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bellsgg · 1 month ago

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What won't be said out loud - Lewis Hamilton

5 blurbs with fluff scenarios all focused on small moments that aren't really that small in the grand scheme of things.

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

wordcount: +3k

a/n: I used to play with these snippets a lot a while back, and they've been helping me to get my flow back, so thought it'd be nice to share some of them.

a/n.2: I love me some inner conversations so hope you guys like my inner voice sassy queens coming out to play in these fluffs

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

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So much more than just touching

We’ve been on this couch for, like, three geological eras.

I think we started in the Cretaceous and now we’re somewhere post-apocalyptic, just two worn-out souls on a gray cloud of overpriced designer fluff. Or what the couch Lewis swore would ‘tie the room together’ even though it only really swallows remote controls.

I don’t even know what we’re watching. Some British show way over the top accents and lots of beige, which narrows it down to almost every show made there.

But my brain isn’t in TV mode. It’s on… him mode.

Because somewhere between episode two and Lewis deciding he was done fighting sleep, his hand found mine. And not in the typical, oh-how-sweet-they’re-holding-hands way.

No.

We’re on some toddler-level, elderly-married-couple, this-is-my-comfort item behavior.

His fingers are tangled with mine like he needs that grounding. He’s half-asleep, head tilted back against the armrest, hoodie bunched up around his neck, curls peeking out all wild and soft from under his beanie.

Thumb over knuckles. Fingertips on palm. Pinky doing a little choreography before he tucks it under mine again.

And here's the kicker: we’re not even thinking about it.

Well, at least he’s not.

My brain, meanwhile, is narrating like David Attenborough spotted two penguins mating.

Look at them. Observe the gentle way the male initiates contact, pressing his index finger against the female’s wrist. A subtle but crucial movement in their silent mating ritual.

And honestly, how could my mind have any chill? This man - my man I remind myself like it’s a flex (because it is) - has this absurd ability to make my entire nervous system go soft with an absentminded gesture.

And this playing-with-each-other’s-fingers-while-barely-conscious thing? It’s like: here. I don’t need to talk. I don’t need to move. I don’t need to do anything but touch you in this small way, and that’s enough.

It’s dumb, really. Dumb how much it does to me. How deeply it roots itself under my ribs and blooms like a little sapling that whispers ‘You’re safe. He’s safe. Everything’s fine’.

Because we’ve had days, weeks even, where things were far from fine.

I think this is what people miss when they’re searching for love. They want fireworks and declarations and epic sonnets carved into mountaintops. But they forget how loud silence can be.

How reassuring the simple act of feeling someone’s thumb trace circles on your palm is.

And okay, yes, maybe part of me is also internally giggling because his tattooed fingers are ridiculously pretty. Like, model-hands pretty, and currently messing with the hem of my sleeve like it personally offended him.

And it doesn’t take much for my mind to be already halfway through a fantasy involving whipped cream and those fingers in very non-orthodox setting.

And just when I think he’s fallen asleep, his thumb presses against the side of mine, a little firm. Not enough to startle me. Just enough to say ‘am still here’

“I can hear your brain” he mumbles, not opening his eyes.

Busted.

“You can’t hear a brain,” I whisper, even though I absolutely believe this man is psychic in the most annoying, love-you-deeply, kind of way.

“Mhm.” A soft chuckle. “Yours is loud.”

“Tell her to shut up then” I mutter, because yeah, obviously the voice in my head is a she, and clearly, she’s the problem here. Not me. I’m an innocent bystander.

He shifts a bit, turning his head so his nose brushes my shoulder.

He smells like the lavender detergent I buy even though he insists it’s ‘too floral’ and the faintest hint of whatever essential oil I forced on him earlier in the morning because of his jetlag.

He’s warm, and heavier now as he leans into me. But he still doesn’t let go of my hand.

“I like when she talks” he says, almost too quiet to catch. “She tells me you’re still here with me”

Oh. Well, damn.

Tell me how I’m supposed to recover from that without spontaneously combusting into a puddle of limbs.

He squeezes my fingers, and I squeeze back. That’s it. That’s the whole conversation. No flowery speeches. No dramatic music swell. Just… pressure.

Thumb to palm. Palm to palm.

And my brain, traitorous little gremlin, goes quiet for once. No jokes. No sass.

Just this weird little ache in my chest that feels like gratitude. The big, heavy, stupidly lucky kind.

Because we play with each other’s fingers like it’s breathing. Like it’s blinking. Like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

A simple hoodie, or was it?

I didn’t plan this.

And by this, I obviously mean sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter in Lewis’s hoodie at 8:47 am, pretending it’s totally mine and always has been.

The clothing in question one of those obnoxiously soft, faded black ones, the kind that fits his vibe just right but swallows me whole like a sexy cotton avalanche.

The cuffs hang halfway past my fingers, the neckline is stretched from God knows what, and it smells like his laundry detergent mixed with his perfume I’m pretty sure he drenches his clothes in.

In other words: perfection. Him

“Morning” he says, walking in, all sleepy eyes and boxers slung dangerously low on his hips. He’s scratching his chest like a cartoon character, blinking at the fridge like it personally offended him with the options.

I sip my coffee. Casually. Innocently. Like I’m not wearing the exact hoodie he spent forty-five minutes looking for last week.

“Morning” I echo, keeping my tone breezy, like I didn’t dig this thing out of the dryer.

He grabs a bottle of water, then leans on the counter next to me, one brow raised. “That mine?”

“Hm?” I blink, like a liar. “What?”

He nods at the hoodie. “That.”

I glance down like I just noticed it. “Oh. This? Thought it was mine.”

Girl.

GIRL.

That hoodie has his smell stitched on the sleeve. Like a signature. Like a certificate of ownership.

But I don’t flinch.

“I swear I’ve had this forever,” I add, swinging my legs like I’m five and my conscience is clear. “Might be a twin thing.”

Lewis just stares at me. Silent. Smirking. That smirk, God help me. The kind of thing that should come with a warning label and at least three emergency exits.

“You can have it, if you’re jealous” I offer sweetly. “Want me to take it off?”

WHY would you say that out loud. WHY must you flirt like a menace when you're in stolen property with no backup plan?

Lewis’s smirk deepens as he steps between my knees, slow and deliberate, hands coming up to rest on the hem of the hoodie like he owns it.

Which, okay, technically he does, but that’s beside the point.

“I don’t think you should take it off” he murmurs.

Then his fingers find my skin under the hoodie, thumbs grazing my thighs.

His lips brush the shell of my ear.

“But maybe I should.”

And I—

Okay. Yeah. That was not in the script. No one warned me. There was no emergency protocol in place for that voice in that tone with those hands.

My brain just packs her little purse and walks out the back door. Gone. Left me to fend for myself with nothing but vibes and a mug of half-warm coffee.

“Really?” I manage, barely above a whisper, trying not to combust. “You’re gonna undress me in your kitchen? At 9 a.m.? With oat milk in the fridge and God watching?”

He chuckles, soft and sinful. “God’s gonna have to avert his eyes.”

His hands slide higher under the hoodie, palms smoothing up the backs of my thighs, slow and teasing. I instinctively wrap one of my arms around his neck, hoodie sleeve dangling like I’ve given up all pretense of modesty.

Which, I mean, fair.

“You stole it,” he says, dark eyes, like he’s got all day to enjoy the crime scene. “Didn’t even try to be slick about it.”

“I did try” I argue, and I will go to court for that statement. “I said it might be a twin situation.”

He laughs against my neck. Smug all over.

“And how’d that work out for you?”

“Still wearing it, aren’t I?”

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his smile softening a bit before they lower to my lips “Yeah. You are.”

And he’s so damn gorgeous I can’t stop him when his lips are crashing on mine.

Quick at first, just enough to be smug about it—then deeper, when he hums against my mouth and his fingers tighten on my skin.

The hoodie rides up a little more with each shift of my hips against the counter. His mouth doesn’t leave mine, not really, not even when he mumbles “It does look better on you.”

It’s completely unfair, how he can go from teasing to tender like flipping a switch.

And the way he says it, like he’s talking about something grand custom, not some worn-out hoodie I absolutely did steal out of his closet? Yeah, I’m done for.

RIP me.

But at least I’ll die enveloped with the world's best smell and lips all around me.

Drunk on him

I should be tipsy.

Like, glass-of-wine-too-many tipsy. That sweet, floaty kind of warm where your cheeks are warm and your limbs forget how to function.

But I’m not.

I’m just standing here on a patch of grass in the backyard, barefoot, surrounded by the soft murmur of friends, the smell of something vaguely charred from the grill, and the kind of late-night music that feels like honey. Like something you’d slow-dance to with your forehead pressed to someone’s neck.

And he’s here.

Who, for the record, is also not tipsy. Just full of that relaxed, post-laugh, post-good-meal energy that makes his whole body loose and his smile lazy.

His hoodie sleeves are pushed up, his curls are tucked under a cap that someone (definitely not me) bullied him into wearing backwards, and his hands?

On my waist.

Because of course he had to drag me into the middle of the grass when the music changed. Of course, he did.

“No one is dancing,” I hissed when he first pulled me up.

And he’d just shrugged. “I’m someone.”

Okay, smooth criminal. Jesus.

So now we’re here. Kind of swaying, kind of shuffling, kind of slow-dancing in the way people do when they’ve already reached the level of comfort where rhythm doesn’t matter.

The playlist someone queued up is doing the most right now, and it’s stupid romantic. But the fire pit’s crackling behind us, the air smells like toasted marshmallows and grass, and I am dangerously close to doing something deeply embarrassing like sighing.

Don’t you dare swoon but he’s got his hands in your back pockets. His thumb just drew a heart on your spine. It’s over for you.

Great. Now I’m spiraling.

Because Lewis Hamilton, my forever crush turned boyfriend turned live-in warm person, is dancing with me like he’s not even thinking about it.

Like this is where his body naturally ends up.

And it’s not even flashy. No twirls. No fancy footwork. Just us. Breathing each other in. Moving in this soft, slightly off-tempo rhythm that has more to do with the beat of us than the music.

He leans in, voice low. “You keep smiling like that and they’re gonna know I’m making you fall in love with me all over again.”

I blink.

“Sir.”

He grins. “What?”

He chuckles, and his hands slide a little lower, resting easy on the curve of my hips. Like his whole body knows me. Knows where I fit.

“I want to keep dancing with you” he says, quieter now. “That’s all.”

And oh.

OH.

Okay, maybe I am a little drunk. On him. On this moment. On the stupidly beautiful way the string lights above us flicker like stars that forgot they were supposed to be far away.

I rest my head on his shoulder. Just for a second. Just until my brain stops threatening to start a full-blown musical number. And from the fire pit, someone lets out a cackle. One of our friends yells that we look like an old married couple.

Lewis just laughs against my hair and keeps moving.

We don’t care. We’re not trying to be a moment. We’re not putting on a show. We’re just… here.

Swaying.

Breathing.

His hand finds mine again, lacing our fingers like it’s a reflex. My body follows his without even trying, like gravity’s got a crush and can’t let go.

And we might just be dancing. Lazy and quiet and maybe a little out of step.

But I’ve never felt more in rhythm in my life.

He remembers

I don’t even clock it at first.

It’s late morning and I’m on the sofa, cocooned in a throw blanket Roscoe keeps trying to steal from me. The kind of Sunday that hums slow and low, like a warm bath or a jazz record.

Lewis walks in from the kitchen, quietly, and hands me a mug.

“Here, drink this.” he says, and I do, because... well, because it’s him. And my mind is too foggy from the medicine to really protest.

And also, maybe because being handed warm things by him does things to my soul I don’t like to talk about in daylight.

I take one sip and pause.

It's coffee, not regular. A hint of honey. Lemon, but not too much. A dash of pepper.

A recipe I told him about once, months ago, in passing. A late-night ramble while I was half-asleep and missing home and my grandma’s home medicine where she'd hand me mugs just like this one.

He remembers.

Of course he does. He’s like a human vault with curly hair and better skin than any of us. Of course he remembers.

But still.

I look down at the mug. My fingers wrap tighter around it, like it’s the only thing keeping me from floating off somewhere I didn’t expect to go today.

“My grandma’s …” I murmur, mostly to myself.

Lewis just shrugs and sits beside me, like this isn’t a big deal. Like remembering this was just a normal part of his operating system.

“You told me once” he says, not looking at me, eyes flicking to the TV like we’re still watching whatever half-baked documentary we let play in the background. “Figured it’d make you feel better”

Make me feel better.

God.

The thing is, I didn’t even remember telling him. It wasn’t a moment I’d filed away. Just one of a hundred things you say out loud to someone when you’ve gotten used to their presence. Comfortable enough to let your memories spill out between sentences like breadcrumbs. Not thinking about where they’ll land, or if anyone’s picking them up.

But he did.

He always does.

And now here I am, sipping my lemon coffee on a gray morning with a man who remembers the little things I forget I even shared.

It’s terrifying.

And stupidly beautiful.

And I kind of want to cry but also, like, get up and sprint around the living room like I just won the lottery.

But I just lean into him instead. Quietly. Casually. Like I’m not suddenly thinking about how safe he makes me feel in ways I never knew I needed.

He rests his hand on my thigh. His thumb strokes once, absently.

No fanfare. No romantic declaration.

Just this.

A memory, quietly kept. A warm drink made the exact way I like it.

A feeling I can't name, curling somewhere under my ribs, setting up camp for the long haul.

That one is mine

It was a stupid photo.

I mean that in the most affectionate, least self-deprecating way possible. But still, stupid.

I had just come back from a run, sweat dripping down my temples, the worst parts of my playlist stuck in my head, and my sports bra doing that twisty thing it does after an hour of traction.

Lewis was waiting for me on the balcony, already showered and smug with a smoothie in hand, and I remember flopping into the deck chair across from him like a dramatic dying animal.

He said something. I can’t remember what now—something about my form, or the way I waved to the neighbor’s dog like we were old friends. Something ridiculous. I’d laughed without thinking, loud and full and unfiltered, and he caught it.

Click.

“Delete that” I’d wheezed, arm flung over my face like I was hiding from paparazzi.

“Nope” he’d said, without even glancing at the screen. “That’s the one.”

I thought he meant Instagram or whatever. Something for his “photo dumps” that no one believes are random. I rolled my eyes, told him he was gross, and moved on with my day.

Fast forward three months.

We’re on the couch at home, post-dinner, post-shower, post all things we absolutely had to get done. He’s cross-legged with a bowl of fruit like it’s dessert and not punishment.

The TV plays softly in the background, something neither of us is really watching. His phone buzzes between us. I glance out of habit. And I freeze.

There it is. My face. That photo. Full screen on his lock screen.

I blink once. Twice. Triple-take, because maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe my tired brain is projecting.

But no.

It’s that picture. Me, sweaty, red-faced, post-run and mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, mouth open, looking deranged and borderline feral—and somehow? Somehow, it’s still his wallpaper?

“Lew” I say slowly, dragging out his name like a warning.

He hums, not looking up, still focused on stabbing a piece of mango like it personally wronged him.

“Lew-is.”

Now he glances over, fruit paused mid-air. “Hmm?”

I point at his phone like it’s evidence in a trial. “You seriously still have that picture on your lock screen?”

He doesn’t even look guilty. Just confused. “Yeah.”

I blink again. “That one?”

“You said that already.”

“The one where I look like a dehydrated squirrel?”

He chuckles, finally setting the bowl aside. “It’s a good photo.”

“Of who?!”

“You” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

I stare at him. He stares back, annoyingly calm, like this is not a clear violation of basic visual standards.

“You smile like that when you’re really happy” he adds, even softer now, like it’s not a dagger straight to the chest.

Oh.

Oh, no.

And I barely keep my cool.

I clear my throat, drag my legs up under me on the couch, and pretend to scoff. “Okay, but like. There are cuter ones.”

He shrugs, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear like he hasn’t just turned me into emotional soup. “Maybe. But that one’s mine.”

I swear I felt the temperature in the room rise by three degrees.

What are you supposed to do with this man and his full-capacity heart?

“I literally look like I’m melting in that photo.”

“You look like you.”

I blink again.

He grins. “You’re beautiful.”

Okay, that’s it.

“You know what? No. I’m taking a new one,” I announce, snatching my phone and shifting so I’m slightly above him. “Smile.”

He does, big and easy, and I snap one, then another. I turn the camera on myself and lean in, our cheeks pressed together, the hoodie swallowing half my face. I’m still warm from the wine we had at dinner. Still soft from the way he always knows what to say without making a show of it.

Click.

“There” I say proudly, showing him the result. “Now that’s a lock screen.”

He tilts his head, pretending to evaluate it.

“It’s cute” he allows.

“More than cute.”

“But it’s not the one.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Because I love when I can get you like that” he says, reaching for my waist, pulling me closer. “When you’re not thinking so hard.”

I should be offended.

But I’m not. Because I know what he means.

And because that stupid photo, when I’m laughing like a maniac, in the middle of an ordinary moment, has somehow become the one thing that makes me feel the most seen.

So I give in. Let him drag me into his lap. Let my phone slip between the cushions.

Let the moment stretch long and quiet and golden, like I’m someone worth keeping on his screen forever.

And if I save a copy of that photo in my favorites later?

Well, that’s nobody’s business but mine.

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If you liked those, I have a bunch more of them here

Ways to say “I love you” p.1 / p.2 / p.3(NSFW)

All these little things p.1 / p.2

Small firsts p.1

Firsts - NSFW p.1 / p.2

Ways they show they love each other p.1 / p.2

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