewis’s past—something that had been buried beneath layers of charm and skill. “Are you really okay?” he pressed, searching Lewis’s gaze for the truth.

Lewis hesitated for a brief moment, and for the first time, the façade cracked just enough for Max to see the boy beneath the chef, the boy who had been through so much more than anyone knew. “I’m okay,” he repeated, but this time it felt more like a mantra than a declaration of truth.

Max’s heart ached at the sight. He wanted to reach out, to pull Lewis from the depths of his silence and remind him that it was okay to feel pain, to express it. But the words got caught in his throat.

“Hey,” Max said gently, trying to lighten the mood as he grabbed a new vegetable to chop. “You’re amazing with that knife. Maybe I should take some tips from you instead of trying to impress you with my cooking skills.”

Lewis chuckled softly, the sound more genuine this time. “Nah, you’re doing great. Just watch your fingers.”

But Max couldn’t shake the worry that lingered. He felt a sense of protectiveness towards Lewis, wanting to shield him from the hurt that seemed to echo from his past.

They continued cooking, the atmosphere lightening as they joked and prepared their dishes, but in the back of Max’s mind, he kept thinking about that cut, the way Lewis had brushed it off as if it were nothing. It was a reminder that even the strongest people sometimes needed someone to lean on, someone who could help them carry their burdens.

“So… you got a girlfriend?” Max asked, plating the food with precision, trying to keep the conversation casual.

Lewis shrugged, glancing at the ingredients as he replied, “No… I don’t really—y’know. I’m not that good looking. Girls don’t tend to look at me.”

Max blinked, baffled. Lewis was undeniably gorgeous, and he couldn’t help but notice how heads turned when he walked through the kitchen. Even his dad had given Lewis a lingering look, which sent a strange feeling through Max—part admiration, part jealousy.

“You’re kidding, right?” Max said, unable to hide his disbelief. “Everyone looks at you, Lewis! You’re like a magnet for attention.”

Lewis shook his head, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone. “Thanks, but it’s complicated. I just haven’t had the time to date. Cooking and my career have taken up most of my life. Relationships were never really on the table for me.”

Max felt a wave wash over him, a mixture of empathy and something deeper he hadn’t expected. “I get that. It’s tough to juggle everything. But… are you saying you’re not really into girls?”

Lewis hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Yeah, I guess I’m more open to… other possibilities.”

“Other possibilities?” Max echoed, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I just haven’t found someone I connect with, regardless of gender,” Lewis explained, his gaze dropping to the counter. “It’s just never been a priority for me. I’ve always been focused on my career.”

Max felt his heart race at Lewis’s admission. “Wow, I didn’t know that,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with curiosity. “It’s cool that you’re open about it.”

Max never had any stop sign in his speaking, so he leaned in closer, his curiosity piqued. “Have you ever had sex? With a boy or girl?” he asked, his voice light but intense.

Lewis nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Both.”

“A boy? How was it?” Max pressed, his excitement evident.

“It was… different,” Lewis said, choosing his words carefully. “I guess I was looking for something, a connection, but it was a long time ago.”

“Did you top or bottom?” Max asked bluntly, not hesitating in the slightest.

Lewis hesitated, his gaze dropping to the counter as he fiddled with a piece of food. “I… bottomed,” he admitted, feeling vulnerable sharing that detail.

Max felt a rush of emotions wash over him, a mix of surprise and something deeper that he couldn’t quite name. “It was a long time ago…” Lewis mumbled, as if trying to downplay its significance.

“Who was it?” Max asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Lewis mumbled, “Another chef, one who has a famous father in cooking and now does great cooking as well. He… was a year older or younger; I don’t remember. He was blond and had beautiful eyes. We were working on a dish together, and we were left alone. So… it just happened.”

Max raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So, it was kind of a spontaneous thing? You just clicked?”

“Yeah, it was unexpected,” Lewis said, a distant look in his eyes as he recalled the memory. “We were really focused on the dish, and then there was this moment of tension. It felt like everything else faded away, and we just… gave in to it.”

“Did it feel good at the time?” Max asked, trying to gauge how Lewis felt about the encounter now.

“It did, in a way,” Lewis admitted. “But it was also confusing. I wanted more than just a physical connection, but I didn’t really know how to express that back then. I thought maybe it would lead to something deeper, but it didn’t.”

Max felt a knot of empathy form in his stomach. “That must have been tough. It’s hard when you’re looking for something real, but the other person isn’t on the same page.”

“Exactly. I was so caught up in the moment that I ignored all the signs. Afterward, I felt even more alone than before,” Lewis said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It was like I was back to square one, but even more lost.”

“I get that,” Max said, leaning against the counter as he considered Lewis’s words. “But it sounds like you’ve learned a lot from that experience. You deserve someone who truly values you, not just your talent.”

Lewis looked at Max, surprised by the depth of his understanding. “Thanks, Max. It’s nice to talk about this with someone who gets it. I feel like I’ve been carrying it around for too long.”

Max smiled warmly. “I’m here for you. If you ever want to talk about it more—or anything else—you can always count on me.”

“So… have you had sex?” Lewis asked, curious despite himself.

Max nodded eagerly, launching into a long rant about his experiences. “Yeah! It was with this guy I met at a bar. He was super cute and a great dancer. We hit it off right away, and before I knew it, we were back at his place—”

Lewis found his mind drifting away as Max continued to recount the details of his night. He tried to focus on what Max was saying, but thoughts of his upcoming cooking show in Germany kept invading his mind. He was set to meet some new chef who was gaining traction in the culinary scene, and the pressure was mounting.

“…and then he took me to this amazing rooftop party. The view was incredible, and we just clicked. It was really intense,” Max continued, his eyes lighting up as he spoke.

“Sounds exciting,” Lewis murmured, half-listening, still caught up in his thoughts about the show. He wondered if this new chef would be different—if he would bring out a side of Lewis that had been missing for so long.

“Lewis?” Max asked, his hand resting gently on Lewis’ thigh. If Lewis were the horny teenager he once was, this would have sparked an immediate thrill. But now, it felt different. The chemistry was still there, but Lewis didn’t feel the same rush.

“Max… you’re very sweet,” Lewis replied, a soft smile playing on his lips. There was warmth in Max’s presence, but there was also a heaviness in Lewis’ heart that made it hard to fully embrace the moment.

“But… seriously, I’m so unstable,” Lewis admitted, the weight of his words hanging between them. He could feel his guard slipping, and it scared him.

“Me too,” Max confessed, shifting closer. Their faces were inches apart now, and the vulnerability in Max’s eyes mirrored Lewis’ own feelings. They both felt the pressure of their pasts bearing down on them, but something in the air felt hopeful.

The two stared at each other, the intensity of the moment pulling them closer. Max’s gaze flickered to Lewis’ lips, and before Lewis could second-guess himself, he leaned in, allowing Max to gently kiss him. The kiss was tentative at first, a soft exploration, and Lewis felt a rush of warmth wash over him—a mix of anxiety and exhilaration.

As they pulled away, Lewis’ heart raced. “Wow,” he breathed, surprised by the flutter of emotions swirling inside him. “That was… nice.”

Max smiled, his cheeks slightly flushed. “It was,” he agreed, a shy grin spreading across his face. “I didn’t want to rush you into anything, but…..”

Max leaned in again, kissing Lewis’ neck, making him grip the edge of the table tightly as a shiver of surprise and excitement coursed through him. The warmth of Max’s body against his own sent his heart racing, but then he felt Max’s hands tugging at his large hoodie.

Panic surged in Lewis as memories of past encounters flooded his mind, where hurtful remarks about his scar had left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. But before he could voice his discomfort, Max had pulled the hoodie off, tossing it aside with a bold confidence that took Lewis by surprise.

As Lewis stood there, feeling a mix of exhilaration and anxiety, he quickly took in the sight of Max, who was now removing his own clothes. Everything was happening so fast, but the air between them was electric.

“Fuck, you’re hot, Max,” Lewis blurted out, his voice laced with both admiration and a hint of disbelief. “Sorry for the scar.” He gestured to his arm, where the burn mark stood as a reminder of his past.

Max looked at the scar for a moment, his expression softening. “Your burn mark is kinda hot,” he said, a playful grin spreading across his face. The unexpected compliment caught Lewis off guard, and he couldn’t help but laugh, the tension easing slightly.

“Seriously?” Lewis asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” Max replied, his gaze steady. “It tells a story. It shows you’ve been through something, and you’re still here. That’s pretty badass.”

Lewis felt a warmth spread through him at Max’s words. It was a perspective he hadn’t considered before—seeing his scar as a symbol of resilience rather than a flaw.

“Thanks,” Lewis said softly, feeling a connection deepen between them. “That means a lot.”

With that, the initial awkwardness faded, and they moved closer, drawn together by an unspoken understanding. Max leaned in again, capturing Lewis’s lips in a kiss that was gentle yet filled with promise. In that moment, the worries of the past began to melt away.

The two spent a long time in the sheets together, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s bodies. Max was always overflowing with energy, his enthusiasm a sharp contrast to Lewis’s more subdued demeanor. It was as if Max’s vibrant spirit breathed life into Lewis, who found himself laughing and responding with a newfound playfulness he hadn’t felt in years.

Max’s kisses were insistent, but not overwhelming. He took his time exploring every inch of Lewis, savoring the soft curves and edges that made up his partner. Each touch ignited sparks of pleasure, and Lewis found himself making sounds that Max loved—soft gasps and quiet moans that encouraged Max to push further.

“God, you’re incredible,” Max murmured between kisses, his breath warm against Lewis’s skin. The way he spoke sent shivers down Lewis’s spine, making him feel desired and cherished in a way he hadn’t experienced before.

They moved together in a rhythm that felt both instinctual and intoxicating. Max’s hands roamed over Lewis’s body, tracing the scar that had once made Lewis feel so self-conscious. Instead of shame, it brought them closer. Max would pause, look into Lewis’s eyes, and kiss the scar lightly as if to say it was a part of him that made him unique and strong.

“Does that feel good?” Max asked, his voice low and playful, teasing out the sounds that Lewis had learned to stifle in the past.

“Yeah,” Lewis breathed out, feeling vulnerable yet safe under Max’s touch. “It feels amazing.”

With each new caress, Lewis could feel the walls he had built around himself slowly crumbling. The connection they shared went beyond the physical; it was a shared understanding of pain, desire, and the longing for acceptance.

As they intertwined in the sheets, Lewis let himself get lost in the moment, allowing the warmth of Max’s body and the sounds of their shared intimacy to wash over him. Every gasp, every shiver, was a reminder that he was alive, that he was worthy of love and pleasure, and that this moment was theirs alone.

Max’s laughter filled the room as he playfully teased Lewis, who couldn’t help but smile. In those moments, all the worries and doubts of the past seemed to fade away, replaced by the joyful discovery of what it meant to truly connect with someone else.

Lewis was so tired, his body heavy and pleasantly sated from their passionate connection. Max, however, was still bursting with energy, his enthusiasm seemingly endless. The playful glint in his eyes and the way he bounced on the balls of his feet made it clear he wasn’t ready to stop.

“Come on, just a little more,” Max urged, his voice light and teasing as he leaned in closer, brushing his lips against Lewis’s shoulder. “I know you’ve got some more in you.”

Lewis chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I can keep up with you. I need a minute to catch my breath.”

Max pouted playfully, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “But I want to show you more! I have some moves I’ve been dying to try out.”

Lewis couldn’t help but smile at Max’s eagerness. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and despite his exhaustion, a part of him felt drawn to it. “You’re insatiable,” Lewis teased, his voice laced with affection.

“Maybe,” Max admitted, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “But I promise you’ll love it. Just trust me.”

With a reluctant sigh, Lewis sat up slightly, resting his back against the headboard. “Okay, fine. Just for a little while longer. But you better not wear me out completely!”

Max’s face lit up with excitement, and he launched into a flurry of playful kisses, peppering Lewis’s face and neck with soft pecks that sent jolts of energy coursing through him. “You’re going to love this,” Max insisted, his voice low and seductive, as he began to explore Lewis’s body again with eager hands.

Lewis let Max take the lead, surrendering to the whirlwind of energy and passion that radiated from him. Max loved every second, his hands roaming over Lewis’s body, exploring and discovering. The intensity of their connection fueled Max, driving him to push boundaries and express his desire in every way he could.

But as the minutes ticked by, Lewis found himself gradually drifting. The warmth of the sheets, combined with the rhythmic movements and gentle caresses, lulled him into a state of relaxation. His head was put into the soft pillow, and despite Max’s continued enthusiasm, Lewis’s eyelids grew heavier.

Eventually, he succumbed to the exhaustion that had been creeping up on him. Even with Max still busy on him, he fell asleep, his breathing steady and deep, a peaceful expression settling on his face.

Max, engrossed in the moment, didn’t notice at first. He was caught up in the thrill of exploration, pushing forward with kisses and touches. But when he turned to see Lewis’s tranquil face resting on the pillow, he paused, a mix of surprise and affection washing over him.

“Lewis?” he called softly, leaning closer. When there was no response, Max couldn’t help but smile. The older chef looked utterly serene, and for a brief moment, Max just admired him.

Carefully, he settled next to him, pulling the sheets up to cover them both. The rush of adrenaline faded, replaced by a warm sense of contentment. He brushed a strand of braid away from Lewis’s forehead, his heart swelling at the sight of the man he had idolised for so long finally relaxed and at peace.

Max decided to let Lewis rest, knowing that he needed it. He snuggled closer, allowing the comforting rhythm of their breathing to synchronize, and closed his eyes, drifting into a light sleep beside him, feeling lucky to be there in that moment.

Lewis slept soundly, wrapped in the warmth of the moment, feeling Max’s presence beside him. However, as the sunlight began to filter through the curtains, he stirred, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings. The weight of the previous night’s emotions settled heavily on his chest, and as he opened his eyes, he felt a familiar sadness wash over him.

He turned slightly, noticing Max still asleep, his features soft and peaceful. The sight brought a bittersweet smile to Lewis’s face, but it quickly faded as the reality of his past crept back in. Memories of hurt, of feeling unworthy, and of scars—both physical and emotional—flooded his mind.

Before he knew it, tears began to well up in his eyes. Lewis pressed his face into the pillows, stifling the sobs that threatened to escape. The combination of relief from a night of connection and the weight of his unresolved pain collided, leaving him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

He had spent so long trying to hold everything together, pretending that he was fine, that he was the successful chef everyone believed him to be. But in that quiet moment, alone with his thoughts and the remnants of a long-overdue emotional release, he felt overwhelmed.

As he cried softly into the pillows, the fabric soaked up his tears, offering a silent comfort. He was grateful for the warmth of the sheets and the softness of the bed, but it was the feeling of being held by Max that resonated with him the most. For the first time in a long while, he felt a connection that went beyond the surface, yet it was also terrifying.

Eventually, the gentle rise and fall of Max’s breathing began to soothe him, and Lewis tried to regain control over his emotions. He took a few deep breaths, reminding himself that it was okay to feel—okay to cry. He had found someone who seemed to care, who had held him and accepted him without judgment.

With a newfound determination, Lewis wiped his eyes and glanced over at Max, who was still asleep, oblivious to his quiet turmoil. The boy who had once looked up to him now lay beside him, creating a bond that was unexpected but deeply welcomed.

“Okay,” Lewis whispered to himself, pushing away the lingering sadness. “You can do this.”

Lewis got up early, moving through his daily routine of crying as he made breakfast. Each morning felt like a battle; the act of cooking had transformed into a strange ritual that he couldn’t escape. It was a peculiar way to start the day, pouring his heartache into the food he prepared. Cooking felt like hell in the morning, but somehow, it always came out perfect, the flavors balanced and inviting.

After they finished breakfast, Max quickly gathered his things, getting ready for work. Lewis watched him move about the small apartment, a mixture of admiration and sadness swirling inside him. He wanted to feel the warmth of their connection, to grasp onto the hope that maybe this time would be different, but deep down, he felt the familiar weight of inevitability.

“Thanks for breakfast, Lewis. It was incredible,” Max said, flashing a bright smile as he leaned in to kiss Lewis goodbye. Lewis felt a flicker of warmth in his chest but quickly extinguished it, reminding himself that this was temporary.

“Good luck at work,” Lewis replied, forcing a smile. As he watched Max leave, a wave of loneliness washed over him. The door clicked shut behind Max, and the silence that followed felt oppressive. Lewis took a deep breath, trying to shake off the impending sense of loss that loomed over him.

He knew they wouldn’t last. It was a painful truth he didn’t want to acknowledge, but the reality was undeniable. The fleeting moments of happiness shared between them were a fragile thread, one that could snap at any time. Lewis felt a heaviness settle in his chest as he picked up the dishes, the vibrant colors of the meal he had prepared now feeling dull and lifeless.

After washing up, he left the apartment and made his way back to the hotel, his mind racing with thoughts of what was to come. Would he keep in touch with Max? Would their paths cross again, or would this be the end of something that had barely begun? He felt like he was stuck in a cycle of starting over, yearning for something meaningful while battling the shadows of his past.

Once back at his hotel room, Lewis sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the bustling streets of Amsterdam below. He picked up his phone, contemplating sending a message to Max but hesitated. The truth was, he didn’t want to drag Max into his chaos. He didn’t want to burden him with the weight of his emotions.

Instead, he took a deep breath and picked up a pen, turning to the notebook he kept by the bedside. It was filled with recipes, sketches, and thoughts—his way of processing the world around him. As he wrote, he tried to focus on the things that brought him joy, the creativity that had always been his refuge.

But no matter how much he wrote, the feeling of impending loss lingered in the air, and the thought of what could have been weighed heavily on his heart.

He talked to his dad for two minutes on the phone and Niki for an hour. Lewis explained what he had done, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over him. Niki had no idea Lewis was bisexual—but now he did.

Lewis was teetering on the edge of breaking down. “Niki, I messed up. I fell for someone, and we just— we were together all night. And he treated me so nice, he cared for me… he made me feel so nice.”

Niki stood there, shocked, the phone feeling heavy in his hand. “A guy? Lewis? What? You’re a guy. You can’t date a guy? THAT’S so weird,” he blurted out, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.

Lewis went silent, the air thick with tension. Niki felt his stomach drop as he registered the hurt in Lewis’s silence. He realized he had crossed a line, that his reaction was rooted in an outdated mindset.

“Lewis…” Niki started, but Lewis cut him off.

“Maybe I should’ve expected this from you,” Lewis said quietly, his voice trembling. “You know me better than that. I’m still the same person, regardless of who I love.”

“I just didn’t think… I mean, you’ve always loved girls,” Niki stammered, trying to defend himself. “This is just so… unexpected.”

“Maybe you should try to understand that love doesn’t have to fit into a box,” Lewis replied, his tone sharp but filled with pain. “I thought you’d support me, but instead, you’re just making it harder.”

Niki felt a pang of guilt and shame settle in his chest. He had wanted to protect Lewis, but now he felt like he had betrayed him. The tension hung heavy in the air, and Niki wished he could take back his words.

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “I just… I need time to process this. It’s a lot to take in.”

“Time? This is my life, Niki! I’m trying to share something important with you, and all you can think about is how weird it is?” Lewis’s voice cracked, and Niki could hear the hurt spilling through the line.

“I’m sorry, okay? I just want what’s best for you,” Niki replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt if you’d just stop judging me,” Lewis snapped back, the frustration clear in his tone. “I thought you were my….dad. Family support each other.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and Niki could hear the tension in Lewis’s breath. “I don’t know what to say,” Niki admitted, his heart racing. “I need to think.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should think about how your words affect people,” Lewis said, disappointment thick in his voice. “I’m hanging up.”

“Wait—Lewis!” Niki called out, but it was too late. The line went dead, and he was left staring at his phone, the reality of what he had just said crashing down on him.

He felt a mix of regret and confusion. How had he let his biases come out in such a hurtful way? He stood there, grappling with the weight of his thoughts, knowing he needed to do better.

Niki sank into a chair, running a hand through his hair. He needed to reach out again, to apologize and try to understand Lewis’s feelings. But as he sat there, the guilt gnawed at him, and he knew it wouldn’t be easy to rebuild that trust.

“I messed up,” he murmured to himself, wishing he could rewind time. He had to find a way to make things right before it was too late.

Once Lewis hung up, he stared at the wall, feeling a mix of sadness and anger simmering inside him. He wasn’t shocked; he had heard his father’s homophobic remarks throughout his life. So, Niki saying something similar hurt, but it wasn’t surprising. It was just another reminder of how difficult it was to be himself in a world that often didn’t accept him.

Lewis took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling within him. “I thought he would understand,” he whispered to himself, feeling the sting of betrayal settle into his chest. He wanted to be open and honest with someone he considered family, only to be met with confusion and judgment.

In that moment, he felt a profound sense of loneliness. “Why is it so hard for people to accept me?” The question echoed in his mind, a painful reminder of the battles he had fought silently over the years. He remembered how his father had reacted whenever the topic of LGBTQ+ issues came up, how those comments had chipped away at his confidence, and how he had buried his feelings deep inside, afraid of rejection.

He thought about Niki and how their friendship had weathered so much—laughs, tears, and late-night talks—but now, this felt like a breach that might not be easily repaired. “Does he really think I’m ‘weird’ for loving someone?” The idea was infuriating, and it made him feel small.

Lewis turned to the kitchen, where the remnants of breakfast lay scattered. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, knowing that cooking was one of the few things that could ease his mind. He chopped vegetables with deliberate precision, but the rhythm of the knife against the cutting board couldn’t chase away the ache in his heart.

As he stirred the ingredients in the pan, he thought about Max. “At least he saw me,” Lewis thought. Max had been kind, attentive, and genuinely interested in him as a person. They had shared something intimate and real, and for a brief moment, Lewis had felt free. But now, the looming shadow of judgment and rejection clouded that memory.

Tears pricked at his eyes as he fought to keep them at bay. He was tired of hiding, tired of feeling ashamed for who he was. “Why can’t I just be happy?” he murmured, wishing someone would see him for all that he was—flaws, scars, and all.

Once Max came by, Lewis felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over him. He rushed into Max’s arms, tears streaming down his face as he cried into his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just… I can’t take it anymore,” he sobbed, his voice muffled by Max’s shirt.

Max held him tightly, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” he whispered gently. “You don’t have to apologize for how you feel.”

Lewis pulled back slightly, looking into Max’s concerned eyes. “It’s just… everything is so complicated. I thought I could be myself, but then I face judgment from people I care about,” he admitted, his voice trembling.

Max brushed a strand of hair away from Lewis’s face, his gaze softening. “You deserve to be who you are, Lewis. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. What matters is how you feel about yourself.”

Feeling a sense of comfort in Max’s words, Lewis leaned back into him, letting the warmth of his presence wash over him. “You make me feel safe, you know? Like I can be honest without fear,” he confessed, his heart racing at the closeness they shared.

Max smiled softly, “I want you to always feel that way with me. You’re amazing just as you are, scars and all.”

The sincerity in Max’s voice made Lewis’s heart swell. He had never felt this kind of acceptance before. “Thank you for being so understanding,” Lewis said, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” Max replied, pulling him in for another embrace. They stood there for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading away.

As Lewis calmed down, he felt a glimmer of hope. With Max by his side, maybe he could find the strength to face the challenges ahead. “Can we talk about it? Everything that’s been happening?” Lewis asked, looking up at Max.

Max nodded, leading Lewis to the couch where they could sit down comfortably. “Of course. I want to listen. Tell me what’s been going on.”

Lewis took a deep breath, grateful to have someone who genuinely cared. As he opened up about his feelings, the tension began to ease, and he felt a sense of clarity. Max listened intently, offering support and encouragement, and for the first time in a while, Lewis felt like he wasn’t alone in this fight.

By the time they finished talking, Lewis felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He realized that while the road ahead would still be difficult, he now had someone in his corner, ready to stand with him against whatever came next.

Once Max came by, Lewis cried in his arms, his silent tears pouring out all the hurt he had been holding inside. Max held him tightly, whispering soft reassurances and words of comfort. He didn’t push Lewis to talk; he simply let him cry, understanding that sometimes, silence was the most healing response.

After a while, Lewis began to calm down, his sobs turning into quiet hiccups. Max gently wiped away the tears from Lewis’s cheeks and offered him a warm smile. “You don’t have to say anything right now. Just know I’m here for you,” he said softly.

Feeling a bit more stable, Lewis leaned back against Max, their bodies pressed together on the couch. The warmth of Max’s presence made him feel safe, a welcome contrast to the turmoil swirling in his mind. They spent the rest of the day together, doing little things that brought Lewis comfort.

Max suggested they cook something together, a distraction that Lewis gladly accepted. As they moved around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and stirring pots, Lewis felt a sense of normalcy return. They shared light banter, their laughter echoing softly as they worked side by side.

While cooking, Max turned to Lewis with a playful grin. “You know, I think you have to show me your signature dish. No more of this ‘always perfect’ nonsense; I want to see what really makes you tick.”

Lewis chuckled, feeling a flicker of warmth in his chest. “Okay, but you better be ready for something a bit… chaotic,” he warned, knowing full well that his culinary creativity often led to unexpected results.

As they cooked, Lewis found himself opening up little by little. He hesitated before sharing his childhood stories, but Max’s warm encouragement made it easier. “To be honest, I don’t have many positive memories about growing up,” Lewis admitted, stirring a pot of simmering sauce. “I always found solace in cooking, but home wasn’t exactly a happy place for me.”

Max listened intently, his expression serious as he turned to face Lewis. “What do you mean?”

“My family… we didn’t connect much. Cooking was the one thing I could do well, and it was my escape,” Lewis explained, his voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and sadness. “I spent hours in the kitchen, trying new recipes, perfecting dishes. It was like I was creating a world where I could belong.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. “But outside of that, things were tough. I didn’t really have friends, and my dad wanted to use my passion... It felt like I was always trying to prove myself, and there wasn’t much encouragement.”

Max nodded, his heart aching for Lewis. “That sounds really hard. I can’t imagine what that must have felt like.”

Lewis shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It was what it was. I learned to fend for myself early on, and cooking became my lifeline. It gave me something to look forward to, even if it wasn’t always easy.”

Max reached out and placed a comforting hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “I think it’s amazing that you found that passion. You turned a difficult situation into something beautiful.”

Lewis smiled faintly, grateful for Max’s understanding. “Thanks. It’s just… it’s hard to think about those times sometimes.”

As they finished cooking, the kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of their meal. They sat down to eat, the atmosphere between them light and relaxed. For the first time in days, Lewis felt a genuine smile creeping onto his face.

After dinner, they decided to curl up on the couch to watch a movie. As the film played, Lewis leaned into Max, their shoulders touching, sharing warmth and comfort.

As the credits rolled, Lewis looked over at Max, who was still focused on the screen. “Thank you for today,” he said quietly. 

Max turned to him, his expression sincere. “You don’t have to thank me. I care about you, Lewis. I want to be here for you, no matter what.”

Lewis felt a surge of emotion at Max’s words. He knew that having someone like Max in his life made a difference, especially in moments when he felt so vulnerable. The connection they shared grew deeper each day, providing him with a strength he didn’t realize he needed.

They spent the remaining days together, navigating through the complexities of Lewis’s emotions. Max became a constant source of support, encouraging him to express himself and reminding him that he was never alone in this journey. In those quiet moments, as they shared their thoughts, fears, and hopes, Lewis began to feel a sense of healing.

By the time Lewis had to leave, he felt more grounded, more himself. As he packed his things, Max stood by his side, helping him, their playful banter filling the space between them.

“You better come back and visit,” Max said, a hint of seriousness in his tone.

Lewis smiled, feeling the warmth of their bond. “I will. I promise.”

As they stood together, the weight of the world felt a little lighter, and for the first time in a long time, Lewis felt hopeful about what the future might hold.

As time passed, Lewis headed toward the German cooking studio, mesmerized by its beauty. The chef he was meeting insisted on bringing his own camera crew, adding an unexpected layer of pressure to the encounter.

When Lewis walked in, he stood still, his breath hitching in his throat at the sight before him. A tall, blond teenager with a wide smile stood waiting—Mick Schumacher, Michael’s son.

“Mick Schumacher, pleasure to meet you, Mister Hamilton,” Mick said, his hands trembling slightly as he extended them. The camera crew’s lenses were fixated on their interaction, amplifying the intensity of the moment.

“Schumacher,” Lewis replied, still in shock. He remembered his past encounters with Michael, particularly the cooking show they filmed together, where Michael had peppered him with endless questions, his enthusiasm infectious. Now, standing before Mick, Lewis felt a rush of nostalgia, mixed with a deep-seated jealousy.

He recalled how he used to watch Mick and Michael interact, longing for that kind of father-son bond. Lewis was completely frozen, caught in a moment that felt surreal.

Mick, anxious to impress, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He had always looked up to Lewis, and now he was standing before his idol, desperate to make a good impression. “I hope I can do well today,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Lewis reassured him, trying to soften the atmosphere. “Just be yourself. Cooking should be fun.”

As they began working together in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and sharing ideas, Mick couldn’t help but steal glances at Lewis, awed by the opportunity to cook alongside someone he admired so much.

“You remind me so much of your dad,” Lewis said, pausing his chopping to look at Mick. The resemblance was uncanny, not just in looks but in the enthusiasm Mick exuded.

Mick giggled, looking up with a bright smile. He glanced toward his father, who was observing them intently from the sidelines. At that moment, Lewis also noticed Michael, his expression a mixture of pride and concern, worry etched across his face as he watched his son with his old friend.

But as Lewis met Michael’s gaze, he felt something shift inside him. It was a longing, an ache for the kind of care and attention Mick received from his father—just from a simple look, a nod of approval.

Feeling overwhelmed, Lewis stepped to the side, his heart racing. He quickly pulled out his phone and texted Niki: “Why can’t you accept me?” The words felt heavy and raw, echoing the insecurities he had battled for so long.

He took a deep breath, willing himself to put the smile back on his face, but his hands trembled slightly. The weight of old wounds and the intensity of the moment pressed down on him.

Mick turned to him, curiosity in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Lewis forced a smile, shaking off the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “Yeah, just a lot to take in,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Let’s keep cooking, huh?”

Mick was in awe of Lewis, his face lighting up at the praise. It was clear he admired the racing legend, and the connection was palpable. As they continued to cook together, Mick felt a surge of excitement, wanting to impress Lewis even more.

But then something caught his eye. Lewis had put his phone on the counter, and a notification popped up—Niki’s message. Mick glanced at it, curiosity piqued.

“Lewis, we really need to talk. I’m sorry I fucked up so bad.”

Mick frowned, sensing the heaviness in the words. But as he continued scrolling, he stumbled upon a series of messages from an “Anthony Hamilton/father.” The tone shifted dramatically, revealing a much darker side to Lewis’s life.

Mick read the messages, his heart sinking.

“If you could just be a fucking man, you wouldn’t need to run off. It’s not my fault you’re such a fucking brat. Don’t text me.”

The harshness of the words sent a chill down Mick’s spine. But it didn’t stop there; the next string of messages only deepened the pit in Mick’s stomach.

“I can’t believe I let you in my house, you fucking selfish prick.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve a son who is such a fucking failure. Don’t ever contact me or your brother. He doesn’t care nor love you.”

Mick felt a wave of empathy wash over him. He had admired Lewis from afar, thinking of him as an untouchable figure of success, but now he saw a glimpse of the pain behind that facade. The mention of a brother surprised him. He had no idea Lewis had siblings, and the implications of that message struck him hard.

Mick looked over at Lewis, who was talking animatedly to the camera about how to cut a fish, his smile stretched tight and somewhat forced. The laughter felt rehearsed, and Mick couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more beneath the surface.

“Hey, Lewis,” Mick called out, stepping away from the counter, his voice quieter now. “You okay?”

Lewis turned, the camera still rolling, his eyes momentarily betraying a flicker of vulnerability before the practiced smile returned. “Yeah, I’m good! Just sharing some tips here.”

But Mick could see through it. He felt an urge to say something comforting, to reach out in a way that showed Lewis he wasn’t alone. “You know, you don’t hav—”

Before Mick could finish, Lewis cut him off, laughter spilling from his lips, though it sounded slightly forced. “Nah, I’m fine! Just doing what I love,” he said, glancing at the camera and flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Mick opened his mouth to press further, wanting to let Lewis know that it was okay to be real, but Lewis continued, cutting him off again. “Come on, Mick! Let’s show them how to chop this fish perfectly!” He picked up the knife again, gesturing dramatically as if trying to divert the conversation back to the task at hand.

Mick blinked, feeling the abrupt shift. “Right, yeah,” he said, trying to keep up with Lewis’s sudden energy. But the moment hung heavy, and the unease lingered. He could see the annoyance beneath Lewis’s laughter, the way his gaze flickered back to the camera as if seeking validation, trying to keep everything light and entertaining.

“Okay, here we go!” Lewis said cheerfully, his tone too bright. “First, we cut along the belly like this,” he demonstrated, expertly slicing through the fish.

Mick watched, torn between admiration for Lewis’s skill and concern for what lay beneath his facade. He wanted to reach out, to offer support, but Lewis had closed the door before he could step inside. So, Mick nodded, attempting to join in the playful banter, but the heaviness lingered, both of them hiding behind smiles and kitchen tasks, pretending everything was fine.

The camera kept rolling, capturing the moments of laughter, but Mick couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a storm brewing just beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to break free. And he wanted to be there when it did.

Once the fish was ready to be cooked, the camera crew finally turned off the lights, leaving the kitchen in a more relaxed atmosphere. Mick watched as Lewis grabbed his phone, a look of tension creeping into his features.

He saw Lewis quickly type a message back to Niki, but then pause, staring at another thread. After a moment, Lewis typed out a message to his brother: “Do you hate me?”

Mick’s heart sank when he saw the dreaded notification pop up—“Not delivered.” Lewis’s expression shifted dramatically, and Mick could see the fight to keep his composure begin to falter. Tears welled up in Lewis’s eyes, and despite his efforts to blink them away, a few fell, streaking down his cheeks.

Lewis quickly dried his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to regain his composure. He took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself before stepping outside to take a call. The door swung shut behind him, leaving Mick in the kitchen, feeling a mix of concern and helplessness.

Mick stood there, staring at the spot where Lewis had just been, his mind racing. He had always looked up to Lewis, admired his talent and charisma, but seeing him like this—vulnerable and hurting—shifted something in Mick. It made him realize that beneath the surface, everyone had their struggles, even someone he had idolized.

Once Mick walked outside, he found Lewis standing alone, a cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other, absorbed in texting Max. The tension in the air felt palpable, and Mick instinctively moved closer, wanting to reach out.

“Mick,” Lewis said, his voice steady but tinged with fatigue. “I’m 29. You’re 16. You’re not supposed to comfort a grown man. Okay? It’s fine. I’m used to it.” He extinguished the cigarette and tossed it aside, trying to brush off the concern.

Mick frowned slightly. “But you don’t have to deal with everything by yourself,” he insisted, his voice soft but firm. “It’s okay to talk about what’s bothering you.”

Lewis let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping a little as he looked down at Mick. “You shouldn’t have to worry about me, especially not when you’ve got your own stuff going on.”

But Mick wasn’t about to back down. He stepped forward and gently placed a hand on Lewis’s arm. “I care about you, Lewis. You’ve been there for me, and I want to be there for you too.”

With a small shake of his head, Lewis placed his hands on Mick’s shoulders, guiding him back inside. “Come on, let’s get in before someone sees us looking like this.” He quickly ran his fingers through Mick’s hair, a brotherly gesture that surprised them both.

In that moment, Lewis felt a surge of affection for Mick. He saw him as a younger brother, someone who deserved care and support. If anyone should be comforting him, it should be Michael, but Mick’s father was clearly more focused on the camera crew and the cooking than on his son’s feelings.

Lewis kept the part about wanting Michael’s comfort to himself, the secret lingering in the back of his mind. He remembered lashing out at Michael once when he was younger—an emotional outburst that left him feeling embarrassed and regretful. Michael hadn’t been the same since, and now he felt too ashamed to bring it up.

“Just breathe, alright?” Lewis said, trying to redirect the conversation. “We’ll get through this together, even if it’s tough.”

“Yeah,” Mick replied, looking up at him with a determined expression. “We will.”

As they walked back into the studio, Lewis felt a sense of relief wash over him. It was a small moment of connection, a reminder that despite his struggles, he didn’t have to face everything alone. And for Mick, being beside someone he admired only deepened his resolve to be a source of support, no matter what challenges lay ahead.

Lewis quickly fell back into his role, the weight of the outside world fading away as he focused on the cooking. He took a step back and let Mick take the lead on some parts, enjoying the way the young chef responded to the challenge. When Mick struggled, Lewis was there, guiding him with gentle nudges that felt more like mentorship than criticism.

“Mick,” Lewis said, looking over the simmering pot. “The sauce needs something.”

“It does?” Mick looked up, uncertainty clouding his features.

“Yes. What do you think it needs?” Lewis asked, his tone encouraging.

Mick stared at the sauce, clearly deep in thought, the wheels turning in his mind. “Um…”

“Taste it again,” Lewis prompted, crossing his arms with an expectant smile.

Mick took a hesitant spoonful, his brow furrowing in concentration. “It needs something sweet.”

“Exactly!” Lewis beamed, his eyes lighting up. “And what else?”

Mick paused, tasting the sauce once more. “It would also…”

“Complete the fish!” Lewis exclaimed, pride swelling in his chest as he watched Mick connect the dots.

Mick’s face lit up, and he grinned back, feeling a rush of accomplishment. “Yeah! It would!”

The camera crew captured every moment, focusing on the chemistry between the two, the joy of shared knowledge and discovery radiating from them. For a moment, the pressures of family drama and personal struggles were forgotten, replaced by the simple joy of cooking and the bond they were forming.

Lewis couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride as he watched Mick gain confidence, knowing that he was playing a part in helping him shine. The kitchen was alive with laughter and the sizzling of fish, a reminder that even amidst chaos, moments of happiness could be found.

“You search for anything that could be… missing, even if you don’t realize it at first,” Lewis explained, his enthusiasm infectious. Mick was practically glowing with excitement as he absorbed the advice. He looked over at Michael, eager to share their progress.

“Dad! You have to taste this!” Mick called out, a wide grin spreading across his face as he handed the spoon to his father.

Lewis watched the interaction, feeling a bittersweet pang in his chest. For all the hurt he carried from his own childhood, witnessing the father-son bond between Mick and Michael was a reminder of what he had missed. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy but quickly pushed it aside, focusing instead on the joy in the kitchen.

Just as Mick turned back, beaming with pride at his father’s approval, Lewis glanced down at his phone, curiosity getting the better of him. He swiped open the messages, his heart sinking as he read: “You dumb fucking slut, I can—” He cut himself off, the words stinging as they sank in.

His father had never been shy about expressing his disdain, especially after Lewis had told him about starting to date someone. The fallout was predictable, and yet it still hurt. He didn’t want to let it ruin this moment, so he pushed the phone away, forcing a smile back onto his face.

“Let’s add a touch of lemon to brighten it up!” Lewis suggested, trying to redirect his focus. He glanced at Mick, who was still riding the high of his father’s praise, and felt a surge of determination to keep the atmosphere light. “Trust me, it’ll elevate the dish even more.”

Mick nodded vigorously, clearly eager to impress both Lewis and his dad. “Okay! Let’s do it!”

As they resumed their cooking, Lewis couldn’t shake off the feeling of his father’s harsh words lingering in the back of his mind. Yet, for the moment, he focused on Mick’s happiness, letting the kitchen and the flavors become his escape.

The word “slut” hung over Lewis like a dark cloud, heavy and suffocating. As he focused on finishing the last few steps of the dish, he couldn’t shake the echo of his father’s insult from his mind. “Am I a slut?” he whispered to himself, feeling a wave of shame wash over him. The stinging feeling in his chest twisted painfully, mingling with the heat radiating from the boiling water he was draining into the sink.

In a moment of distraction, he accidentally splashed some of the water over his hand. The scalding liquid burned his skin, but he barely noticed. Instead, he quickly fixed the spill, gritting his teeth against the pain, and turned his attention back to serving the food, determined to ignore the throbbing mark on his hand.

He could feel Mick’s excitement bubbling behind him, the young chef eager to show off their creation. “Lewis, look at this!” Mick exclaimed, his voice bright and full of energy as he presented the beautifully plated fish, adorned with the sauce they had perfected together.

Lewis forced a smile, trying to channel the joy Mick radiated. “It looks incredible, Mick! You really outdid yourself.” He wanted to believe it, wanted to push the negativity aside, if only for a moment.

But the burning in his hand was a reminder that the emotional wounds were just as real, if not more so, than the physical pain. As he served the food, he felt the weight of his father’s words pressing down on him, tainting what should have been a joyous occasion.

“Let’s get this served up before it gets cold!” he said, trying to inject enthusiasm into his voice. Mick’s infectious energy was hard to resist, and as they placed the plates in front of Michael and the camera crew, Lewis took a deep breath, fighting to keep the hurt at bay.

“Here you go, Chef!” Mick said proudly, beaming at his father. Lewis watched, longing for that same kind of affirmation, that same sense of connection. He pushed aside the creeping doubt, focusing instead on Mick’s moment. After all, for now, it was about them, not the toxic words of a man who couldn’t understand.

As Lewis watched Michael compliment the food, he felt the weight of Michael’s gaze shift toward his hand—the red, angry burn mark screaming for attention. Embarrassed, Lewis quickly hid his hand, but Mick noticed immediately. Before Lewis could protest, Mick was already at his side, tending to it.

“You’re prone to accidents, huh?” Mick said, trying to keep the mood light, but Lewis didn’t like it. He hated being helped, hated showing any sign of weakness. The cameras had just been turned off, and yet, the feeling of exposure remained.

Mick’s touch on his injured hand was painful—not just physically, but emotionally. Lewis wanted to pull away, but something in him froze. He didn’t like being fussed over, didn’t want anyone, especially Mick, seeing him in such a vulnerable state. His mind kept circling back to the text message from his father, the word “slut” echoing in his thoughts like a relentless drumbeat.

Suddenly, the pain became too much. Lewis gripped the floor, his body trembling, a low whine escaping from him despite his best efforts to hold it in. He didn’t want to be like this. He didn’t want anyone seeing him fall apart.

Michael, who had been watching quietly from the other side of the room, stood up and came over. Without a word, he placed a hand on Lewis’s shoulder, then let Lewis lean against him. It was a simple gesture, but for Lewis, it felt monumental. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Michael to care, not like this.

“It hurts so much… it hurts so much… Michael…” Lewis whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he had been holding in for so long. The burn on his hand was just the tip of it all; the real pain came from deeper inside, from wounds that hadn’t healed in years.

Michael didn’t say anything. He just held Lewis steady, giving him the space to break down if he needed to. Mick stood there, watching the quiet exchange between his father and Lewis. Mick turned away from the kitchen, trying to give Lewis a moment of privacy. As he moved to clean up, he couldn’t help but notice Lewis’s phone on the counter, buzzing incessantly. Curiosity gnawed at him, and despite knowing he shouldn’t, he picked it up.

The screen was flooded with messages, each one more hurtful than the last. Mick’s heart sank as he read through them:

“Slut”

“Whore”

“Manwhore”

“Focus on your business, not a fucking lover.”

“You’re a homewrecker.”

Mick felt a wave of nausea wash over him. How could someone say these things to Lewis? He glanced at the sender: Anthony Hamilton. Mick couldn’t comprehend how a father could speak to his son like this.

Then came the message that hit Mick like a punch to the gut:

“I’ve always known you and the fucking German boy went of and had sex. Disgusting.”

Mick froze, shock coursing through him. He had no idea Lewis was into men, and the revelation felt like a betrayal of trust. He didn’t know how to process it—part of him felt angry at the way Lewis was being treated, but another part was confused by the new information.

He looked up, glancing towards Lewis, who was still leaning against Michael, the weight of his earlier pain still etched on his face. Mick’s heart ached for him. Lewis didn’t deserve this kind of treatment from anyone, least of all his father.

Mick placed the phone back on the counter, overwhelmed by a mix of emotions. He wanted to support Lewis, to let him know he was there for him, but he also felt an instinctual urge to confront the cruelty behind those messages. Instead, he took a deep breath, reminding himself that Lewis needed comfort right now, not more conflict.

Mick shook ever so slightly. “Lewis…” he began, but the words broke halfway through. Instead, he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Lewis and crying into his chest.

“Mick…” Lewis mumbled, his voice muffled as he glanced at Michael, who watched the moment with a mix of concern and understanding.

The two men sat there, an unspoken bond forming between them. Mick had been grappling with his own feelings for a while, unsure of his identity, but finding comfort in Lewis felt like a revelation. It was reassuring to know he wasn’t alone in this complex journey.

Once Michael quietly left the room, they were alone together. Mick shifted slightly, taking a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts. “How did you know you were gay?” he asked tentatively.

Lewis chuckled softly, a lightness breaking through the heaviness of the moment. “Nico Rosberg and Sebastian Vettel,” he replied, a playful grin spreading across his face. Mick laughed, the sound a mix of relief and camaraderie.

“I think guys are quite… hot,” Mick admitted, his cheeks warming slightly.

“Right? It’s all about recognizing what you find attractive,” Lewis agreed, his tone supportive. The vulnerability in their exchange felt liberating, as if they were both shedding the weight of expectations and judgments.

Eventually, Lewis, worn out from the emotional rollercoaster, fell asleep quickly, his head resting gently against Mick’s shoulder. Mick remained awake for a while longer, watching the peaceful rise and fall of Lewis’s chest. It felt comforting to have someone there who understood him, someone who shared a connection beyond the surface. In that quiet moment, Mick realized that they were both just trying to find their place in a complicated world, one step at a time.

Later, Michael walked back into the room, noticing Lewis and Mick still seated together. The sight stirred a familiar protectiveness in him, reminiscent of when he had watched over a much younger Lewis. He could see the weight of the world resting on Lewis’s shoulders.

“Lewis,” Michael said softly, kneeling beside him. “Time to wake up.”

Lewis stirred, his eyes fluttering open. Confusion gave way to recognition, and a small smile appeared on his face. “Hey, Michael,” he murmured, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Everything okay?” Michael asked, his gaze steady and full of concern.

Lewis nodded, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “I think so. Just… tired.”

Michael watched him for a moment, taking in the lines of stress on his face. “You know, you don’t have to carry all of this alone,” he said gently. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”

At that, Lewis’s defenses crumbled. He pushed himself up and wrapped his arms around Michael, pulling him into a tight hug. It felt like a release—a moment of solace amid the chaos. “Thanks, Michael,” he whispered, the warmth of the embrace wrapping around him like a blanket.

Michael held him close, feeling the tension seep away from Lewis’s body. “You’re strong, but it’s okay to lean on someone else. Don’t forget that,” he murmured into Lewis’s hair.

After a moment, Lewis pulled back, wiping away a stray tear. “I really appreciate it. I just need to go home and think,” he said, his voice steadier now.

“Of course,” Michael replied, giving him an encouraging nod. “Take your time. Just know I’m here whenever you need to talk.”

Lewis smiled faintly, feeling grateful for the support. He glanced at Mick, who had been quietly observing, his expression filled with understanding. “Thanks for being here too, Mick,” Lewis said, meeting his gaze.

“Anytime,” Mick replied, his smile genuine. “You know you can count on me.”

Lewis took a deep breath and stood up, feeling lighter despite the lingering heaviness in his heart. “I’ll see you guys later,” he said, making his way to the door.

As he stepped outside, he felt the cool air hit his face, a stark contrast to the warmth he had just experienced. He glanced back at the studio, a small sense of hope beginning to take root within him. With each step he took away from the chaos, he felt a little more like himself, ready to face whatever came next.