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hamilton-here · 25 days ago

Note

Lewis x famous reader? They meet randomly and instantly click, but for the first time in his life the woman is the one to be hesitant about being in a relationship with him, and not really wanting to claim him, especially after learning his reputation. The chemistry is there and he seems to bend over backwards for her, but is she just another trophy he's desperate to claim? Or is he genuinely falling in love?

I don't think he's used to really courting and pursuing people properly anymore, especially those who already have fame and fortune

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒜 𝒯𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝓎

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Bouncing around waiting for the Canadian Grand Prix. I need it now...anyway enjoy. Lots of love xx

Summary: You meet Lewis Hamilton by chance and instantly click, but his past with women makes you hesitant until he proves you're the one he’s been waiting for.

Warnings: slight sweating

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

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

You’d almost skipped it, yet another opulent gathering filled with designer perfume, flashing lights, and smiles stretched too tightly across surgically perfected faces. These days, you knew how to play the game. Show up, smile, give just enough soundbites to feed the headlines, and then vanish before the fifth glass of champagne dulled your instincts. But your agent had insisted. Monaco, post-race, luxury and sponsors lining the balconies. It was the kind of glamorous setting where your presence wasn’t just welcomed, it was expected.

So, you went.

The dress was a custom number your stylist sent over. The attire was slinky, liquid silver and wrapped around you like it had been painted on. You wore it with the practiced ease of someone who’d long learned how to turn their body into armour. The cameras flashed the second you stepped out of the black car. You gave them a smirk, a slight tilt of the head, then walked up the marbled steps without a backward glance.

Inside, the venue was sheer decadence. Crystal chandeliers, velvet furniture, waiters moving like ghosts with champagne flutes, and a DJ spinning house music under a canopy of stars. The party was housed on a private terrace of a super yacht club, high above the coastline. The kind of place where money was assumed and names didn’t need introductions.

A few nods, a few air kisses. You exchanged pleasantries with a fashion house executive and a singer you’d shot a cover with last month. A Formula 1 driver whose name escaped you tried to pull you into a conversation, but you politely peeled away. The air inside felt too thick, too staged. You needed a moment to yourself.

So, you found your way to the balcony.

The cool night air kissed your skin, and you let your shoulders drop. The view was unreal as Monaco glittered below like spilled stardust, and the ocean beyond looked like smooth onyx. You leaned on the railing, letting the silence settle over you for a brief moment of peace.

That’s when you saw him.

Lewis Hamilton.

He stood not far away, half-shadowed by a column of white stone, hands in his pockets. You hadn’t noticed him before. Odd. He usually lit up a room just by being in it.

His suit was black-on-black, effortlessly tailored, no tie. Understated but impossibly sharp. There was no flashiness about him tonight, no statement jewellery and no cameras orbiting like satellites. Just quiet confidence, the kind that didn’t beg to be noticed.

Your eyes met for half a second. You looked away first. Not because you were shy but because something about his gaze made you feel seen. Not in the usual, transactional way. But truly, uncomfortably, seen.

He started walking over. You told yourself you didn’t care.

“You don’t look like you want to be here,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like dark velvet with a hint of amusement.

You arched a brow, not turning toward him just yet. “And here I thought I was hiding it well.”

He chuckled, stepping closer but not too close. “You’re doing a great job of pretending. Just not to someone who’s mastered the art of faking it himself.”

You turned to face him now, studying him up close. His skin glowed under the warm lights, and up close, his eyes were softer than you expected. Thoughtful. Present.

“Lewis,” he said, as if you didn’t already know.

“I’m aware.” You let a smirk tug at your lips. “I’m not blind.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

You shrugged and sipped your champagne. “Just means I’ve seen enough to know what I’m getting into.”

“Have you?” His tone was playful, but his eyes flickered with something more. “Because I’m not sure you’ve got me figured out just yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied, but there was no bite to it.

He leaned against the railing beside you, his side just brushing yours. Not by accident. You didn’t move. He noticed.

“I’m not trying to flatter,” he said. “But I am curious.”

“About what?”

“You,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You barely know me.”

“That’s the point,” he replied. “Everyone here knows of each other. But nobody actually knows anyone. You’re the first person I’ve seen tonight who wasn’t performing.”

You laughed, short and dry. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling. “Or maybe you’re one of the rare people who remembers who she is outside of the cameras.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. There was no pick-up line, no bravado. He said it like a truth. One that he carried for himself, too.

“And you’re here to tell me you’re one of those rare people too?” you asked.

He considered that for a moment, looking out at the horizon. “I’m trying to be. Lately, that means stepping away from what people expect and figuring out what I want again.”

You hummed softly, unsure whether it was refreshing or rehearsed. Either way, he delivered it well.

“I thought F1 drivers liked the attention,” you mused, watching him from the corner of your eye.

“I liked the racing,” he said, voice quiet now. “Everything else got loud.”

The honesty in his tone pulled you in before you could stop yourself.

“What makes you think I’m different?” you asked him.

He didn’t hesitate. “Because you haven’t once tried to impress me.”

You blinked, then smiled despite yourself. “Maybe I don’t think I need to.”

“That’s exactly why I’m impressed,” he said, his voice dropping just a touch.

There it was. The flirtation. But it didn’t come off as manipulative or predatory. It was gentle. Interested. Intentional.

Still, you hesitated.

“You’ve got a reputation,” you said, folding your arms as a breeze swept over the balcony. “And I’ve worked too hard to be anyone’s temporary fascination.”

Lewis turned slightly to face you more directly, his expression shifting.

“You think I chase women like some trophy collector?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He sighed, low and self-aware. “Fair enough. I know what the headlines say.”

You gave him a small, almost apologetic shrug. “They say the same things about me, just in reverse.”

That surprised him.

“You think people see you as a trophy too?”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “All the time. They just want to own something beautiful. Not get to know it.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Then maybe we’re more alike than we thought.”

A flash from a distant camera reminded you of where you were. You stiffened automatically, the years of instinct kicking in. You turned your head slightly, shielding your face.

Lewis noticed immediately. “You, okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “I just hate the way one candid photo can become a story that never happened.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then said gently, “Want to get out of here?”

Your gaze snapped back to his.

“I’m not asking for a nightcap,” he added quickly, lifting his hands in surrender. “Just a break. A quiet street. A walk. I figure someone like you probably hasn’t had one in a while.”

You hesitated.

Everything about this was dangerous. He was dangerous - good looks, charisma, a long trail of tabloid flings. He was the type of man who made you forget logic, forget your boundaries, forget how hard you’d worked to protect yourself from becoming a footnote in someone else’s story.

And yet he wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t assuming. He was offering you a choice.

You looked at him, studying the quiet sincerity in his eyes. Then, slowly, you nodded.

“Alright,” you said softly. “But no funny business.”

Lewis grinned, charming and boyish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He offered his arm. You didn’t take it. But you walked beside him anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt curious about what would happen next.

You didn’t expect the silence between you to feel so natural. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just the kind of quiet that let you breathe, like your lungs hadn’t fully expanded all night until now.

The buzz of the gala had dulled into a distant murmur behind you. Out here, the night was warmer than expected, cloaked in that soft summer breeze that carried the perfume of city jasmine and the faint smoke of a food cart two blocks over. Even your heels on the pavement sounded less sharp than they had when you first arrived like the world had turned its volume down just for this walk.

Neither of you rushed. The pace was slow, not out of hesitation, but out of comfort. The kind of tempo that suggested time wasn’t the priority, presence was.

You snuck a glance at him, eyes sliding sideways.

“You always this forward?” you asked, tone dry but not sharp.

Lewis glanced over, his mouth tugging upward slightly, eyes reflecting the gold flicker of a passing streetlamp. “What, for dragging a woman away from champagne and celebrities after barely ten minutes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “Something like that.”

He chuckled, a quiet, rasp-edged sound that made something flicker low in your chest. “No. Not usually. But I figured worst case, you tell me to piss off. Best case, you let me walk beside you for a few minutes.”

You shook your head with a smile. “Bit of a gamble.”

He nudged his shoulder slightly in your direction, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Sometimes the odds feel worth it.”

There was an ease to him now different from the poised, polished figure who’d been standing at the edge of the ballroom, swarmed by admiration, half-listening to everyone but looking only at you. Out here, he felt less like Lewis Hamilton, global icon, and more like a man who’d just needed air. Maybe for the same reasons you had.

“You seemed like you wanted to disappear in there,” he said, eyes focused forward again. “That’s why I noticed you.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh through your nose. “I did. Not really my scene.”

“I figured,” he said. “You weren’t posing. You weren’t trying. I watched you turn down three photographers.”

You blinked. “You were watching me?”

He grinned, unabashed. “Just a little.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “I liked how you didn’t seem to care if anyone saw you or not. That’s rare.”

The words pulled a strange warmth to your cheeks. You didn’t know what to do with the sincerity in his voice how different it felt from the usual compliments tossed at you like darts. This wasn’t about your dress. Or your face. Or your presence on someone’s arm. It was about how you were.

He looked up at the sky for a second, exhaling like he was trying to loosen something in his chest.

“Truth is,” he said, “I’ve spent years around people who want to be seen with me. Not really with me.”

You stayed quiet, sensing this was more than just small talk.

“Sometimes they come for the wrong reasons. They want the access, the image, the feeling of being close to something big. And that’s fine,” he shrugged. “I let it happen sometimes. I play the part.”

“You mean you let them in?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I let them close enough to think they are. Then most nights, I send them home before morning.”

There was no brag in it. No edge. Just a quiet exhaustion that felt lived-in.

“That sounds lonely,” you said gently, more truth than question.

He glanced over, his expression soft. “It is. But it’s better than pretending. I used to keep people around just to avoid silence. But now, I think I’d rather be alone than misunderstood.”

Your heart tugged a little at that. There was something disarming about hearing a man like him say something like that. Like peeling back, a curtain and finding a mirror.

“I’m not looking for something casual,” he added after a beat. “I know that’s what people think about me that I’ve always got someone. But most of the time, those women they come wanting a version of me that doesn’t exist. And the moment I’m quiet, or complicated, or just tired, they start looking for an exit.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide the sting those words gave you not because they were painful to hear, but because they were so starkly honest. It reminded you of your own experiences. Of people who only stayed for the best parts, never the messy middle.

“So,” you said, voice careful, “why are you telling me all this?”

He looked at you. And the way his gaze settled on your face made the night feel warmer somehow. More intimate.

“Because I don’t want to play a part with you,” he said simply. “And because I think you’re the kind of woman who’d see through it anyway.”

You stopped walking.

You didn’t mean to it just happened, like your feet had caught up to what your heart was processing.

He stopped too, facing you.

The street around you was quiet, your car parked just a little ahead, but the space between you felt suddenly thick with something unspoken. A current. A shift.

“I’m not perfect,” he said, hands out of his pockets now, open at his sides. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve walked away from good things because I didn’t think I deserved them at the time. But I’m older now. I’ve done the noise. The distractions. I’ve had every kind of attention, and none of it ever made me feel seen.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening, not out of doubt but recognition.

Because maybe you’d been waiting to feel seen too.

“Good night, Lewis,” you said softly, fingers brushing the edge of the door handle behind you.

But before you could pull it open, he stepped forward not close enough to invade, just enough to let you know he wasn’t done.

“Wait.”

You looked back.

His voice was quiet. No show. No charm. Just him.

“You’re not just beautiful,” he said. “You’re different. I don’t even know what that means yet, but I’d like to find out. Slowly. Properly. Not in a headline. Not at some party. Just one real moment at a time.”

For a second, all you could do was look at him.

Because in the space of a single walk, he’d gone from the kind of man you avoided - flashy, loud, too easily admired to someone who made you feel steady from one conversation. Grounded. Like maybe the world wasn’t just curated smiles and shallow compliments.

You nodded.

Just once.

Then you stepped into the car. The door clicked shut behind you, the driver already pulling into motion as the city began to blur past.

But you didn’t look at your phone. You didn’t reach for your clutch.

You just looked back.

And there he was.

Still standing on the sidewalk. Still watching you go.

Still waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, you wanted someone to wait.

You didn’t expect to hear from him again not really.

That night had felt like something outside of time. A moment suspended in glass, too rare and perfect to survive in the wild. You had replayed it in fragments: the sound of his laugh under the streetlamp, the way his voice dropped when he admitted things he didn’t owe you, the stillness between you that somehow said more than any scripted line ever could.

But life didn’t slow down just because you’d shared a quiet spark with someone the rest of the world idolised. Monday came with the full force of deadlines and digital calendars. Lecture halls and coffee-stained notepads. Your desk was a mess of model agency printouts and half-written research about majority of them, your inbox a graveyard of unread threads and polite nudges your manager. You had barely looked at your phone all morning, which was saying something in this age.

But around noon, during a rare lull, you picked it up. A red badge hovered over Instagram. You opened the app on muscle memory, expecting a meme from Angelica or a random story tag. What you didn’t expect was a DM request.

From lewishamilton.

Your breath stalled for a second. The blue checkmark confirmed it before your brain could even begin to rationalise a fake account theory.

You tapped.

lewishamilton:

Hey. It’s Lewis.

I found something I think you’d appreciate.

You free Thursday night? Private art exhibit. Low-key. Just us.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The words sat still on the screen, but your thoughts raced ahead.

There was no flourish. No grand gesture. Just him, continuing a conversation as if the street hadn’t swallowed your night whole after you’d driven off. Like your shared moment wasn’t just some one-off flicker of chemistry under the glow of a city too used to pretending.

You clicked on his profile, absurdly just to confirm again that it really was him. Same photos. Same activism highlights. Same effortless, understated captions.

And yet somehow, the most intimate thing was this message. Because he hadn’t gone through anyone. Not PR. Not assistants. Not Angela. Just him.

Your gaze drifted to your planner, where Thursday was already bleeding with ink. Two lectures back to back, a research meeting, and a late-night shift organising files for a criminal law professor with a penchant for last-minute requests.

You sat back in your chair, thumb hovering over the reply box far longer than necessary. You considered just saying yes. You even typed it once. Sure. Where?

Then deleted it.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had invited you to something like that. Not as a networking move, not to impress you with glitz or clout but just because they thought you might enjoy it. Because of something you had said.

You stared at the screen again. Then, finally:

You:

Appreciate the invite.

Sounds like a lovely night, but I’m buried in work this week.

Maybe another time.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself into oblivion.

There was a pang as you closed the app. Not regret, exactly but something adjacent. Like brushing your fingers along the edge of a door you weren’t ready to walk through.

You didn’t expect a reply.

And none came. Not right away.

You figured that was it. He’d probably moved on. Maybe it had just been a kind impulse, a spark he was already used to forgetting.

But two days later, a small package arrived at your apartment.

No frills. No courier with a clipboard or a sleek branded sleeve. Just a plain cardboard box with your name handwritten across the top in a surprisingly neat script.

Your heart beat a little faster as you opened it.

Inside was a book. Hardbound. Leather edges worn just slightly, like it had lived somewhere loved.

"The Language of Light: A Hidden History of Art and Emotion."

You sat down.

Your fingers brushed over the cover like it might disappear. It wasn’t just rare. It was out of print. Something you’d mentioned offhandedly during that first conversation at the event, an old favourite you had only ever found in scanned PDFs during long nights at the library.

He remembered.

You opened the cover. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded note on unlined ivory paper.

Thought you’d enjoy this more than a gallery tour. No pressure. Just thought of you.

— L.

Your throat tightened.

There were gifts, and then there were gestures. This was the latter - measured, thoughtful, intimate in a way that felt undeserved but impossible not to be moved by. You hadn’t said much to him. Just a few thoughts about symbolism, about how light in Renaissance paintings wasn’t just technique but emotion how it often told the story louder than the faces.

And he’d listened.

You stared at the book for a long time, trying to find the right place in your chest to store the weight of that intention.

It was almost evening when you finally reopened your phone.

Instagram DM.

You:

That was thoughtful. Unexpected.

How about coffee instead? Saturday? Casual.

You stared at the message for a long beat. Then hit send.

You barely had time to put the phone down before it buzzed again.

lewishamilton:

Absolutely.

You pick the place. I’ll be there.

There was no emoji. No ellipsis of hesitation.

Just certainty.

You leaned back into your chair, the half-eaten takeout now cold beside your untouched notes. For the first time in a long while, your mind drifted away from work, from pressure, from performance.

You smiled.

The pursuit had begun.

But it wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t performative.

It was something else entirely.

Intentional. Quiet. Patient.

The kind of pursuit that didn’t ask to be chased.

Just seen.

And maybe just maybe that was exactly what you’d been waiting for.

You chose the café carefully small, quiet, discreet. A little tucked away, pressed between two bookstores, as if it were hiding on purpose. The kind of place where you could order a coffee and stay for hours without anyone ushering you out. The kind of place that knew how to mind its business.

It felt like a space you could breathe in where conversation could spill and stretch without the threat of interruption.

And when Lewis walked in, head low beneath a grey hoodie, worn cap pulled down to shield his profile, no one gave him a second glance.

But your eyes found him instantly.

Not because he was Lewis Hamilton. Not because of the weight his name carried.

But because of how he walked in looking only for you.

There was no scan of the café, no moment of hesitation. Just a direct line between the door and your table like he already knew you’d be exactly where he’d hoped.

His smile half-curved, familiar now in a way that warmed your ribs slipped into place as he pulled off his cap.

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

You shook your head, your lips twitching. “Not at all. I was curious what kind of coffee a seven-time world champion drinks when he’s not being mobbed by photographers.”

That earned a quiet laugh low and genuine.

“Disappointingly normal,” he replied. “Oat flat white. Sometimes cinnamon when I’m feeling dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning mock intrigue. “Living recklessly, I see.”

He leaned back slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “What can I say? Risk is in my blood.”

It was easy, the way you spoke. A rhythm neither of you had to search for. Like a song you already half-knew the lyrics to.

But the small talk didn’t last. It never did with him.

There was something about Lewis, about the way he listened without interruption, about how he never rushed silence that made honesty spill from you in ways you didn’t expect.

You talked about your work not the high-shine, polished version that made it to social media, but the reality. The grit behind the glamour. The endless fittings, the exhausting travel, the strange ache that came with building a career on being looked at, judged, picked apart.

You told him how you used to bend to fit expectations how you’d confused being seen with being valued.

“I used to think success was just visibility,” you said, your hands wrapped tightly around your mug. “Like if enough people saw me, I’d matter. But now? I’m more interested in impact. Quiet, long-term things. Not just posing for a cause but creating space. Mentoring. Funding grassroots programs. Giving the next girl a voice before the world teaches her to silence it.”

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even blink. He just absorbed.

“That’s powerful,” he said finally, voice low. “A lot of people don’t pivot like that. They get stuck in the game, even when it’s hurting them.”

You looked at him then. “You’d know a thing or two about games.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured, fingers tracing the lip of his coffee cup. “The system. The expectations. The story people write for you before you’ve had a chance to write your own.”

You didn’t speak. Just gave him space. And sure enough, he continued.

“I love racing. I always have. But fame that’s the part that’s lonelier than people think. Everyone thinks they know you. Or worse, they want to. But not for you, for the version of you they’ve decided on.”

He paused; eyes trained on the swirl of his coffee.

“I used to try and keep up. Try to meet the version people expected. Now? I just want something real. Quiet, maybe. But true.”

You remembered that night not just the event, but the aftermath. The book he sent. The handwritten note. The gesture that wasn’t loud, but intentional. And how, even before you met him again, you knew he wasn’t the type to play games. He’d told you as much: I don’t do casual anymore. Haven’t in a long time.

Still…

There was a part of you that hesitated. Not because of anything he’d done. But because of everything that came with him.

You stared into your cup for a long moment before saying softly, “Can I ask something?”

He nodded. “Always.”

You drew in a breath, trying to sort through the tangle in your chest. “I know you’re not looking for something fleeting. I believe that. I just need to question again. I’ve seen the headlines, Lewis. The relationships. The breakups. The speculation. I’ve seen how people talk about you like you’re a season on a streaming service something to tune into until they get bored.”

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I don’t want to be a headline. Or a phase. Or a rumor someone laughs about over wine.”

The café hummed with soft chatter around you, but in your booth, there was only stillness.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat.

Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice steady and sure.

“I get that. Completely. And I don’t blame you for being cautious. But just so you know I’ve had enough of surface-level everything. Of relationships that look good in photos but feel hollow behind closed doors.”

His voice dipped slightly. “I’m not looking for the next thing. I’m looking for the real thing. And I’d rather move slowly with someone who matters than rush into something shiny that breaks.”

You let his words sit between you.

Outside, people passed with coffee cups and hurried steps. Deadlines. Meetings. A whole city moving fast.

But in here, time bent. Stretched.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said finally, your voice quieter now.

He gave a lopsided grin. “Good, unexpected?”

You smiled. “The best kind.”

It wasn’t a thunderclap moment. No orchestral swell. Just a shift. Deep, subtle. Like the earth moving beneath your feet.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to run.

You didn’t want to edit yourself into something more palatable.

You just wanted to stay.

And that was enough for now.

Though soon enough, it started with a single photo.

No warning. No camera clicks. No telltale whispers behind menus or sunglasses tilted just a little too far.

Just a quiet corner of a Notting Hill café, the smell of roasted espresso in the air, the sleeve of your jacket brushing against his as you leaned in to laugh at something stupid, he said. A moment that had felt safe, untouched - yours.

And then it was everywhere.

By Monday morning, it felt like the entire internet had a magnifying glass held up to your life. Your face was splashed across digital tabloids, dissected on talk shows, paired with clickbait captions in bold fonts.

"Lewis Hamilton Spotted on Cozy Coffee Date with Model-Activist [Y/N]"

"Hamilton’s Mystery Woman: Who is She and How Did She Win His Heart?"

"Is This the Beginning of a New F1 Love Story?"

And worse:

"[Y/N]: From Campaigns to Hamilton’s Arm Candy?"

They called it romantic. Enigmatic. A “power couple in the making.”

But to you, it felt invasive. Dehumanising.

You had been seen but not in the way that mattered. Not for your voice, your work, your values. Just as another woman in Lewis Hamilton’s orbit.

What had been sacred and what had felt real was now public property. Another storyline to chew on. Another notch in the narrative of who Lewis Hamilton might be dating this time.

You weren’t stupid. You knew who he was. What came with him. You’d done your research the way any woman with a protective instinct would. And no matter how respectful he’d been with you, no matter how much he seemed different in private, the world didn’t care about nuance.

To them, you were just a pretty face. A model. A convenient narrative.

And it was already starting to bleed into your career.

That afternoon, walking into a primetime radio spot meant to raise awareness for a girls’ education fund, you felt it immediately the shift in tone. The not so subtle smiles from producers, the curious glint in the host’s eyes before the segment even began.

Fifteen minutes in, it happened.

“So, the internet’s been buzzing after you were spotted with the Lewis Hamilton. Anything you’d like to confirm or deny?”

A beat.

You smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I didn’t realise grabbing coffee with a friend had become headline-worthy.”

The host chuckled, leaning in. “Well, when that friend is Lewis Hamilton, it’s fair game, no?”

You steered the conversation back to the girls’ stories. Their voices. Their potential. But part of you knew it wouldn’t matter.

You could already hear the edit in your head.

By the time you left the building, your phone was vibrating nonstop. A DM from your agent. A group chat with your friends lighting up. A gossip blog already running a headline that quoted your sarcasm completely out of context.

And suddenly, you were no longer the lead of your own life.

You were someone’s accessory.

By the time you reached Lewis’s place that evening, your chest was tight with frustration. Not at him not yet but at how predictable this all felt. How familiar. Like the very thing you’d always avoided was now unfolding, despite every quiet warning you’d given yourself.

He opened the door in a hoodie and sweats, hair tied up, a tea mug in hand. His expression shifted immediately when he saw your face.

“Hey are you alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You walked past him, head bowed, hands in the pockets of your oversized coat. The silence hung between you like static.

“Did you know?” you asked finally, your voice low and tight.

He blinked. “Did I know what?”

“That we were photographed. That this would happen. That they’d turn it into this.”

He shut the door slowly, setting the mug aside. “No. I swear I didn’t. I had no idea.”

You nodded once, but it wasn’t enough. The knot inside you was still there. Growing.

“I knew this would happen eventually. I knew. But I didn’t think it would be this soon. And now…” You paced once, then stopped. “Now they’re writing about me like I’m some some stunt. Like I’m another model sleeping her way into your headlines.”

His face dropped. “That’s not what—”

“No, I know it’s not what you think,” you said, voice rising, cracking slightly. “But that’s how they’ll spin it. It’s already happening. Three interviews today, Lewis. Three. And not one of them gave a damn about the girls I’m working with. They wanted soundbites. They wanted a scoop. They wanted you.”

He stayed quiet, jaw tense, watching you with a look that was more pain than anything else.

You took a breath, then another, pressing your hands to your temples.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved. With you. Not because I don’t like you. Not because I don’t see something real between us. But because this is what happens. Every woman you’re linked to, she gets reduced to a hashtag. A rumor. A whore in the comments section.”

Your voice broke, but you didn’t stop.

“They’re already calling me the new ‘flavour.’ The model-of-the-month. As if I’m not allowed to be more than a body. As if I haven’t spent years building my name on actual work.”

You met his eyes then, finally still. “Do you know how exhausting it is to constantly have to prove that you’re not some pretty thing sleeping her way through life? To fight for every inch of credibility and then lose it the second someone powerful is seen next to you?”

The room was quiet. So quiet you could hear your pulse in your ears.

And then he stepped forward, voice hushed.

“I hate that you’re feeling this. That being next to me made it harder, not easier. That you got the backlash for something I should’ve protected you from.”

You shook your head. “It’s not just you. It’s the machine around you. The expectations. The stories they’ve already written before they even know who I am.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I wish I could change it all. I’d burn the whole narrative down if I could.”

He walked over, slowly, giving you space to step away if you needed. You didn’t.

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how women are treated in this world,” he continued. “How women like you are always the first ones questioned, the first ones judged. And it kills me that being near me added fuel to that.”

You exhaled, your voice quieter now. “It’s not that I regret being with you. I just... I need to know that I still get to be me. That I don’t disappear into this.”

He reached for your hand gentle, warm and grounding.

“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let that happen. We can be as private as you need. I won’t post anything, won’t speak about you unless you’re ready. If this is too soon, I’ll give you space. But I don’t want to lose this. Lose you.”

You swallowed, eyes meeting his. “I don’t want to lose it either.”

Then, softer: “I just don’t want to lose myself in the process.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “You were someone before me. You’ll always be someone - with or without me. I see you. Not the headlines. You. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help protect that.”

You didn’t speak right away.

But when you leaned into him a moment later resting your forehead against his shoulder, his arms looping gently around your waist and you let yourself believe that maybe, this could still be yours.

Not theirs.

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

When Lewis invited you to the charity gala, you almost said no.

Not because you weren’t interested, it aligned almost perfectly with your values. Clean water initiatives. Sustainable farming. Educational access for girls in under-resourced areas. The kind of evening that, under different circumstances, would’ve felt like home.

But this past week had knocked the wind out of you.

There had been headlines speculating about you, not just as a woman in his orbit, but as someone “plucked from obscurity,” someone “new to the scene,” someone “clearly enjoying the spotlight.”

They didn’t know the years of study. The late nights. The passion for justice work you’d carried with you since you were old enough to understand that not all children were born with the same safety nets.

You weren’t sure you could stomach another night of being seen with him, rather than being seen as yourself.

He must’ve sensed that hesitation.

Because when he asked, it wasn’t with pressure or persuasion it was with honesty.

“If you don’t want to be there for me, come for the work. It’s not a red carpet thing it’s quiet, real. You can sit in the back, speak if you want, disappear if you don’t. I just thought you might actually love what the night stands for.”

There was no glint of charm in his eyes when he said it. No flirtation. Just a quiet offering.

That was what made you say yes.

It wasn’t about the glitz. It wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t even about him, entirely.

It was about a door he opened to a part of his life that meant something.

And the way he invited you through it like it wasn’t a performance but a partnership.

The event wasn’t what you expected.

There was no fanfare. No swarms of photographers. No branded step-and-repeats or celebrity entourages.

Just an intimate venue nestled in a quiet place converted from an old greenhouse, the space still held that same breath of life. Ferns and potted fig trees filled the corners. The air smelled like eucalyptus and orange blossom. Candlelight flickered against glass panes, casting soft gold reflections across the faces of people who, like you, had come to listen.

You arrived separately.

He’d insisted on it.

“I don’t want this to feel like a scene,” he’d said gently on the phone the night before. “I just want it to feel right.”

He hadn’t tried to sit you front and centre. In fact, when you found your name card on a small round table, you were tucked beside two female founders of a clean energy nonprofit. He knew enough not to wedge you into a table of influencers and athletes. He placed you among peers.

And him?

He was working.

You watched him move through the room never in a rush, never pulling attention. He greeted activists and organisers with the kind of familiarity that only comes from showing up before the cameras. Quiet nods, quick hugs, listening intently when someone spoke instead of nodding distractedly and moving on.

You caught glimpses of him helping staff rearrange chairs at the back. Taking a moment to calm a nervous teenage speaker behind the scenes. Whispering something encouraging that made her shoulders square again.

When his time came to speak, there was no pomp, no overly rehearsed notes.

He stood beside a simple wooden podium and let silence fall before he spoke.

“It’s not about being seen doing good,” he said, his voice quiet but resonant. “It’s about making sure we’re not the last ones in the room to care. About using our platforms to amplify not overshadow. I’ve been that guy before. The one who thought showing up was enough. But showing up is just the start.”

The words weren’t smooth or media ready. They cracked slightly at the edges, especially when he talked about the time he’d visited a refugee camp outside Nairobi, and a little boy asked if he was the man who drove cars or built homes.

“That question wrecked me,” he said. “Because I had no answer that felt good enough.”

You didn’t realise you were gripping the stem of your glass so tightly until the applause broke out around you, warm and genuine.

There it was.

Not a polished version of Lewis Hamilton.

Just Lewis. No mask. No script.

And for the first time in days, the tension in your chest began to loosen.

Maybe this wasn’t a performance.

Maybe he meant all of it.

Later, after the final speaker and a silent auction that raised over a million pounds, you found yourself near the garden terrace, away from the warm chatter and clinking glasses inside.

The night air was crisp, touched by the scent of night jasmine and damp stone. You sipped your sparkling elderflower tonic slowly, letting the stillness settle around you.

That’s when you felt him approach before you saw him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked over, and there he was. Not Lewis Hamilton the icon. Just Lewis. Shirt collar undone, tie gone, suit sleeves rolled up slightly at the cuffs. He looked almost boyish in that moment. Disarming.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, then after a beat, added, “This was incredible, Lewis.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smirk. It was quieter. Touched by something real.

“Means a lot coming from you.”

You turned to face him more fully. “You weren’t kidding. This wasn’t for cameras. You really care.”

“I do.” He paused, looking back toward the glowing windows. “People assume it’s performative. That I just throw money at causes to sleep better at night. But I’ve seen the wells go dry. I’ve met the kids who walk hours for school and still show up smiling. You can’t unsee that.”

There was a weight to his words, one you knew well.

“I wish people saw this version of you more often,” you said.

He gave a small, crooked grin. “Doesn’t trend the way yacht photos do.”

You laughed together, but there was something sad under it. A knowing. An ache.

And then he held out his hand, gentle and sure.

“Dance with me?”

You looked around. “There’s no dance floor.”

“There’s music,” he said, eyes glinting with a quiet softness.

You hesitated just long enough to feel the tremor of nerves flutter in your chest—then slipped your hand into his.

He led you to a tucked-away corner of the garden, where the music of soft jazz and piano drifted from discreet speakers. There were no fairy lights. No spotlight.

Just the moon above, the hush of the night, and him.

His hand settled on your waist. The other curled around yours.

And you danced.

Slow, unhurried, silent.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest. The heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress. The steady brush of his thumb over your spine.

The world faded.

You rested your head back on his shoulder, his arms circling you tighter.

You weren’t naïve. The world would still talk. The headlines would still twist things. You’d still be pulled into narratives you hadn’t written.

But in this still moment, in this small corner of the night you weren’t just a face next to his.

You were his choice.

And possibly he was becoming yours, too.

You stayed like that for a while, swaying gently under the soft hum of piano and night wind, neither of you speaking, but saying everything that needed to be said in the way your bodies moved in tandem unhurried, present, close.

Then slowly, he pulled back not far, just enough so he could look at you.

His gaze searched your face, quiet and steady.

And something passed between you then. Wordless. Certain.

The space between your mouths felt impossibly small.

You could’ve looked away. You could’ve stepped back.

But you didn’t.

Because for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were standing on someone else’s stage.

You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And when he leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to stop him you met him halfway.

The kiss was gentle at first. Just a soft press of lips, reverent and tentative. But when you didn’t pull away when your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket and his hand slid up your back with quiet certainty - it deepened.

Still slow. Still careful.

But full of everything unspoken.

His lips moved with intention, not hunger. Not possession. Just connection.

Like he wanted to memorise you.

Like he didn’t want the moment to slip through his fingers too quickly.

When you finally parted, neither of you moved far. His forehead rested against yours, breath shallow and warm between you.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted quietly, voice barely more than a whisper.

You smiled, lips still tingling. “I know.”

He laughed softly, and the sound vibrated in your chest.

Then, pulling back just enough to see your eyes, he added, “But I needed it to mean something.”

“It does,” you whispered. “It does.”

And as his fingers laced through yours again, holding your hand like it was something worth protecting, you knew—

This wasn’t about being swept up in someone else’s gravity.

This was about finding someone who saw your light and wanted to walk in it with you.

So, you leaned in, brushed your lips against his once more, and let yourself believe—

That maybe love didn’t always start with fireworks and fanfare.

Maybe, sometimes, it started quietly.

In the corner of a garden.

With soft music.

And a kiss that felt like the beginning of something honest.

Something that, for once, didn’t need the world’s approval.

Only yours.

Only his.

And that was enough.

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

The shift didn’t come with fireworks or grand declarations.

It came in the quiet things.

The way he texted to ask how your casting call went before his own day had even started, even if he was in another time zone. The way you sent him photos of books you thought he’d like, or quotes from poetry that reminded you of him. The way he called late at night from hotel rooms halfway across the world just to hear your voice his tone always soft, sometimes tired, but never distracted. Always present.

You were blending slowly, intentionally. Stitching together the edges of your lives without unraveling the seams of your individual selves.

And maybe that’s what made it feel real.

One Sunday, you invited him to brunch with your closest circle - Sarah, of course, and two other friends from modelling. The ones who had seen you cry into takeout after a brutal agency meeting, who'd seen you laugh until your stomach hurt in dressing room mirrors, who'd taken your hand when jobs got too thin or criticism too sharp. They were your chosen sisters. The women who had known you in both glamour and collapse.

You warned them beforehand.

“He’s not the version you see in magazines,” you told Sarah as you sipped on your oat milk latte. “He’s quieter. Softer. So don’t you know. Put on a show.”

Sarah arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “We won’t. But if he’s fake nice, or name-drops his watch brand mid-sentence, we will roast him.”

You smirked. “That’s fair.”

But when the morning arrived, he wasn’t fake nice. Not even close.

He showed up early, dressed in a navy hoodie, loose jeans, and a beanie tugged low on his curls. No entourage. No designer coat. Just him. And a bouquet of yellow ranunculus clutched a little awkwardly in one hand.

“For your roommate,” he said, handing them over with a shy smile. “She said she liked these once. Thought it might brighten up the place.”

Inside the cozy little brunch spot, he sat across from your friends with his shoulders relaxed, elbows off the table, listening more than he spoke. He asked Sarah about her new photography exhibit like he actually cared, not like he was trying to impress. He asked one of your friends how her runway in Milan had gone and told her he’d seen the photos “You absolutely owned that Dior coat, by the way.”

Your friends tested him, gently, the way protective women do. A few sarcastic jabs. A joke about being vegan. A story from the tabloids that was clearly exaggerated.

But Lewis didn’t flinch. He leaned into it. He laughed. Deflected with grace. Made a self-deprecating joke about being the “worst texter in the world” and admitted he still sometimes got nervous before a race. When your friend mentioned a charity gala she was helping organise for women’s shelters, he asked if she needed help with sponsorships.

And when he slipped his hand onto your knee beneath the table grounding and sure. Your friends glanced at each other. Not with suspicion.

But with approval.

“He’s really into you,” Sarah whispered afterward as you walked her to her car.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “I know.”

And maybe you were, too. Maybe you were in deeper than you’d meant to go.

A week later, he invited you to a Grand Prix.

Not as a guest of the team.

As his guest.

“I want you to see it,” he said one night over dinner. “Not the press conferences. Not the headlines. The actual thing. The chaos. The team. The work.”

You paused, your fork mid-air. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of attention. And it’s your turf.”

“I’m sure.” He reached across the table and brushed your fingers. “I don’t need you to be seen there. I just want you with me.”

And that’s what got you.

So, you packed light denim jacket, your favourite sunglasses, comfortable sneakers. The paddock pass arrived the day before your flight, your name printed neatly at the bottom. You stared at it for a long time before tucking it into your purse.

The race weekend was a whirlwind.

The noise hit you first an electric, thunderous energy that pulsed through your chest and under your skin. Everything moved fast. Precision met instinct at every turn. Team members zipped around like choreographed dancers, every gesture economical, every second accounted for.

But even in the chaos, Lewis was calm.

In his race suit, visor down, he moved with the poise of someone who had lived inside this world for years. You watched him converse with engineers in low, clipped tones, his hand sometimes resting on his hip, nodding as he processed data. You saw him break into a grin when a young fan nervously asked for a selfie. You saw him shake the hand of every crew member before stepping into the car.

And every so often, he looked for you. His eyes scanning. Finding. Softening.

Like you were his centre in the whirlwind.

At one point, you watched him crouch down to speak with a group of kids, students from an inner-city school he supported. He met them at eye level. Asked them questions. Showed them the buttons on his steering wheel. Let one of them wear his spare headset.

You didn’t take a photo.

You just admired it.

That night, back at the hotel after hours of racing, debriefs, sponsor handshakes, and a long shower that left the scent of his body wash on your skin - he lay beside you, the sheets tangled around your legs, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

For a long while, he didn’t say anything.

Then quietly, his voice low and a little hoarse:

“Do you think we’re doing this?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze in the half-dark.

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you, a tired smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You and me. The real thing.”

You didn’t rush to answer. You felt the question settle between your ribs like something fragile. Something worth protecting.

And then, you reached for his hand. Laced your fingers with his.

“I think we are.”

He nodded. Once. Like he was afraid to breathe too loud and ruin the moment.

“I don’t want to just be a chapter in your story,” he whispered. “I want to build something. Not fast. Not flashy. Just us.”

You moved closer, your leg draping over his, your mouth brushing against his.

“Then let’s build it.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months. Then pulled you against him, his arms circling your waist, your bodies fitting like something familiar.

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. His arm was heavy across your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck, curls mussed and sleep warm.

You reached for your phone, blinking blearily at the screen.

A text from Sarah lit up the top:

Saw the paddock photo. You looked hot. But more importantly you looked happy.

You smiled.

Turning to face him, you gently brushed a curl from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, sleepy and unguarded.

“We’re gonna have to talk about what this looks like in the real world,” you murmured.

He blinked. Then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“We can’t control what they say about me. Or you. Especially not together.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But we can control what we say. What we choose.”

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the compass tattoo on his chest, close enough where you could feel the heart beat steady and strong beneath your palm.

“We’re choosing each other, then?”

His hand slid up your spine, pulled you closer, tucked your head beneath his chin.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Every damn time.”

And somehow, just like that, it felt like the beginning of something permanent.

A few weeks later.

It started with a headline.

“Hamilton’s Late-Night Encounter: Mystery Woman Spotted Leaving Monaco Suite.”

You were in the kitchen when you saw it still in sweatpants, mug in hand, waiting for the kettle to boil when your phone vibrated with a message from Sarah and a single word: Ugh.

You clicked the link, still half-asleep.

There it was.

A blurry photo. A woman walking briskly through the side entrance of a hotel, her back turned to the camera. Designer heels. Sleek hair. The timestamp circled in red.

Your stomach flipped.

Two nights ago. Monaco. When Lewis was supposed to be doing a sponsor dinner. When you'd been stuck in London for a shoot that ran late, your texts with him soft and sweet and sleepy.

The article didn’t outright accuse. It didn’t have to.

Phrases like “unconfirmed identity,” “not his usual companion,” “seen leaving after midnight” did all the heavy lifting. The tone of it was calculated, rehearsed an artfully vague dissection designed to pierce.

You didn’t even notice the mug slip from your hand until it hit the counter and clattered onto the floor, tea splashing across your bare feet. You barely blinked. Your eyes were locked on the screen.

And then your name.

Third paragraph.

“This comes only weeks after Hamilton was seen getting close to rising model sparking speculation of a new romance. If so, it seems the honeymoon phase may already be over.”

Your hands started shaking before your mind could even catch up.

For a few seconds, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears. Then the silence of your flat closed in around you like a trap. Still. Too still. Oppressively quiet.

You sat down on the edge of the sofa, the article still open, as if rereading it might make it hurt less.

But your brain refused to compute anything other than the one question looping like static in your mind:

What if it’s true?

You didn’t text him.

Not with anger. Not with curiosity. Not even with sarcasm.

You said nothing. Because silence was the only thing that made sense in that moment. Because if you’d opened your mouth or your inbox you weren’t sure what might come pouring out.

You opened his last message again, reading it through blurred eyes:

Miss you. Can’t wait to be home. Call you when I’m back, sweetheart. x

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

Backspace. Lock. Unlock. Backspace again.

When he called that night, your phone lit up on the coffee table his contact photo appearing like a punch to the chest. You let it ring out.

Once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

By then your hand was clenched so tightly around the hem of your hoodie it started to ache. You finally answered the silence with a message:

“Saw the article. I need space.”

No punctuation. No heart. Just space.

You expected a reply.

Some kind of defence. A panicked call. A voice note.

But instead, nothing.

Twenty-four hours.

Then another.

And another.

You told yourself it was better this way. That you wanted the silence. That it gave you room to breathe.

But by day three, you were checking his Instagram stories with a pathetic sort of desperation, searching for signs proof of innocence or guilt. Anything.

There was nothing.

Not a quote. Not a cryptic lyric. Not even a black square.

Sarah came by with Thai food and a bottle of wine.

You didn’t want to talk about it. You told her that.

She sat with you anyway, unpacking containers onto the coffee table, brushing soy sauce off her jeans as if the world weren’t falling apart in the room with you.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. No.

But then, halfway through the wine and an hour into a rewatch of Notting Hill, it spilled out like floodwater breaking a dam.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you whispered, legs tucked beneath you, voice barely audible. “I thought we were strong enough. That we were real. And that the noise would stay outside.”

Sarah didn’t interrupt. She just reached over, brushed a tear off your cheek with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“Do you think he actually cheated?” she asked, carefully.

You took a long breath. One that burned on the way in.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “That’s the part that makes me sick. The fact that I can’t say for sure. The fact that it’s even a question.”

The knock came on the third night.

Late. Nearly eleven. Rain streaked across your windows, soft and steady.

You froze.

Another knock firm but cautious.

You opened the door to find Lewis standing there in a hoodie and joggers, soaked from the downpour, cap pulled low. He looked tired. Hollow in a way you hadn’t seen before.

His eyes met yours with a rawness that nearly buckled your knees.

He held up a manila folder like it was some kind of peace offering.

“Can I come in?” he asked, quietly.

You didn’t speak. You just stepped back.

He walked in slowly, like your flat was unfamiliar now. Like it belonged to another version of your relationship.

He didn’t sit.

He didn’t try to touch you.

He just handed you the folder.

“I need you to see this.”

Inside: printed emails, a timestamped guest log, signed clearance documents from the hotel. Screenshots of security footage - Jenna, the stylist, walking in at 9:13 p.m., walking out at 9:32.

“She was there for a fitting,” he said, voice rough. “That’s all. She’s married. Her husband was in the car downstairs waiting for her. I had no idea someone tipped off a pap until I woke up to the headline.”

You ran your thumb along the corner of the folder. Slowly. The paper was still warm from his hands.

“I should’ve called the moment I saw it,” he continued. “But I was scared. Not of what you’d say. I was scared it might already be too late.”

You sat down. Not because you wanted to. Because your legs gave out.

He stayed standing, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together in front of him.

“I’ve never lied to you,” he said softly. “Not once. And I won’t start now. This – us it means everything to me. But I know headlines like that plant doubt. I just wanted to show you I still choose you. That I’m not going to disappear when it gets ugly.”

Your vision blurred again. But this time not with confusion. With the weight of knowing he really did show up.

“I didn’t know if you would,” you murmured. “I hoped. But I didn’t know.”

Lewis took a cautious step closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the coffee table in front of you.

“I will,” he said. “Even if you shut me out. Even if you think you hate me. I’ll keep showing up.”

You reached for his hand. He gripped yours like a lifeline.

“I believe you,” you said quietly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t… I just didn’t know what to do with all of it.”

“You were scared,” he said. “I get it. So was I.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning your forehead against his.

The silence between you felt different now. Less like distance. More like healing.

That night, wrapped in the dark quiet of your bed, you traced your fingers along his chest.

“This is the part where most people give up,” you whispered.

He kissed the crown of your head.

“Then let’s not be most people.”

You let the words settle in your bones.

And then, softly, without lifting your head:

“If it ever happens again if they try to drag us through it…”

“I’ll handle it,” he murmured.

“No,” you said. “Next time, I get to punch them first.”

He laughed, really laughed for the first time in days and pulled you closer.

“Deal.”

The decision hadn’t been light.

Three days after the Monaco fallout, he posted the photo - your hands intertwined, taken on a quiet morning neither of you remembered posing for. No caption. No tags.

Just the truth, plain and deliberate.

You’d stared at it on your screen for a long time before you breathed again.

The press had a field day, of course. Speculation, headlines, theories. Some kind. Most not.

But what mattered was what he said when reporters asked him directly that weekend at the paddock.

“I’m in a relationship,” he said calmly, mic in hand, eyes steady beneath his sunglasses. “And I care about her a lot. That’s all I’ll say, because I’m not here to perform it. I’m here to protect it.”

He looked directly into the camera as he said it.

And you knew that was for you.

Now, as the night unfolded in glittering layers, you found him again across the room. He was with a few other drivers, laughing at something Charles had just said. But when he saw you lingering near the balcony doors, he excused himself without a second thought.

You leaned against the railing, letting the city hum below you. The party blurred behind the glass.

“Too much?” Lewis asked, stepping beside you.

You glanced at him. “Not when you’re here.”

He nodded slowly, slipping his hand into yours.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “Back at the paddock. I don’t want to hide what we are. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

You looked at him - this man who had fought for you, who had waited through your silence, who had offered not just proof, but presence.

“I know,” you said softly. “And I’m with you. All the way.”

You turned, facing him fully, letting vulnerability bloom between you like it had the night he’d shown up with that manila folder in his hand and heartbreak in his eyes.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “That loving someone like you meant losing pieces of myself. But it’s the opposite. Being with you feels like coming home to parts of me I didn’t even know were missing.”

Lewis exhaled, slow and deep.

His hand came to rest against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“I don’t need the perfect version of you,” he said. “I just want you. All of you.”

A lump rose in your throat. This man. This flawed, honest, vulnerable man who’d chosen you in the storm.

“I love you,” you whispered. “Even when it’s messy. Even when I’m terrified.”

His forehead pressed gently to yours, his breath warm and steady against your lips.

“Good because I love you till infinity,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, anchoring you to the moment. His lips brushed yours soft, reverent, like he was trying to memorise the feel of your mouth before he even fully kissed you. And then he did kiss you, slow and sure, his other hand resting at your waist like a vow. It was the kind of kiss that made time go quiet, the kind that wrapped itself around your ribs and held tight.

When he pulled back, his voice was rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“You were never just a trophy, you know.”

You blinked, your heart stuttering in your chest.

“Lewis—”

He shook his head, gently cutting you off. “Not to the world. To me. I was scared that maybe that’s what you thought you were to me. That with the cameras and the rumours and everything else, maybe I’d made you feel like you were a prize I won. But you weren’t. You aren’t.”

Your throat tightened. He looked down at you like you were more than flesh and blood like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t realised he’d been asking for years.

“I knew the first time I met you,” he continued, thumb grazing your jaw, “when you looked at me like I was just a man. Not a driver. Not a brand. Just a man who’d said something dumb and you called me out for it.”

You laughed softly, remembering.

He smiled, but it faltered slightly. His tone shifted again, deeper now. Honest.

“But I also knew right then that you were the lot. Not just someone special. The person. The one I’d been waiting to find without knowing I was even missing her.”

You swallowed around the ache in your throat.

Then his expression shifted again tender, and a little raw. “And thank you…for seeing past everything they said about me. The headlines. The stories. The women. I know how it looks sometimes. I know what they’ve said.”

He paused, pressing his lips together for a second.

“I was lost for a while,” he admitted quietly. “There were nights I didn’t even recognise myself. But you looked past all that. You saw me. You never made me explain, and you never used it against me.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up and touched the side of his face.

“I didn’t want the version of you they painted,” you said gently. “I wanted the one who shows up. The one who sits with me in the quiet. The one who fights to be better and means it.”

His eyes shone with emotion. “I’m still fighting.”

“I know. So am I.”

Silence stretched between you, comfortable now, thick with the gravity of everything that had been said.

“I didn’t want to need anyone,” you whispered. “But I chose you. And I still do. Every single day.”

His eyes closed for half a second, like the weight of those words landed somewhere deep in his chest. When he opened them again, they shimmered with unshed emotion.

“Then let me be worthy of that. Let me keep showing up. Even when it’s hard. Even when we fight. Even when the world’s watching.”

“It already is,” you said softly, gesturing to the world behind the glass, the party still spinning without you.

He turned slightly, angling his body so he shielded you from the view inside. “Let them watch. Let them write their headlines.”

Then he leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“They’ll never capture this. What we are. What we have.”

You closed your eyes, a small breath escaping your lips. You’d never been one for grand declarations, but this wasn’t about spectacle. It was about certainty. The kind of love that didn’t need a spotlight, just a steady hand to hold.

You rested your forehead against his collarbone, breathing him in. “Stay with me tonight?”

He tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “Always.”

The night ended with the city lights flickering beneath the glass and the afterparty fading into a blur behind you. His jacket draped over your shoulders, his hand finding yours again without even looking.

In the car, your heels abandoned at your feet, your bare legs draped across his lap, you leaned into the quiet. The hum of the road, the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles on your thigh.

He looked at you like you were the sunrise and the safe harbour all at once.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were just surviving the world around you.

You felt like you had someone to meet it with.

Not a perfect love. But a real one.

And as his fingers laced through yours, as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles like they were holy, you knew—

This was only the beginning.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #team lh44 #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic

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c-nstellati-ns · 3 months ago

Text

APOLLO, GOD OF MUSIC ... — conquest x medic!superhero!m!reader prt.1

you were retired, for gods sake. why in the hell would everything go to shit exactly when you were on vacation? you struggled to even comprehend the fact that there were more than one invincibles flying around, and now the city was falling apart all around you? retired or not, there were people who needed help and that's what you planned to do, no matter how reluctant you were about it. ... so how the hell did you manage to get yourself wrapped up with the very alien who was turning this city into a fine dust?

> author's note — this is incredibly self-indulgent and the first time i've written in literal months LOL so sorry for being inactive for so long !! this was inspired by dj subatomic supernova from NSR, lucio from overwatch and luna snow from marvel rivals ... i love me a silly guy who makes music and heals people via that music :-) not that subatomic heals people ... more like ........ he tries to kill them via music and his planets ........ but whatever !!! this is irrelevant !!!!!! ( i was gonna have this be smut originally but i like where i ended off to continue into a part two soon ^_^ so sorry if anything is bad i am very rusty ... feel free to send me some thirsts in my inbox if you'd like! ) > word count — 1.6k > featuring — our fave viltrumite, conquest <3 > cw — intentional lower case, canon typical violence, unspoken death threats? nothing much really its mostly establishing how your relationship came to be before things get steamy LOL so sorry for the bait

MDNI. 18+ ACCOUNT, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

you had parted ways with the GDA some time ago, marking it off as a need for something new. you could only fight so long, for so much. you had been in the spotlight ever since your powers had finally developed, being someone who could virtually heal anything with the power of music. it was rather silly in your eyes but it made you and anyone you wanted to protect virtually invincible. any wounds or injuries would mend in seconds in your presence, people feeling safe around you, other heroes feeling energised to keep on fighting. at some point, you felt the same way until… you didn't. it had only been a matter of time, after all.

the GDA was desperate to keep you so you kept their number just in case things were to happen. that is, until something finally did happen. it was a random tuesday, you think. you had been on the way to your hotel in the city for your little vacation, you had been waiting for so long for it. tapping into your savings from working with the guardians to afford it. you were happy, life was good. you had a nice car, a nice place far from the city, a couple dogs, cats, and one snake that you loved dearly. you were single, not that you minded much actually.

so what exactly happened? how the hell did your car end up split in half by falling debris and cradling the lifeless body of some innocent civilian that got extremely unlucky? you could barely wrap your mind around it.

it was hard to try and keep your music up enough to keep yourself safe, but to try and sweep in and aid those who were helpless was something else entirely. you let out a loud groan of frustration as you carefully set the body down somewhere undisturbed, making a mental note to come back for it later. you had to keep up, getting as many people out of there as you could, but there was always the few that escaped your grasp, all falling victim to some horrible fate that no amount of healing nor music could help. you couldn't get distracted.

you were glad you had kept the equipment the GDA had made for you, even gladder to have kept it close. the music coming off of the holographic speakers around you was loud, a beacon of hope in the midst of the destruction around you, but it kept people safe and you kept playing. you kept far away from the fighting as much as you could, ushering innocents away from their very close deaths. of course, you were putting a big ole target on your head with how loud it all was, but you couldn't care less. sounds waves were blasting anything that came your way, cracking open asphalt that trapped some poor kid underneath it all. you could spot the blood pooling next to him, his mother probably. you grimaced and carried him away, making sure to heal whatever cuts and bruises he had. thankfully, unharmed physically. mentally… you wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy.

you were doing your job well, keeping things somewhat peaceful until you spotted a stray arm sticking out of some debris. you quickly flew over, pushing off any concrete that held this person down. your heart beating frantically in your chest, you dug as much as you could, hoping that they didn't die before you got there. you grabbed at their hand and pulled as much as you could, using your sound waves to blast at the concrete as you did so. you let out a sigh of relief as you felt the warm from their palm, squeezing it in reassurance. you passed your fingers over their wrist, trying to find their pulse but no dice. so you used your powers to heal whatever injuries they might've sustained, a soothing melody that has the person feeling mushy.

"hey, are you okay?!" you shouted over the chaos around you, hand reaching out to grip at their shoulder. you pulled as hard as you can, thinking to yourself, holy fuck this guy is heavy as hell. you were about to yell again until the hand grabbed at your own roughly, your joints creaking in protest as it did so.

"woah--" you couldn't even finish your sentence before a giant man emerged from the rubble in front of you. he was much, much taller than you, and built like a fucking tank. if you weren't scared shitless, you would have asked him where he worked out. your jaw dropped, staring at the stranger before you.

conquest was having fun with this. he was having fun with all of this! this planet's defences were as measly as he had imagined, so it wasn't a surprise when the creatures that inhabited it were squished by a simple rock to their soft spots. but he was pleasantly surprised by its defender. a halfbreed viltrumite, weak like all those other flesh bags, but much more resilient. the worm even got him to bleed, which was a surprise in itself.

so who was this, mending the little scrapes and bruises that his body has yet to heal? why did it feel… good? like a warm feeling throughout his body, a hum of a familiar tune that made him want to… sleep? what the hell was this? it feels odd, he feels light. lighter than he would when he's flying, it was something else entirely. the touch was soft, much unlike he's ever felt before. a gentle squeeze, a faint hold. it was a strange combination, nothing like he's felt before. he let out a rough grunt, grabbing at the hand that was given to him, rising from the rubble he was buried underneath.

conquest brought up the creature that had healed him by the arm, thick brows furrowed as he stared down at it. it was fearful, trying to wrestle out of his iron grip and escape. but the viltrumite was curious about it now, who exactly was this worm? and was it so stupid to not know its own enemy?

you were gonna throw up. of course, of course you healed the wrong person. just your luck that you had healed THE VERY FUCKING THING THAT WAS CAUSING ALL THIS DEATH AND DESTRUCTION IN THE FIRST PLACE. you let out a pained noise as his grip around your wrist tightened, trying to just get away. you could keep yourself safe when fighting anything but a viltrumite? this was something else entirely.

you were smarter than to try and use your offensive powers against him, so instead, you allowed yourself to play a somewhat scattered melody to heal the broken bones within your hand and wrist. he tilted his head to the side, examining you like a piece of meat. i suppose that was what you were now. a stupid, musical adept piece of meat for him to tear into.

closing your eyes, you couldn't believe this was the day you would die. you didn't even get to take your vacation.

… but nothing happens? it's been a couple minutes, he should've killed you by now. you crack your eye open and take a look at him, startled by his one eyed gaze. his pupils are slits, examining you like you were some foreign… thing. and then he smiles. it's an unsettling one, but he grabs you by the waist, a much gentler hold than what he had on your wrist.

"you're the foolish one who helped me, aren't you?" his deep voice rings out over your healing melody and the rumbling chaos around you both.

you're speechless for a moment before nodding frantically, looking around for anything, anyone. unfortunately, no dice. it was just you, him and the fuck metric ton of dead bodies that he caused around you.

"hmm…" conquest mutters to himself. it was a strange feeling, the closer you were to him, the more that strange warm feeling seeped deep into his bones. he couldn't help but let out a deep purr that rattled you silly. he was like a big cat to you, a big, murderous psychotic cat. with his arms around you, it was… comforting? in a really, really fucked up way. you swallowed thickly as you stared up at him as he smiled down at you, what the fuck is going on?

"what is your name, worm?" the stranger asked, examining your face closely as he spoke. your mouth was dry, gaping like a fish out of water. his arms was tightening around you the longer you took to answer him and you stammered out your full legal out of sheer nervousness. he didn't seem like a patient man at all.

he repeats it under his breath, it rolls off nicely on his tongue. his arms lighten around your waist, your ribs definitely bruised after all this. you let out a groan, brain too scattered to make a coherent melody to heal yourself. instead, you looked back to him as his grin widened. crooked teeth and a prominent scar, you would have called him handsome if you weren't actively in danger of being ripped apart by this alien.

"… perhaps lord thragg wouldn't mind if i kept a pet, hm?" conquest purrs, that metallic hand reaching up and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "a healing songbird, doesn't that sound nice? my little songbird." you barely have enough time to speak before he takes off with you in his arms, away from the destruction and chaos that he caused.

mark was clueless as to why conquest had disappeared all of the sudden. in a blink of an eye, he was alone, beaten and bruised on the ground. it gave him time to breathe but it was nerve wracking to think about.

What the fuck just happened?

#achilles' scripts 🌟#this was sooo fun omfg #Its been legit years since ive written a full thing #im laughing so hard that a show like invincible brought me out of my writer's slump #part 2 should come this wednesday!#invincible #conquest invincible #conquest #conquest x reader #conquest x male reader #top male reader #superhero reader #male reader #invincible x male reader #invincible x reader #conquest x you #invincible brainrot

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