#encrypted messaging apps | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Note

Hii, okay I have a request now heheheh. Could you imagine writing sth. about reader and lewis trying to keep everything as secret as possible (maybe she is famous too) and then they are oit one night for dinner, and suddenly when they leave together there are so many paparazzi and flashlights and then there are news articles about them the next morning when they wake up?

Thank you for all your stories💕💕

𝒰𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑅𝒶𝒹𝒶𝓇

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! This was such an amazing request. I hope it meets the expectations asked. Enjoy it! Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis and reader’s love navigates through chaos of sudden public exposure, finding strength and honesty in their relationship as they choose to embrace their truth together.

Warnings: mild sexual content

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

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

You’ve never had to be this careful with anything in your life.

Not with movie contracts that demand endless legal back-and-forth. Not with studio leaks or paparazzi whispers that seem to trail behind every red-carpet appearance. Not even when your ex threatened to drag your private moments into the tabloids with screenshots of old texts.

But this?

Being with Lewis Hamilton?

This is a whole new level of hiding.

He never said the words, “We need to keep this secret.” He didn’t have to.

From the very first night you met fresh off a film premiere, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins and him just off a podium, his energy vibrating at the same pitch. You both understood the stakes. To step into the world hand in hand was to risk everything you’d both carefully built. So, you didn’t.

You met through a mutual friend at a private afterparty in Monaco. You’d followed a few races before, knew the name, the victories, the charisma. But you didn’t know him not like you do now.

You didn’t know he chews gum when he’s nervous, a habit he’s never quite shaken. You didn’t know his voice softens slightly when he says your name, like it’s a sacred song only you’re meant to hear. You didn’t know he texts you drive safe even when you’re just crossing the street. You didn’t know he could kiss you like he did that night in the hotel hallway - slow, grounding like he was anchoring you both to something real amid the chaos.

Ten months later, you’ve become experts at slipping through the cracks.

Black cars waiting silently at hidden entrances.

Staggered exits from crowded venues so no one sees you leave together.

Encrypted messaging apps.

A secret email account you only check when alone.

And late-night hotel rooms in cities where no one’s looking for either of you.

It’s not always glamorous.

It’s often lonely.

Sometimes it hurts especially when you have to walk past him in public like he’s a stranger, masking everything behind polite distance. When he’s jet-lagged and you’re midway through a gruelling press tour and all you have is a 3 a.m. voice note that says “I love you” in a whisper so soft it barely reaches you.

But it’s worth it.

He’s worth it.

Tonight, you just wanted one normal date.

“Babe, you sure about this place?” you ask, fingers tracing lazy circles along the leather seat between you as you glide through a quiet London street. Your hand slips into his, seeking that small, steady anchor. “Feels a little…public.”

He turns to you with that smile the one that starts slow, lips first, then spreads to his eyes. “I called ahead. Private room in the back. The owner’s a friend. He swore to keep it discreet.”

You glance out the window, watching the streetlamps blur past. “We said that about the hotel in Tokyo.”

He chuckles, that low sound you love. “That was different. The staff were starstruck. This is just dinner.”

You look back at him, heart tugging with affection and something more fragile. “With you, there’s no such thing as ‘just dinner.’”

His thumb brushes the back of your hand. “Then let’s make it worth it.”

The restaurant is tucked into a quiet alley; cobblestones slick with earlier rain. A flickering lantern marks the door, casting dancing shadows on brick walls. No cameras. No fans. Just the soft glow of golden light spilling from within.

You’re led straight to a private corner, curtained off from the world. Champagne chills on ice, already bubbling with quiet promise.

He lets you order, like always he knows your favourites by heart now.

For two hours, the world falls away.

It’s just you.

Your knees brushing beneath the table, his fingers occasionally drifting along your thigh. Laughter between sips of wine. Talk of his upcoming race. Your latest callback for an indie project you can’t stop dreaming about. The playlist you’ve both been building over time - songs to cry to, to dance to, to feel together.

Your heels come off under the table. His hand stays on your leg, a steady, comforting weight.

At one point, he leans forward and kisses the inside of your wrist like he’s committing it to memory.

“I miss this,” you whisper, your voice thick with longing.

“You have it,” he murmurs, breath brushing your skin. “Always.”

But time, as always, slips away.

The night air is cool as you step out, skin still warm from wine and his touch. He pulls up his hood, threads his fingers through yours.

And then -

Flash.

A wall of light hits you like a wave.

Voices roar from every direction.

“Lewis! Over here!”

“Wait - is that her?”

“Are they together?!”

It feels like the sidewalk tilts beneath you.

His hand clamps around yours, shielding you as he moves toward the car with practiced ease. His body becomes a shield, cutting through the chaos like he’s done on countless circuits focused, fast and controlled.

The car door slams shut behind you.

Your breath comes in shallow bursts. Your pulse races.

“Shit,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He exhales, fingers combing through his hair, tension radiating off him. “They saw. All of them.”

You turn to him. “Do you think they got a clear shot?”

He’s already scrolling through his phone, jaw tight. “I don’t know.”

You swallow hard. “It’s going to be everywhere by morning.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. And for the first time in months, there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

The city blurs by, a silent countdown to the headlines.

You lean into him, heart pounding.

“Whatever happens,” he says softly, steady as always, “we face it together.”

Because no matter how fierce the spotlight, no matter how loud the world becomes you have him and he has you.

And that has always been enough. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning comes slow and hazy, like the world itself is still waking up.

Soft golden light slips in through the hotel room curtains, muted and gentle, casting long shadows across the rumpled white sheets. The city hums quietly beyond the window, but here beneath the covers, tangled together there’s only warmth.

You’re still nestled against Lewis; your cheek pressed into the steady rise and fall of his chest. His heartbeat is a soft, rhythmic drum beneath your ear, a comforting pulse that slows the world down. One arm wraps around you with protective strength, pulling you close enough to feel the steady heat radiating from his body. The other hand is tangled in your hair, his fingers threading through the strands with a familiar tenderness.

For a moment just a breath it’s still just the two of you.

Then you hear it the buzz…

First his phone, vibrating sharply on the nightstand, then yours. A soft chorus of alerts, each one a reminder that the quiet bubble around you is about to burst. You groan, muffling it into the crook of his neck.

“No, no not yet,” you whisper, reluctant to let go of this fragile sanctuary.

Lewis doesn’t answer. Instead, his arm tightens, drawing you closer, and he exhales through his nose a quiet breath that holds more than words, like he already knows what you’re about to face.

The moment shatters.

You reach blindly for your phone, the screen’s sudden brightness stabbing your eyes in the dim room.

Sixty-five notifications.

Your thumb hesitates, hovering, heart suddenly racing. Then you tap Instagram, knowing exactly what you’ll see but needing to see it anyway.

The first post is a fan edit blurry, grainy shots from last night. You and Lewis, walking side by side down a London sidewalk. Flashes explode around you like fireworks, painting the night in harsh light and shadow. You’ve got your hood up, trying to hide, but your face is still unmistakably visible. His hand curls around yours, fingers tight. Someone’s added a sparkly filter over the photo, and the caption screams:

“NEW COUPLE ALERT?? LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED WITH A-LIST ACTRESS AFTER LONDON DINNER”

You stare at the image like it’s a stranger, like it’s someone else’s life splashed across your screen.

Lewis shifts behind you, pulling his phone free. The glow of his lockscreen catches your eye a photo you took of him laughing quietly in bed, safe and unguarded, two months ago when you were hiding out in Paris.

He sighs, heavy and slow.

“We’re everywhere.”

You scroll through the headlines Page Six, Daily Mail, TMZ, and…Vogue?

“Why is Vogue involved?” you ask, bewildered.

He chuckles, a dry sound low in his throat.

“Because they want the exclusive if we confirm it.”

The weight of that sinks in like a stone in your stomach.

It’s real now. The world knows.

There’s no slipping back into the shadows.

Your phone buzzes again. A text from your publicist, Katie, flashing urgent and relentless:

Are you awake??

Call me. Now.

Also I told you this would happen.

You mutter, waving your phone like it’s a live grenade.

“Mine’s already spiralling.”

Lewis flips his own phone toward you. Three missed calls from Angela his closest friend and unofficial crisis manager.

“Join the club,” he says, voice tired but steady.

You lie there in the heavy silence, the quiet before the storm. The calm feels fragile, like the world is holding its breath with you.

“What do you want to do?” you ask softly, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

He turns to face you fully, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek. His eyes, dark and steady, search yours.

“What do you want to do?”

You hesitate, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

“I…” Your voice cracks a little. “I want to stay here. Like this. With you. For as long as we can.”

His thumb grazes your bottom lip, gentle and reassuring.

“Then let’s do that. Screw the headlines. We’ve got time.”

You bury your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of skin and sleep something grounding, something safe.

“I can already hear Katie’s voice in my head,” you say, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “She’s probably halfway to my apartment with a crisis binder.”

“You want me to talk to her?”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“You’d do that?”

He shrugs, a little smile playing on his lips.

“I’ve got practice. My life’s been a PR nightmare since 2007.”

You both laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh with weight behind it knowing, bitter, hopeful all at once.

You press a slow kiss to his collarbone, savouring the moment.

“We can’t put this back in the box, can we?”

“No,” he says quietly, voice thick with something deeper. “But maybe we don’t have to.”

He kisses you slow, grounding the kind of kiss that doesn't rush, doesn't demand. It just is. A truth between you. His lips press softly against yours, lingering, almost shy in their tenderness.

But there’s something underneath it, something simmering. A tension that’s been building quietly, waiting for the moment it could bloom without fear or interruption.

His fingers slide deeper into your hair, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves against yours with more certainty. You feel it in the way his other hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Skin to skin, breath to breath. The duvet falls away as you shift, exposing warm limbs tangled in cool sheets, hearts racing in sync.

The kiss deepens and grows hungrier, surer like you’re trying to memorise the feel of him, like you’re afraid you’ll be dragged apart the moment you stop. His tongue brushes against yours, slow and searching, sending heat straight through you. Your fingers trail up his bare back, mapping the muscles there, the curve of his shoulder blades, the places you know so well but never stop wanting.

He rolls you gently, your back meeting the mattress and you go with it willingly, lost in him. His weight presses over you, not heavy, just real. Anchoring. His body fits against yours like you were made in the same breath, every point of contact sparking something deeper something electric.

His mouth leaves yours only to travel lower along the line of your jaw, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, down your throat. Each kiss is soft, deliberate, like he’s tasting every piece of you he missed in the chaos of yesterday. He lingers at your collarbone, lips warm and open, teeth grazing gently before he sucks the skin there just enough to make you gasp.

All that remains is the heat building between you, the way he worships every inch of you like he’s trying to write a story on your skin with his mouth, his hands, his body. The way you move together, slowly at first, like you’re rediscovering each other in this new, fragile world where you no longer have to hide. Then faster, harder, deeper fuelled by love and something more primal.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep and something else.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Always.”

You press your forehead to his, still breathless.

“I think I forgot my name for a second.”

He chuckles, voice raspy. “Good. I was aiming for at least three seconds.”

You both laugh softly, and then fall into silence again content, connected.

The world is still humming beyond your door, but in here, it’s just you and him.

Still warm. Still safe.

Still together.

And for a while, you forget the flashing lights. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It’s past noon when you finally call the outside world.

The hotel room is heavy with quiet the kind of silence that hums just under your skin. Light streams in through a gap in the curtains, cutting a golden line across the duvet. Your phone vibrates again and again on the coffee table, face down and ignored for as long as you’ve been wrapped up in your own little world.

But eventually, reality knocks louder.

You FaceTime Katie first.

She answers on the first ring, already mid-pace in what looks like her office, Bluetooth headset in, a stack of papers balanced against her hip like a third limb. Her hair’s in a high bun, her lipstick perfectly intact. Crisis mode suits her, terrifyingly.

“Oh thank God,” she breathes, stopping short. “You’re alive. I was five minutes away from sending someone to check your pulse. Maybe a drone. Possibly a team of investigators.”

“Good morning to you too,” you mumble, still tangled in sheets, pulling them a little higher around you.

Katie narrows her eyes, hawklike. “Is he there?”

You glance across the room. Lewis is by the window, legs stretched out on the windowsill, sipping from a coffee mug with that maddeningly relaxed expression. Shirtless, of course. Because why would he make your life easier?

“Yes,” you say simply.

“Is he shirtless?” Katie’s voice is flat. Dangerous.

You sigh. “Katie.”

“Oh my God, he is.” She presses a hand to her forehead. “Okay. Wow. Okay. Listen this is manageable. We can do this. But you need to tell me how serious this is. Are we talking summer fling or full-blown, headline-stealing, statement relationship?”

You glance at Lewis again. He raises an eyebrow like he knows exactly what you’re about to say. That soft little smirk of his that you’re listening, and he already knows the answer kind of smirk is there, warm and quiet.

“It’s serious,” you tell her.

Katie pauses, something in her expression shifting. Her voice softens, just a notch. “Then we need to get ahead of it. You’ve got maybe six hours before the internet starts cannibalising itself. Do you want to confirm or stay silent?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Can I think about it?”

“Not for long. Vogue’s already emailing for comment. So is Variety. Everyone’s speculating. There are clips from your last premiere being reanalysed, fans zooming in on your necklaces someone even made a chart. They think one of them is his initials.”

Lewis chuckles from across the room, setting his coffee down. “Wait, which one?”

“The one you gave me,” you say, giving him a look. “The tiny ‘L.’”

He grins, delighted. “That’s adorable.”

Katie groans, dragging a hand through her hair. “Please don’t flirt while I’m spiraling. It’s cruel.”

“I’ll call you back,” you say gently. “Promise.”

She exhales hard. “Okay. But babe - this might be a storm, but it doesn’t have to be a disaster. If you’re happy we can work with that. We’ll shape the story before it shapes you.”

You hang up, letting the quiet settle like dust.

Lewis walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, still bare-chested and sun-drenched. He reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours.

“How are you really feeling?” he asks, eyes searching yours.

You let your shoulders drop. “Like the world just changed.”

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand. “And?”

You look at him. Steady, solid. Here.

“Still worth it.”

His eyes soften, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Same.”

You sit like that for a while, hand in hand, side by side. Not planning, not fixing just being. The storm’s still out there, rising fast. But in here, it’s just you both.

And maybe…maybe you’re done hiding. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ �� ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The hotel feels like a bunker.

Not because anyone’s chasing you inside but because you haven’t let the world in yet. It’s not fear. Not exactly. It’s the feeling right before a door opens, when everything is still quiet, and you’re holding your breath, unsure what waits on the other side.

The curtains are half-drawn, their edges glowing with the diffused light of early afternoon. Outside, the world is roaring feeds refreshing, timelines speculating, headlines forming but inside this room, it’s still. Safe. Lewis has Sade playing low through the speakers, her voice like silk through smoke, threading through the air in slow, soulful loops. It anchors you. It always does.

Your phone is face down on the table, screen black, though you know it’s lighting up like a Christmas tree every few seconds. The air smells like coffee, clean linen, and the faint trace of that candle Angela insisted you pack for “grounding purposes.” You never thought something so small could matter, but today, it does.

Lewis is still in sweatpants and no shirt, legs stretched out on the couch, a book open but forgotten in his lap. His attention keeps drifting to you with soft glances, little half-smiles like he’s memorising the shape of this moment. It’s only been hours since the world shifted. But already, everything feels louder. Closer.

Then comes the knock. Sharp, quick, familiar.

Katie arrives like a thunderclap in designer boots. She barrels through the door with the force of a woman who has already been on four calls and fought three media fires before lunch. Her outfit is all black sleek, battle-ready and her sunglasses stay on, even indoors. She’s clutching an iced oat milk latte like it’s an explosive she’s ready to detonate.

“Okay,” she says, sweeping into the room, her coat already sliding off her shoulders and landing on the back of a chair. “I’ve printed three different response options, drafted a joint statement in two tones friendly and firm and if you’d prefer to go the soft-confirmation route, we can float a boomerang of your hands or something equally corny.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow from the couch, his voice lazy and amused. “That’s actually a real strategy?”

Katie doesn’t even pause. “Worked for Zendaya and Tom. The fans like to feel like they cracked a code. Subtle gets them talking more than screaming it from a rooftop ever could.”

You glance down at your hands, still loosely curled in your lap. You don’t know if you’re ready to hold this moment up to the light yet not the kind that comes with a million opinions and screenshot reactions.

Another knock. This one lighter, more rhythmic.

Angela steps in like the eye of the storm. Calm, unshaken, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a silver water bottle in the other. She’s dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair tied up, the picture of casual control.

“I brought food,” she says, lifting the bag like an offering. “And aloe. For your PR burns.”

Katie sizes her up instantly. “You must be Angela.”

Angela smiles, a touch dry. “And you must be the one who doesn’t sleep.”

They shake hands like co-generals on the eve of battle. A silent understanding forms in that moment. They might not operate the same way but they both know how to win.

Lewis glances at you, nudging your knee gently with his. “Should we be worried or impressed?”

You whisper back, “Definitely both.”

Angela moves toward the coffee table and starts unpacking the bag vegan croissants, fruit, pressed juices, a smoothie she places directly in front of you.

“Start with this,” she says softly. “You haven’t eaten.”

You mumble a thanks, fingers curling around the condensation-slick glass. The cold bites pleasantly at your skin. It’s a small comfort, but right now, you’ll take it.

Katie has already cracked open her laptop, keys clacking at rapid fire. “Let’s assess the damage,” she says without looking up.

Angela’s phone screen lights up, and she holds it out. “Thirty thousand likes and counting. This one’s everywhere.”

It’s a blurry, vertical fan video, the kind that somehow still ends up in full HD across every platform. Someone had caught you just before you climbed into the car last night. Your hood is up, face barely visible, but in that brief second you turned toward Lewis, and he leaned in pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s fast. Blink and you miss it. But it’s out there now, on every platform, looped over soft music and dramatic captions.

“Twitter’s a mess,” Angela adds. “Instagram’s worse.”

Katie chimes in without missing a beat. “TikTok has already made three edits. One with Billie Eilish’s ‘True Blue,’ one in slow motion with dramatic captions and one pulling your red-carpet interviews to prove ‘they’ve always been endgame.’”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This cannot be real.”

Lewis just laughs under his breath. “Could be worse.”

Katie doesn’t look convinced. “Wait until Piers Morgan gets his claws in. He’ll say something gross, and then we’ll have to pretend we didn’t see it.”

Angela rolls her eyes. “Ignore him. He’s like a mosquito with a Twitter account.”

The smoothie is tart and cold and grounding as you take another sip. The quiet hangs again.

“So,” Katie says, voice softening now. “What’s the plan?”

Her eyes go to Lewis first, then to you. The question’s real now not just PR tactics, not just timing. It’s about what you want. What you’re ready for. How much you’re willing to give the world, and how much you want to keep for yourself.

You look at Lewis. His expression doesn’t waver warm, steady, like he’s been waiting for you to meet him here.

And you feel it again. That thread. That thing that’s been tying you together since the first late-night phone call, the first secret flight, the first look that lasted too long. What you’ve built has never needed an audience to be real. But maybe now it’s time to stop hiding.

“I’m tired of hiding,” you say quietly.

He reaches for your hand, fingers wrapping around yours like he’s been doing it his whole life. “Then we stop.”

Katie straightens. “Joint statement?”

Angela shakes her head. “Too polished. Too Hollywood. It’s not who they are.”

Lewis nods. “We have that photo. From Paris.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “The one on the balcony?”

He squeezes your hand. “That morning. Just us. Sunlight and sleepy eyes.”

It’s one of your favourite photos. No makeup, no stylists, no fans. Just you in one of his hoodies, curled into his side, his arm around your waist. Your face is hidden in his neck, your hair a little wild, his smile soft. You can’t even see the city clearly behind you just the morning light and a curtain billowing to one side. It’s the closest thing to peace you’ve ever caught in a frame.

Katie leans over to glance at it as you pull it up. “If you’re dropping this, it needs to be on your terms. Your timing. Your tone.”

You take a breath, hands trembling slightly as you select the photo and start typing. Slowly, deliberately:

“Kept this for ourselves for a while. Now it’s yours too.”

You show it to Lewis.

He reads it, then looks at you his smile slow, content, full of something deeper than just approval. “Perfect.”

You hit post.

The app refreshes. The world, it seems, was already watching. Comments flood in like a tidal wave. Likes rise in real-time. The notifications become a blur.

But you don’t look at them. Not yet.

Instead, you lean into Lewis, let your head rest on his shoulder, and let the music wrap around you again. The world may be spinning a little faster now, but in here right now you’re still steady.

Still just you.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Within an hour, you’re trending worldwide.

The hotel suite becomes a command centre of chaos, softly lit and low-ceilinged, a strange haven from the noise exploding outside its walls. Your phone buzzes constantly notifications stacking like dominos: fan reactions, media speculation, celebrity likes, interview requests, speculative tweets, Instagram edits with soundtracks ranging from romantic to unhinged.

At one point, Katie barks, “Don’t touch anything,” while snatching your phone out of your hand to prevent you from doom-scrolling yourself into an anxiety spiral.

A director you worked with three years ago reposts the photo with three heart emojis and the caption: "Always knew she had excellent taste."

Lewis’s current teammate comments simply: “Finally,” with a fire emoji, which somehow makes you laugh and blush at the same time.

The number of followers on your account ticks upward like a slot machine. Angela checks Twitter once and mutters something about needing tequila and a media blackout.

Eventually, the four of you; you, Lewis, Angela, and Katie have exhausted all the practical things you can do. Statements reviewed. Comments limited. Phones silenced. Food half-eaten. By then, the adrenaline starts to bleed off, leaving behind this soft hum of stillness and disbelief.

Lewis and you end up on the floor, in the quietest part of the suite. You’ve changed into sweats, both barefoot, backs pressed against the bottom of the couch. There’s a plate of lukewarm fries abandoned between you, a candle flickering steadily on the coffee table, and the city glowing faintly beyond the glass. From here, it doesn’t feel like the worlds on fire. It just feels…normal.

Surreal, but normal.

You scroll one last time, watching the comment section on your photo fill like floodwaters. You pause on one a fan edit of your Paris balcony picture, now overlaid with poetry in a looping GIF: “Love, even in silence, speaks volumes.”

You set your phone down on the rug and exhale slowly.

“Is this real?” you whisper, almost afraid that if you say it too loudly, it’ll all vanish.

Lewis tilts his head back against the couch and closes his eyes for a moment. “As real as it gets.”

You turn to look at him. Really look. His profile in the low light sharp but soft at the same time. His curls a little messy from running his hands through them. There’s a peace to him that you hadn’t noticed before. Not the performative calm he wears in interviews or on podiums, but something deeper. Something like relief.

“You’re not scared?” you ask quietly.

He opens his eyes and looks at you steady, clear. “I was. For a long time. I thought if people knew, they’d ruin it. Twist it into something ugly. Or make it feel like it belonged to them instead of us.”

“And now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis reaches out, rests his hand gently on your knee. His thumb moves in slow, grounding circles. “Now I know they don’t get to decide what we are. They can talk. They can guess. But they don’t get to shape it. That’s ours.”

Your throat tightens, emotion catching there. This man, this moment so honest, so vulnerable. And he’s giving you everything without asking for anything in return.

“I should probably say something poetic,” you manage, half-laughing, half-choked up. “But I think I’m just going to kiss you.”

He smiles, slow and warm, like the sun rising. “Good plan.”

You shift toward him, crawling into his lap like you’ve done a hundred times in private. His arms open instantly, instinctively, wrapping around you like a shield. He holds you like he always has secure, steady, infinite. Only now, the door between your world and the rest has been left ajar. And still he’s here. You’re here.

The kiss is slow.

Unrushed.

His lips find yours gently, like a promise whispered against skin. There’s no urgency, no firestorm behind it. Just presence. Connection. The weight of everything you’ve held in and everything you’ve now let go of. It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you and roots you to a person, to a feeling, to the belief that love can be quiet and still shake the earth.

It’s not for the cameras.

Not for the headlines.

It’s just for you.

And it’s enough. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning after your big reveal, the world feels different.

Not just louder though it is but heavier, charged with a new kind of energy. It’s like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next. Your phone buzzes nonstop, a never-ending cascade of messages that makes it heat up in your hand. Friends, colleagues, distant relatives you haven’t spoken to in years. Fans you’ve never met leave paragraphs of love, encouragement, even a few who say they suspected something all along. A stylist you once worked with sends a voice note sobbing, “FINALLY, OH MY GOD.”

Lewis’s team sends a flood of updates screenshots of trending hashtags, news clippings, the surge in his engagement numbers. His last post hit ten million likes overnight. The photo of you two your hand in his, faces close but not kissing has become an instant cultural moment. There’s commentary. Dissections. Think pieces.

But through the noise, you look up and see him.

Lewis stands across the room, in soft grey sweats, a mug in one hand and his phone in the other. His face is calm, serene in a way that makes your heartbeat slow. Like he’s the anchor tethering you to solid ground.

He sets his mug down and crosses the room. “You ready?” he asks softly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on your cheek a moment longer than necessary, warm and grounding.

You nod, though your chest tightens. Today’s a big one the charity gala where you’ve been asked to present an award. Normally, it would be about your work, your moment in the spotlight. But now? Now you’re arriving together. As a couple. Publicly.

The gravity of that word hits you as you step into the car. Couple.

The ride there is wrapped in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet that only exists between people who know each other deeply. Lewis holds your hand like he knows you need it his thumb brushing lazy circles across your knuckles. Every so often, he glances your way with a small smile, the kind that says, We’re okay. We’re in this together.

Outside the car windows, the crowd builds before you even arrive fans waving signs, paparazzi perched like vultures, their flashes flickering like lightning in a summer storm.

As soon as you step out, the night erupts.

The red carpet is chaos incarnate. Photographers shout, cameras click in a deafening rhythm, reporters wave microphones like weapons. Bright lights strobe around you, disorienting and unrelenting.

“Is this your first public appearance as a couple?”

“How does it feel to finally be out?”

“Are there wedding plans already?”

You squeeze Lewis’s hand so tightly your knuckles ache. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Not tonight,” you whisper, feeling the edges of panic trying to crawl up your throat.

He chuckles, low and reassuring. “One step at a time,” he murmurs, and suddenly, you can breathe again.

He walks beside you, not a pace ahead or behind, but perfectly aligned. The cameras can’t capture the soft pressure of his hand in yours, or the way he turns slightly toward you every few steps like he’s checking you’re okay. In the blur of flashes and noise, he leans in and whispers, “You look incredible.”

A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, pretending not to notice the flutter in your chest.

The gala is all glitter and grandeur. Inside, chandeliers sparkle like constellations, music hums beneath the chatter of the elite, and champagne flows endlessly. You mingle, you smile, you pose. But somewhere between introductions and small talk, you steal away.

The balcony is quiet, lit only by the soft spill of moonlight and city glow. Below you, the skyline stretches endlessly, a galaxy of lights reflected in glass and metal. Lewis leans on the railing, pulling you into his side.

“This…” he says, voice quiet, “I know it’s new. And scary. But I promise no matter what happens out there, here with me, you’re safe.”

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding rhythm of his heart. The words rise without effort.

“I love you.”

He exhales; a breath caught somewhere between surprise and relief. “I love you too,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

What you don’t know is that somewhere nearby, a reporter’s hot mic catches the momentthe vulnerable confessions, the barely audible declarations. Hours later, the clip circulates online. But instead of tabloid fodder, it becomes something else. Something rare. People repost it not to dissect it, but to hold it up like a fragile thing that deserves to be protected. For once, the internet doesn’t chew love up it preserves it. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

At the afterparty, the glamour doesn’t feel quite real. There’s laughter, music, and a hundred conversations happening at once, but none of it touches the quiet bubble you’ve built around yourselves.

You find a seat near the grand fireplace. The glow paints Lewis’s face in amber and gold, making the tiredness in his eyes look almost poetic. His fingers rest on your arm, tracing idle shapes like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Do you think we did the right thing?” you ask, your voice barely louder than the crackling fire.

He pauses, thinking. Then shrugs. “I don’t know. But I do know I’m happier not hiding anymore.”

You inch closer, feeling the warmth of him seep into you. “Me too.”

Then his phone vibrates another message, another reminder that the world hasn’t stopped. You see the flicker of tension in his jaw.

“Want to get out of here?” you whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

You slip out the side entrance, hand in hand, dodging the spotlight. The night air is cool, crisp. It smells like damp concrete and possibility.

Lewis pulls you into him, arms winding around your waist, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re everything,” he says softly.

“I love you,” you reply again, the words falling effortlessly.

He laughs under his breath and presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” you whisper, smiling.

You stay like that for a while, just being two people in love, untouched by noise. And then you head back inside, stronger than before.

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

The days after are a whirlwind press requests, brand campaigns, interview offers. But somehow, it feels manageable. You’re steering the ship together now.

And one afternoon, Lewis surprises you.

A park tucked away behind city buildings. A picnic blanket snacks you’d mentioned offhand weeks ago, a chilled bottle of sparkling water, and sunlight filtering through the leaves like a kaleidoscope.

He sits across from you, nervous in a way you don’t usually see. “I’ve been thinking about all of this. Us. The future.”

Your heart skips. “Yeah?”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a tiny velvet box.

Your breath catches.

“Open it,” he says.

Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a miniature steering wheel pendant simple, elegant.

“For the journey ahead,” Lewis says quietly. “No more hiding. Just us.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s perfect.”

He fastens it around your neck himself, fingers trembling just a little. You lean into him, and something shifts between you like the last wall crumbles.

That night, you talk. Really talk. About the weight of fame. The risks of honesty. The dreams you hadn’t dared say aloud.

“I want to show you off,” Lewis says, touching your cheek.

You laugh, heart full. “Is that a promise?”

“Always.”

Later, tangled in each other, the lights low and the world blissfully quiet, you realise something.

This is it. The love you built in shadows now shines in the light.

And for the first time, you’re not afraid of being seen.

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

266 notes · View notes