#modern conference table

[urbanwoodsgoods]

Quick Ship Office Furnishings – Sustainable Speed from Urban Wood Goods

Fast, sustainable, and stunning the Quick Ship Office Furnishings from Urban Wood Goods are perfect for last-minute office upgrades or new space setups. Crafted from salvaged wood and steel, our desks, shelves, and tables offer timeless style with quicker delivery options. Every piece embodies the eco-conscious, handcrafted spirit that defines Urban Wood Goods. Don’t wait weeks—furnish your office beautifully and efficiently with our quick ship solutions.

[mrfurnitureae-blog]

https://bcrelx.com/transform-your-workspace-the-ultimate-guide-to-office-furniture-and-meeting-tables/

Office furniture is no longer just about desks and chairs. It’s about creating an environment that promotes comfort, creativity, and collaboration. From ergonomic chairs that support long working hours to workstations designed for efficiency, the right furniture can help employees stay motivated and focused.

[officemantrapune]

Best Conference Tables in Pune | Office Mantra - Top Manufacturer

Looking for a premium conference table in Pune? Office Mantra is the leading manufacturer, offering stylish and durable tables for modern workspaces

[interiorergonomics]

Is Office Furniture an Asset or an Expense?

Office furniture can be classified as either an asset or an expense, depending on how it is accounted for in a business’s financial records.

Office Furniture as an Asset

Office furniture is generally considered a fixed asset because it is a tangible item that provides long-term value to the business. Items like desks, chairs, cabinets, and conference tables are expected to be used for several years, making them capital expenditures. These assets are recorded on the balance sheet and depreciated over time, meaning their cost is spread out across multiple accounting periods.

Office Furniture as an Expense

In some cases, office furniture can be a liability and classified as an expense, particularly if the cost is low enough to be immediately deducted. Many businesses set a capitalization threshold (e.g., 2,500 AED), meaning furniture purchases below this amount are treated as an operating expense. Additionally, rented or leased office furniture is categorized as an expense since it does not become a company-owned asset.

Conclusion

Whether luxury office furniture is an asset or an expense depends on the company’s accounting policies, purchase amount, and intended use. Large furniture investments are typically assets, while smaller or temporary furniture costs may be treated as expenses.

[cheralith]

— all i breathe in is your life. feat. itoshi sae || wc: 1.1k contains: gn!reader, no pronouns used, secret relationship, just pure fluff :P

sae doesn't really tell people things about himself.

he thinks he doesn't need to—unless it involves soccer, he sees no use in people attempting to pry at his personal self other than to just scratch the surface level of itoshi sae, professional soccer player. all the masses need to know is that he's a midfielder, he's from japan, and itoshi rin is his little brother.

so shock comes as a severe understatement to his team when they find out that he's married after one of them overhears sae telling their coach he can't make to a press conference because he'll be celebrating his wedding anniversary.

sae understandably gets bombarded the moment he enters the locker room to his disdain. many of his teammates have coupled up with celebrities, models, and influencers—per modern athlete fashion—so they provoke him with who this mystery person is.

"none of your business," he snaps, clearly irritated.

some of them think it's a fluke, just his way to get out of dealing with the media, as sae bears no ring on his left ringer and has never been seen wearing it in public (though, arguably, sae is a hard figure to catch outside the field anyways). but all sae has to do is roll his eyes, take out a travel-sized jewelry holder, and put on his wedding ring to flash at them.

"well shit, man," one of his younger teammates, a notoriety amongst the media for being a bit of a playboy, laugh. "how long have you been chained down for?"

the phrase irks him a bit. to view marriage as a prison seems contemptuous to him—no wonder this guy can't hold down a relationship.

sae shuts his locker door, eyes still bored as ever as he makes his way to the exit.

"four years going on five," he mutters, a smidgen of entertainment for them just to shut them up for good. "you're lucky if your career ever lasts as long."

he gawks at him, ready to fire back an insult, but sae's already disappeared through the door. sae makes his way to the lobby of his team's training facility, where he sees you, their assistant manager, sitting patiently at one of the tables nearest to the window.

"ah, sae," you greet with a friendly smile, tablet with his stats on hand. "there you are."

he only gives you a silent nod of acknowledgement in return, sparing nothing for you but an ear to listen as you read off his comments given to them by their coach as you always do with each member. there's nothing much to improve on, seeing as how he's essentially the definition of perfection in regards to soccer, but he still clutches onto the occasional whisper of criticism to help him improve.

he bids you goodbye, reminding you that he won't be at the press conference this evening and to have a nice evening, before he exits out the doors and makes his way to his car. the silence that bestows upon him when he enters it makes him feel at peace... until his phone rings.

an audible groan escapes him; sae swipes at his phone, ready to curse out what was probably his teammate he insulted earlier or his coach, but the annoyance within him disappears the moment he sees a familiar name.

he picks it up carefully, staring straight ahead of him into the lobby of the facility.

a well-known greets him first. "hi there."

"hey," he mutters softly... a hint of affection in his voice.

"so, apparently the restaurant is all booked for tonight," you whisper into the phone, sae watching your lips move in sync from inside the safety of his car. "i got us this other restaurant near roppongi, is that okay?"

sae nods, hoping that you can see it through the lobby. "that's fine. what time should i start leaving the house to meet you there after the conference?"

a sweet, thoughtful hum passes through. "how 'bout 7:00? meet there at 7:30? conference ends at 6:30, but i'll leave a bit early to catch a cab and beat traffic."

disapproval seeps into his sigh. "i still think it's better if i pick you up."

"haha, no way. and risk being caught?" you laugh, giggling when you see sae's scrunched face through the window of the lobby from his car.

"i just don't like the thought of you being in a car alone with a stranger," he says, his tone droll as ever but you've known him long enough to detect that subtle worry in his voice.

"i appreciate the thought, my darling husband," you remark as you gaze upon your five-year-old wedding ring sae gave you. "but we've worked this hard to keep it under wraps. one cab ride won't kill me. it's just so that we don't have to take two cars home."

sae doesn't enjoy the feeling of defeat, but all his ego comes to humble itself whenever you were the one that bestowed it upon him. only the person he stood across the altar from half a decade ago would only be able to do such to itoshi sae.

"fine..." he grumbles, watching as you grin rather stupidly your gain. "send over the address. and don't be late."

"yessir," you give him a childish salute from the lobby, one that he has to fight cracking a smile at, your playfulness never once fading at the slightest from the moment he met you.

though he does admit it's hard trying to keep your relationship behind closed doors, especially since you're a non-celebrity, but it's all worth it when he gets to wake up to your face and kiss it right before he falls into a deep slumber, your body intertwined his with a tenderness being connected with his—a silent murmur of "i love you" to end off another day with you.

just before he ends the call, your voice reaches him once more.

"sae?"

he blinks, removing his hovering finger over the red button to let your words reach him, not wanting to waste any word that comes out of your lips go uncherished.

"yeah?"

you turn to face him directly from where you were in the lobby, only the window of it and the window of the his car being your only barriers between each other. affection spreads upon your features, one that makes sae mimic on his own.

"happy anniversary, my love," you profess tenderly to him. "i love you."

a warmth embeds itself within him when he admires you from his car. five years may not necessarily be the longest of time to some people, but to think that you and him have lasted this long together brings about a peace that he treasures on the daily and will continue to do so forevermore if you're by his side.

his eyes soften, staring at you in pure devotion.

"i love you too," sae confesses. "happy anniversary."

[malum-forev]

Unexpected

“I can’t believe people actually fall for these kinds of things,” Bucky scoffs, flicking one of the drooping petals on the flower arrangement. “Ridiculous, right?”

He looks over at Sam, wanting some kind of backup from his partner, only to receive a shrug in response. Bucky rolls his eyes, having flowers delivered to the compound seemed so overplayed in his mind.

“No self respecting woman could actually want to date someone who outsources something like giving flowers.” Bucky mutters, his fingers itch to look at the card to see who they’re from. And more importantly, who they’re for.

“Can’t say I agree with you on this one Buck,” Sam leans back on the conference room chair, waiting for the rest of the team to arrive. “Flower delivery is a normal thing in the modern world, not that I expected you to know. You’re not exactly the romantic type.”

He tries to not let Sam’s comment bug him, but it does. A lot. Back when he was alive the first time, Bucky was over the top. So over the top that some women’s knees physically buckled when they saw his gifts and acts of love. Sure, some of the things he only did to get into their pants but who cares, they were romantic nonetheless. 

Bucky tries to concentrate on your detailed plan for the mission but he’s done this a thousand times and could quite possibly complete this recon mission in his sleep and more importantly, the flower debacle is still present. The plastic vase sitting in the middle of the conference table taunts him. The folded card underneath it was basically begging for him to take a look.

He lingers after the meeting, saying some excuse about wanting to look over the documents when really, his curiosity is what’s keeping him seated. 

In his defense, your floor of the compound rarely gets any deliveries, let alone “romantic” ones. At least what people now think is romantic. Apart from Sam, himself and you, the other people on the floor are either married or forever alone. Leave the cheesy displays of affection for the lower level agents, the ones who still get the hots from one look.

Bucky looks both ways, making sure no one catches him as he slips the card from under the vase and reads it. 

Thought of you today. Have a nice week. 

“Nice week? What a loser.” Bucky blows raspberries, throwing the card back on the table. 

“Can I help you with something, Barnes?” Bucky jumps up in his spot as he hears your voice coming from behind him. 

“Just reading this extensive report,” Bucky lifts up the corners of the papers. “Great to know you have so much spare time.”

To say you and Bucky have a complicated relationship is an understatement. You think he’s a reckless agent that gets away with everything just because he was Captain America’s friend and he thinks that you aren’t reliable on the field because you second guess everything. Match made in heaven, right? Not a single mission you’ve been on has resulted in the two of you being civil. It always ends with a catfight and both of you trying to one up the other one.

“I don’t have time for this. Right now all I want is to go home and get some rest before we have to leave in a couple of days.” You roll your eyes, picking up some of the extra copies for the other agents you’re taking on the mission before grabbing the flowers from the table. 

“Are those yours?” Bucky’s voice pitches up, like he can’t seriously believe someone sent you flowers. 

“This is exactly what I don’t have time for.” You huff, leaving him behind in the conference room, wishing he’d just drop it. But knowing Barnes, and hearing his combat boots smack on the floor behind you, he won’t stop. 

“Who is he?” He raises his eyebrows, walking next to you, covering the elevator buttons with his hands so you can’t press either button. 

“Barnes,” You warn. “I’d rather not spend any more time with you than what’s required for my job.”

“Me neither,” Bucky nods. “So, if you can just tell me who sent you the flowers we can go on our way and not talk until we absolutely have to.”

“Does it matter who they’re from?” 

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “Of course it matters, I’ve never known you to like someone enough to give them your work address. I’ve never known you to like someone, period. So, yes, it matters.”

“Why would I tell you?” You quickly press the arrow pointing upwards as Bucky gets distracted with his dig at your non-existent love life. “So you can go and tell him what a big mistake he’s making?”

“That, and maybe I just want to know if he’s a real life breathing man.” He shrugs as you get in the elevator. “With eyes and ears and all those things one would need to know you really.”

“Great, thanks for the motivational talk I so didn’t need.” You flip him off as the doors close. 

-o-

Your head bounces against the side of the plane as you go through some turbulence but you try not to let it disturb you. But it’s something else that wakes you up, or rather, someone else. 

“I’ve come to the conclusion that he works somewhere in the compound.” Bucky drops his body in the seat next to you, his loud voice making your eyes snap open. 

“I’m resting before the mission,” You narrow your eyes at him. “And having you talk to me is messing that up.”

“You’re not disagreeing.” Bucky hums. 

“The only reason I haven’t flipped you over and dislocated your shoulder is because you have somehow gotten on Sam’s good side and I don’t want him giving me his disapproving father look.”

“Just tell me.” Bucky’s crystal blue eyes are looking straight into yours. 

“Tell you what?” You throw your head back with a groan. 

“Who the flowers are from.”

“You’re still on that?” You quirk one eyebrow.

“You never answered it.”

The questions seemed to have died down once you closed your eyes again but Bucky popped up whenever you expected him least.

You rummage through the office of the suspect that had just been killed. A doctor that was once Hydra had been trying to replicate the super soldier serum, the animal testing had been positive and a couple of dog sized rats still lived in his office. 

“Can you tell me what area he’s in?” Bucky leans on the doorframe and the sudden sound has you bringing your gun to his forehead. 

“I could have killed you just now,” You heave. “And I wish I would have, I think death is the only thing that’s going to stop you from asking all these questions.”

“You could just answer.” Bucky shrugs, looking both ways, making sure no one’s around.

“Why do you want to know?” You huff. 

“I want to know who’s romancing you.” Bucky acts like he doesn’t care, but the truth is that he’s spent the last few days with you and only you on his mind. 

The thought of you dating someone that does the bare minimum makes him frown. He’s never given a second thought to your dating life but if he had to rack his brain, Bucky would assume that you would date someone who’s competent enough to handle your wit and your moods, someone who gets your strength and doesn’t try to undermine you, someone who can handle the emotional baggage that comes with this job and doesn’t judge you. Someone who will hand deliver flowers to your apartment to show you he likes you, instead of having them delivered so that everyone thinks he likes you.

“Why do you care about my love life all of a sudden?” You snap at him and it actually stops him in his tracks. 

Bucky stares back at you with half a breath sucking in his lungs.

Love. 

You actually said the word love. 

Nothing’s ever happened between you two (except for that night the two of you spent cuddling together after neither of you wanted to sleep on the floor, but you swore you’d never speak of it again), but you’ve been a constant in Bucky’s life for years. And he doesn’t deal with change very easily. 

If you’re so freely talking about having a love life, as opposed to what? a like life? Get yourself together Barnes! he scolds himself, that means that soon enough you’ll be bringing this mediocre boyfriend around the tower, which means he’ll have to practice his “I’m trying to act like I care what you’re telling me” smile in the mirror while he’s bumped into the guy while you’re still getting ready because lord knows you love to take your sweet time getting ready! And that means that he’ll have to get a tux for your wedding because who would be stupid enough to not marry someone as intelligent and beautiful as you, and that means that you’ll take a leave for your honeymoon but knowing you, work will follow you to said honeymoon. You never stop working and Bucky’s warned you about your body taking a toll after all those years. 

“You’re one to talk.” He remembers you rolling your eyes at him the time he said it. 

God, your eyes. He’s going to miss your eyes. In the morning, you’ll look at him from over your boiling hot coffee cup. Bucky knows that you like to drink your coffee before the sun goes up because, in your words, I want to have at least a couple of minutes to myself before the world needs me. He’d never admit it to anyone but he sometimes acts like he’s had nightmares keeping him up at night just so he can share those quiet moments with you.

And after the tsunami of memories he won’t share with you anymore subsides, another wave comes crashing in. Soon you’ll be retiring, Bucky’s seen you with Morgan. It’s clear you want kids of your own some day. And you sure as hell won’t be having them when someone like Bucky Barnes is your partner. Bucky knows he’s a risk, he wouldn’t judge you if you thought it too. 

“Okay, we’re done here. I’m leaving, White Wolf hot on my heels.” You speak into the chip, making him snap out of his thoughts and return to Earth.

“As always, thanks for doing nothing, Barnes.” You laugh, slapping Bucky's shoulders as you pass him.

Bucky’s lungs burn as he runs alongside you down the corridor, trying to make up for all of the air he didn’t get as he spiraled. 

-o-

Bucky is up and it’s not because he heard the door hinges creak as you came inside or the slapping of your heels on the old wooden floor. It’s because he hasn’t been able to sleep since you left. 

He acted tired and fake yawned all the way to his room as you passed by, all maked-up and perfumed, when in reality he spent the rest of the night trying to decipher a video game someone recommended. 

Bucky’s verdict: I’ve been to war, I don’t need to play make believe. 

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the sounds coming from the kitchen. You opened the fridge door and took a glass bottle of sorts out. From the cork popping, he figured out you were taking out your favorite wine. 

Bucky walks quietly towards the kitchen, not wanting to startle you. 

You gasp as you turn around, cork in your mouth and wine glass filled to the brim in your left hand. 

“I thought everyone would be asleep by now.” You spit the cork into the trash, lowering your face so your hair fans over your features. 

“Nightmares,” Bucky mumbles, his eyebrows furrowing at your unusual mannerisms. 

“Well, now you know who was out here.” You walk past him. “Goodnight Barnes.”

But before you can leave, Bucky holds your arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” You try to release from his grip but you know you’re no match for the vibranium arm. 

Bucky lifts up a trembling hand to your face and moves away your hair. Your normally bright eyes now look dull. Red blotching around your irises and black ink running down your face.

“You’ve been crying.” Bucky’s jaw tightens. 

“Thanks for that, Sergeant Obvious,” You scoff. “You’ve discovered my secret. I’m a living, breathing woman with feelings. I know they make you uncomfortable because you don’t have any but I do.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I’m a person and as much as I would like to be as robotic as you are, sometimes people do things that hurt me.” You roll your eyes. “Next time I have feelings, I’ll make sure to take care of them before I enter the tower so you won’t be bothered.”

“Why are you crying?” He hisses, shutting his eyes before he sees red. “Who made you cry? Tell me a name and I’ll have them killed before dawn.”

“What?”

“No one makes my girl cry.”

Your mouth opens and closes as you try to understand what Bucky just said. The man who’s constantly bothering you and making your life quite impossible is threatening to kill someone just because you shed a couple of tears?

Bucky runs his hands down his face. “We’re wasting precious time here baby, just give me a name and I’ll do the rest.”

“You don’t care,” You tell him but his expression doesn’t change. “You’re not supposed to care. Why do you?”

“The other day, when you told me about the flower idiot, I may have realized something.” Bucky lets out a deep breath. “You’re my partner on the field but you’re much more than that in here.”

Your hand shakes as Bucky takes it and presses your palm flat on his chest. 

“I’m thinking of you when I wake up, hoping I catch you before you get ready. You’re on my mind when we’re training because I want to teach you everything I know, and I want you to teach me how you twisted the agent’s arm and dislocated his knee at the same time. Most of the times when we’re out on missions I’m reckless because I want to keep you safe. I don’t care what happens to me, you’re what needs to be taken care of. At night I dream of you, and then I wake up feeling hollow.”

“You’re too good for me and I know that but that doesn’t mean that some jackass can take you out and then make you cry. If that’s the standard then I’m way above average, baby.” Bucky lets out a dry chuckle. “And I know you don't want me because, who would? But-”

You slam your lips on his, stopping him completely. 

Both of you are starved for touch, wanting to explore every inch of the other. His hands roam your body as yours get tangled in his hair. 

Heavy breathing takes over the kitchen as you separate. 

“Why did it take you so long to tell me?” You rest your forehead on his. 

“Why did it take you so long to kiss me?”

tagged: @kpopgirlbtssvt @shara-ne @namelesssaviour@hallecarey1@aorifukuzawa@sammyssm@alana4610. @mrsjobarnes@vicmc624@unkasworld@theroyalmanatee@almosttoopizza@cjand10@cremebruleequeen@buggy14@jasminocano.@isabel-ffl-xoxo@wintrsoldrluvr@kandis-mom@12345sebby@tittittoee @unaxv. @teambarnes72@angelicrexi@she-wolf09231982@wilsons-striped-ties@tmb510@capswife@pono-pura-vida@touchstarvedforbuckybarnes@tatianah26@drewsuncrustable@minmiin1d

[shannonofrp]

Home Office Omaha

Picture of a medium-sized minimalist study room with a freestanding desk, a brown floor, and gray walls.

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #5

Damian does not glance back at Bruce when he knocks on the door. Instead they both wait in silence.

After a moment, the door opens.

"Hello," Jasmine, Jazz, Fenton greets politely, unsurprised to find the Waynes on her doorstep. Damian's expression grows ever darker at this revelation.

"Hello Ms. Fenton, are your parents home?" Bruce asks, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder, to ground as much as to restrain. To his credit he does not shake it off.

"No, they're out of town for a conference," the eighteen year-old says, opening the door wider. "But I think you'd better come in."

Bruce would normally decline, but Ms. Fenton is a legal adult and he has already, even unknowingly, waited 16 years. Damian makes the choice for him, striding past the threshold.

"Please take a seat," Jazz says as she leads them to the living room. She ignores Damian's swinging head as he takes in the home. It is deceptively large, a 90s style house filled with modern furniture. The walls are bright, with purple and green accents that would normally feel garish but somehow work. The stairs leading to the second floor are lined with family photos that Bruce yearns to take a closer look at. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No, that's alright, thank you," Bruce says, taking a seat on the long plush couch. A men's windbreaker lies haphazardly thrown across one of the arms. A closed container of Oreo cookies sit on the coffee table next to a physics textbook open to chapter 16, half covered in highlighter and filled with sticky notes. There's a child's painting framed next to the tv, a handprint made to look like a thanksgiving turkey in bright blue.

For the home of experimental scientists, it is cozy and well lived-in.

Damian repeatedly glances at the stairs through the doorway.

Bruce clears his throat. "We were hoping to--"

"I've texted--oh, I'm sorry," Jazz says, having spoken at the same time. Bruce gestures for her to go on.

"I've contacted Danny, he should be here soon. He was out with some friends." Jazz explains. As she hadn't pulled out a phone in their presence, Bruce can only deduce they have some sort of camera at their front door. This also explains Ms. Fenton's complete lack of surprise at their appearance.

"So you know who we are." Damian says, the first words he's spoken since they arrived at the house and the longest sentence he's spoken since they arrived in Amity Park.

"I do," Jazz says, calm in the face of Damian's clearly simmering anger. Bruce trusts him not to attack Ms. Fenton, but he still watches him carefully.

"He told you about me," Damian says. It is the same question, but it is also not.

"He did," Jazz says.

Damian swallows. "I see," he grits out.

Jazz's neutrality slips and her face softens in sympathy. "Damian," she starts hesitantly, but before she can say anything else the front door opens.

A moment later Bruce's son walks through the doorway, and Damian is on him.

This is what Bruce hoped to prevent, but despite his numerous checks of Damian's luggage his son has still managed to smuggle a small dagger, which he now produces and swings in a calculated arc at Daniel Fenton's jugular.

Danny dodges cleanly, and dodges every swipe thereafter in a manner that speaks to continued practice long after his time at the League. Damian is a perfect product of his training, but it is up against Danny his flaws come to light. He is just as good as he always was, but Danny is better.

In a matter of seconds Damian grows frustrated and sloppy in his attacks, completely atypical for him. Danny takes Damian out at the knees and pins him down with one arm, pressing his face into the carpet.

"Calm down," he orders. His voice is deeper than Damian's at sixteen to his twelve, the accent that still traces Damian's words completely gone from his speech. Damian growls and thrusts his head back into Danny's face, meeting it with a sharp thunk. He rolls up as Danny recoils, putting distance between them. Danny glares at him from several steps away, hand to his forehead. Damian tosses the dagger into his other hand as he charges, and to Bruce's surprise Danny does nothing more than turn his face to the side, allowing Damian to draw a sharp line down his cheek.

Damian stops dead in his tracks.

"Are you done?" Danny asks, blood beginning to pool at the seam of the cut.

Damian's expression is stricken, eyes stuck on the blood starting to drip down his brother's face.

"I said, are you done, Damian?" Danny asks. His voice is cold.

Damian hears him this time, and he flushes red. "I--you--"

Danny sighs. He looks at Jazz, whose expression is back to carefully controlled.

"Are you alright?" he asks her. She nods.

"You left me," Damian accuses, standing there holding his bloody dagger limply.

Danny turns back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"You left me," Damian repeats louder, rapidly blinking.

"Yes. I did." Danny provides no excuse nor any explanation. His stance is unyielding.

Damian's eyes bounce wildly, shifting to Jazz and Danny slides smoothly in front of her, protectively. He looks at Damian warily, not as if he is his brother, but as if he is a danger. Damian flinches.

Hope is the last to die, Bruce thinks, watching as that last bit of hope Damian had is extinguished, the knowledge working its way through every inch of his body like ice in his veins. His eyes darken. He turns and runs from the room, the front door slamming shut not a moment later.

Jazz stands up, pulling a few tissues from the box on the coffee table. She presses them to Danny's face, cupping his cheek until he holds it himself. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit," she says gently. It is a thinly veiled excuse to leave them alone, and Bruce is grateful for it as she heads for the stairs.

They both wait until her footsteps have faded, taking each other in. Bruce looks at his mother's eyes and the sharp turn of Talia's nose. Damian's everything, four years older.

"You shouldn't have come here," Danny says, throwing himself on the armchair Jazz has just vacated.

"You know who I am," Bruce says carefully.

Danny glares. "I've kept your secret. She nor my parents know."

"I know," Bruce says. "That's not what I meant. You know who I am. And who I pretend to be. So you know I am familiar with masks."

"And?" Danny asks, looking vaguely bored.

"And so I can recognize when someone is wearing one. Damian will too, once he's calmed down."

Danny's expression sharpens. "No, he won't. Because you are going to go to back to whatever bed and breakfast you're staying in, pack up, hop in your private jet and fly him back to Gotham immediately before the League realizes you've gone. If they haven't already," he mutters.

"This is about the League then," Bruce says. "Do you not believe I can protect you?"

"I don't need your protection," Danny snaps, and watches Bruce actively extrapolate with a dawning resignation. "So this is the World's Greatest Detective at work," he says, slumping bonelessly into his chair, the first teenager-y thing he's done.

"Damian's in danger from the League," Bruce says. Danny glares from his slump. It's almost cute. "And as long as the League doesn't know about you, he's safe."

"Draw your own conclusions," Danny says, baring his teeth. Damian often makes the same face. "As long as you leave."

"I can protect him. I can protect you both," Bruce says. "Let me help you."

Danny closes his eyes. He centers his breathing in an exercise someone has clearly walked him through in the past. Bruce would bet money on the adoptive sister waiting patiently upstairs.

"Mr. Wayne. You are not my father," he says. "My trust in you extends to the point that I left Damian in your care, but that is where it ends. And that was when it was sanctioned by the League. By coming here you have endangered those sanctions."

Bruce disregards the sting, doubling down on his analysis. Talia had left Damian with Bruce well after Danny had left the League. But Danny speaks as if the decision had been his.

Or perhaps, Bruce realizes, it is not that Danny decided upon it, but that Danny allowed it to continue.

Bruce takes a second to review what Oracle had gone over with him before they left for Amity. Daniel Fenton had by all accounts, since leaving the League, lived a fairly normal life. His adoptive parents were eccentric scientists dabbling in the occult but their findings that bordered pseudoscience circulated a very niche community of like-minded eccentrics. The bulk of their income came from alternative energy, a more viable source of study that they'd veered harder into in the past year or so, a government contract with the EPA currently in the works. This had in part funded a vacation to an all-inclusive resort the family had taken that past summer.

Danny received average grades in school, above average in science and mathematics, declining sharply in his freshman year and sophomore year before evening out around the second semester. He had gotten into fights repeatedly with one student in particular, suspended for two weeks following an incident that resulted in a the student receiving a black eye. Teachers reported him to be highly intelligent but distracted and removed. They had recommended he be evaluated for an attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. He had no social media. He had missed multiple picture days. The ones he had attended he was sneezing, or a blur of movement, even going so far as to fall off his stool, legs flailing. Bruce had drank up every last one as Barbara had waited patiently.

A normal life. A family vacation to Bermuda. Average grades.

His freshman year, distracted and removed. The same year Damian had arrived at Bruce's home. Masks upon masks.

"You have informants within the League," Bruce says. Danny, to his credit, has no discernible tell. But there is no other explanation. "What will you do, if they find out you are alive?"

"That is none of your concern," Danny says, but he might as well be saying whatever I have to.

He never stopped practicing, after all.

"If they go after Damian, it is my concern."

"And that is why you need to take Damian back to Gotham before they do." Danny says. "I will take care of it."

Damian had barely spoken since he had realized Danyal was alive. But Bruce had seen the reverence in his eyes as he looked at the file.

"الوريث الصحيح" he had murmured. The rightful heir.

"You are proposing going after the entirety of the League with no backup," Bruce says. "Even if you think they won't kill you, you won't win either."

"Maybe they will," Danny says lightly. "Kill me. That would also work."

Bruce inhales sharply. "Danny," he starts.

"Go home, Mr. Wayne," Danny says, pushing himself up with one hand. The other still clutches the wad of tissue to his cheek, partially soaked with blood. "Go take care of your son."

"I'll go," Bruce says, "I'll take him to the Watchtower. And then I'll come back."

"Mr. Wayne-"

"I should've come for you," Bruce interrupts. "Sixteen years ago. I should've come for you."

Danny's brow furrows. "You had no idea I existed."

"But if I had. I would've come. I never would've left you there. And now that I know, I am not leaving you now."

For the first time Bruce watches Danny be completely caught off guard. He openly gapes at Bruce.

"You would've died," Danny lands on, voice thin. "They would've killed you."

"Unlike you, I would've brought backup." Bruce says, mimicking Danny's lightness.

He's lying. Sixteen years ago he would've thrown himself at the League to save his newborn son without a plan, without a thought beyond rescuing his baby.

Danny barks out a laugh. "You would've laid siege to Nanda Parbat with The Big Blue Boy Scout?" he looks wistful. "That would've been rad."

Bruce sees his opening. "Danny," he stands, eye to eye with his son. "Let me help you."

Danny evaluates him. "The Batman," he says softly. "I didn't want you to come, then. I didn't need one more person I had to prove myself to. All I wanted was to live amongst the stars, in the quiet of the cosmos."

"You want to be an astronaut," Bruce says. At Danny's cocked head, he says without shame, "I read your essay on personal heroes. You wrote about Edward White. Ad Astra Per Aspera."

Danny smiles slightly, sadly. "It is a rough road."

"You can be whatever you want to be," Bruce says. "I won't stand in your way."

"Even if I want to be Danny Fenton?" he asks.

"Even then."

Danny sighs. "I don't need your help Bruce," he says. "No," he says as Bruce opens his mouth. He pulls the wad of tissues away from his cheek. Underneath the splotches of dried blood the gash in his face has cleanly knit itself together, a faint white line now all that remains.

"I don't need your help," he says clearly. He holds a palm forward, and a green fire grows from its center, until the flames are licking delicately up his fingers.

"I know The Batman does not kill. But I am not a Robin. I am something else entirely," Danny says, his eyes reflecting the green of the flames. Or not, as he looks up at Bruce, his eyes green all on their own. They are sad. This is why he stayed away, Bruce realizes. Not out of fear. Danny is not afraid. Danny is tired.

But for his brother, Danny will wake up.

"And If the League takes one step towards Damian, I will raze them to the ground."

[lavenderprose]

I'm thoroughly convinced that in any sort of modern-day AU, Rook and Emmrich are the couple whose first date basically just never ends. There's a meet-cute. They meet in the grocery store when they both reach for the same jar of pickled eggs. Or in an elevator of a fancy hotel where Emmrich is attending a conference and Rook is on a galpal's bachelorette vacay. Or at a blood drive where Emmrich is grading papers and Rook is reading the trashiest novel she could get her hands on.

They hit it off. Emmrich, of course, finds Rook charming and Emmrich is, of course, the king of unassuming rizz. They exchange numbers. They go on a date that weekend to some stuffy gastropub that Emmrich apologizes for recommending no less than six times mostly because Rook looks at the prices on the menu with the kind of dismay that Emmrich remembers from being young and poor and hungry.

He pays for their meal, of course, and utterly insists that she order dessert.

They go for a walk. They Uber home, again on Emmrich's dime. Emmrich walks Rook up to her doorstep and intends to leave her with a quick peck, maybe even on the cheek, and a promise to call --but Rook slinks her arms around his neck and presses her body to his and invites him up.

"Terribly sorry," Emmrich half-yells into the Uber driver's passenger side window "It seems we're both staying here! I have--a tip--" He shoves a twenty dollar bill through the cracked window. It flutters anticlimactically onto the passenger seat. "Here you go!"

Rook's apartment is small, cluttered but clean, and they do not reach the bedroom. Emmrich fucks her on the sofa, which is second-hand and which they sink into alarmingly far, and they enjoy the afterglow together by scrolling through late-night offerings on a delivery app because Rook mentions that the gastropub's serving sizes were abysmal. They order a pizza, and Rook eats wearing nothing but her lacy purple thong and Emmrich's discarded white button-up. Emmrich watches her and feels his heart nervously flutter.

He stays the night.

In the morning, he plans to make her coffee and offer some eggs and then take his leave, because it seems polite and he has no reason to think she wouldn't want her Sunday to herself. Instead, Rook drinks the coffee, pops out of her chair and mentions that there is an Antivan bakery just down the street if he wants to walk with her.

He does, of course.

"I'm applying to graduate programs right now," Rook tells him, chewing on a biscotti, cute fingers wrapped around a second coffee. They sit in the window of the bakery on a pair of charmingly previous-century wrought iron bistro chairs. "There's one program...I want it so badly, but they only accept six candidates every three years. I've been out of school for a few years and I was going through some stuff in undergrad, so my GPA wasn't the greatest. I'l doubt I'll get in."

"Which program?" Emmrich inquires. Each of their pairs of legs are folded under the table, his right-over-left and hers left-over-right. They periodically tap their feet together and each time it happens, he smiles.

"It's a fellowship to study at the Grand Necropolis," Rook tells him. "Specifically, their program on funerary practices from the turn of the first millenium, which is--what?"

"Oh," Emmrich says, a little flustered. "Nothing, it's just--well, I'm tenured at the Necropolis. I know exactly the person who will be reading your application. It's not my program, of course, but I could...would you like me to look over your application? I know what she'll be looking for."

This is how Emmrich ends up sitting at Rook's dining room table well into the afternoon, reading through her extensive application to the Necropolis' fellowship program. She's undersold herself extensively--and he tries to aim her in a better direction while also not getting any of his fingerprints on the application. Myrna would easily be able to tell if she was reading an application written by someone who she'd eaten brunch with once a month for the past eight years.

"I should probably be going," Emmrich says, stretching out his back after several hours. "I have a...well, my bird gets nervous if I'm gone for long periods of time."

"You have a bird?" Rook asks, with delight, and this is how he ends up being driven back to his place by an overly-excited Rook, who apparently had a childhood dream of owning a parrot.

Manfred seems equally fascinated by her, as he hops onto her shoulder and makes a serious of hisses.

"His previous home evidently had cats," Emmrich tells her, gently petting the top of Manfred's head, and Manfred displays his other skill--screeching 'Emmrich!' over and over.

This is when things start to blur. Emmrich makes dinner, they eat, watch an episode of whatever is on the TV, and then have sex again--in the bed this time, Rook on top, hair down, and she looks...well, he doesn't last long.

In the morning, she goes to work. Texts him in the middle of the day to ask if he likes Tevinter food. He says yes, and she asks if he's free that evening. Also yes.

It's about a week later that Emmrich realizes they haven't spent much more than a workday apart since Saturday. It being Saturday again, Emmrich mentions it.

"Oh," says Rook, looking suddenly unsure. "I'm sorry, did you--if you need me to go, I can--"

"No!" Emmrich all but yells. "I just meant--am I monopolizing your time? Do you have...things I'm, er, keeping you from?"

Rook settles back against the sofa, which she's been lounging on beautifully on this rainy Saturday morning in Emmrich's pajama top and underneath Emmrich's mother's crochet blanket.

"Most of my friends are also, y'know, busy professionals," Rook sighs, head leaning on her hand, hair draping. "It's hard to make time. And I don't have family, really. I can leave if you want, really, I would understand. I just got a little carried away because--well, it's nice. To have someone to come home to." She frowns. "I don't know, is that weird to say?"

"No," Emmrich says, tears watering in alarming fashion. "No, darling, it makes perfect sense."

Everyone is only vaguely concerned when Rook moves into Emmrich's place a month later.

"It's not like we're getting married," Rook scoffs repeatedly.

Except that they do, before the end of the year. By that point, however, it seems that everyone has made peace with the situation--mostly because they finish each other's sentences, and sigh like lovelorn puppy dogs when they're apart, and mostly because nobody can really imagine them any other way nowadays.

[jobean12-blog]

Work It Out

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader (modern day au)

Word count: 900

Summary: You’ve been away for the weekend on a work trip and when you return but don’t contact Joel immediately he worries.

Author’s Note: the pic below nearly ended me. His arms are just🥵🔥 I just had to write a little something! Hope you enjoy! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always❤️❤️❤️divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰

Warnings: Joel is worried about you but he’s soft about it, implied sexy times, fluff

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

He steps off the treadmill and grabs the towel dangling from the handrail, mopping the sweat from his face.

Dropping to the mat he gives himself a few minutes to recover before working through a set of core exercises.

He would never admit that keeping busy without you would mean daily visits to the gym to work out the restless need he felt.

How many more hours?

Once his abs are burning, he gets to his feet and moves to the bench press. But instead of lying down, he slips his phone out of his pocket for the hundredth time.

Eleven thirty.

You should be home by now. Why hadn’t you text or called yet?

With a hard swallow he lays back and tries to focus on the exercise but when his phone buzzes on the floor he jerks up and grabs it, sighing when he sees it’s Tommy calling.

He doesn’t bother to answer, knowing he’ll just be extra grumpy and instead scrolls to your name. His finger hovers over the button and then he curses under his breath and nearly chucks the device across the gym.

He’ll give you another half hour. After that he’s going to check on you.

The drive back had been slow and boring, just like the whole weekend of work. They never made these conferences any fun and you were so ready to sleep in your own bed with Joel.

Your phone is nearly dead when you walk through your door and you drop it onto the coffee table, planning to plug it in and call Joel as soon as you pee.

Tiredness takes over quickly and you shuffle to the kitchen, searching for something to eat. When you have a snack in hand you head back to the couch and grab your phone, seeing that the screen is black.

Where is your charger? Most likely buried somewhere in your bag.

You’ll just close your eyes for a minute then get up and get it.

Joel sits for maybe ten seconds after he makes the second call and it goes to your voicemail then he vaults off the bench and out of the gym, his hands unsteady as he looks for the keys for his pickup.

“Fuck.” He turns in a dizzying circle, finding nothing, and willing his phone to make some noise.

“Where the fuck are you baby?” he says to himself as he finally spots his keys and heads for the truck.

You wake to the sound of your door being practically kicked in and jackknife off the couch, screaming so loudly the neighbors must hear.

You’re probably being robbed.

Wakefulness collides with reality, and you start to focus.

You’re not being robbed. Not unless some sweaty, almost six-foot, grumpy guy with narrowed eyes has fallen on really tough times.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t move, he just stares at you, chest heaving with heavy breaths.

“You never answered my call. Didn’t even ring. Right to voicemail.”

“What?”

He swallows hard, his voice rough.

“You were supposed to call me as soon as you got in. I never heard and then I couldn’t get through…”

All at once, his words click, and you slowly stand.

“Oh, Joel baby, I’m sorry. I just wanted to sit for a minute. My phone died and I was going to plug it in. The drive made me so sleepy…”

He lets out a loud exhale and then without warning, barrels toward you like a missile to scoop you into his arms.

Instantly, he buries his face in your neck and breaths deeply, gathering you closer.

“Did you break any laws getting over here?” you ask, a smile playing on your lips.

“Probably all of them but I don’t give a shit. I was worried.”

Your arms wrap around his neck, and you inhale against his skin, letting the combination of soap and sweat seep into your body.

He walks you over to the couch and turns to sit down heavily. You have no choice but to wrap your thighs around his hips and straddle him on the couch.

Your cheek lays against his warm shoulder and you lift your fingertips to dance along his bare arm, tracing along the muscles that are flexed tightly with the way he’s holding you.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You lift your head to make eye contact, momentarily silenced by the look of pure, undiluted adoration in his eyes.

“I missed you too.”

His attention falls to your mouth, and he leans in, finding the pulse at the base of your neck and spreading warm air across your fluttering skin, kissing you there.

Slowly, torturously, his lips move all the way to your ear. “Shower with me.”

You give him a little sniff and a playful smile.

“Very funny,” he deadpans, shifting so you can feel him between your legs.

You let out a gasp.

His head moves and his lips graze yours, holding the position without kissing you for a beat and you nod, your mouth brushing his.

He stands from the couch with you in his arms, walking toward the bathroom and letting you slide down his body until your feet touch the floor where he crowds you against the wall.

“So soft,” he praises in your ear as his fingers delicately trace the skin on your stomach just above your pants.

Your nails dig into his biceps, and you thrust your hips toward his, chasing the feel of his body.

“Don’t rush me angel,” he murmurs into your skin. “I wanna savor every gorgeous inch of you.”

[venmondiese]

SECRET TEAMWORK

a request from my lovely @slytherincursebreaker ♡ thank you so much!

Summary: Having a non-commited relationship with Aemond is hard, but as you find yourself pregnant, it might just be harder.

✧Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader ✧Warnings: MDNI 18+, MENTIONS OF ABORTION, p in v sex, pregnant sex, dom and sub undertones, fingering, boss/secretary adventure, slight degradation kink, slight praise kink. ✧Word Count: 6.02k

Aemond placed his own hand around your mouth, to keep your little squeals and moans away. Your pencil skirt all the way up to your hips, it was almost funny, as Aemond kept you seated atop of one of the broken tables in the storage room of the building. 

“A-Aemond!” You press your hands on his chest, moving the hand on your mouth. “You are… going to be late!” You whine.

“Let them wait” he says softly, his hand pressing against your mouth as his right hand is between your legs, tormenting you as he likes.

He is knuckles deep in your pussy, and he watches your expression as you mewl, holding on his shoulders for dear life. This is probably one of the things he enjoys most in life; tormenting you to his delight. Having you drool and moan like a wanton whore, and how your cheeks get red from the effort to be quiet. 

Your pussy might be one of his favourite things, how warm and wet it is for him. Gives him a sense of power as he knows that he can have you melting on his arms just by fingering you. 

He knows the effort you put to look nice, your face of makeup, your hairstyle, your little outfit. He loves to mess it all up. If it wasn’t for the presentation with affiliates of the company of his family, he’d probably be fucking you with no problem.

But he cannot risk not being presentable as he is the main speaker during the conference. He has a lot of things to explain, and he prefers not risking his image. 

“Shh, shh, moaning like the little whore you are” he says, smirking, as he tries not to allow any little scream to get out loudly. “Come on, baby, delight me. Cum on my fingers” he says, saying sweet nothings in your ear along with it. 

Your big nervous eyes, looking at him as he covers your mouth, is a sight that he doesn’t want to forget, truly.

He is hard, and he hates how he can’t do anything about it. He just looks at you and tries to give you all the pleasure he can’t get. 

“Wanna show me your little moans, baby?” He asks as you nod, and he can picture your pout as your eyebrows go up in a needy way. 

You feel his thumb, going in circles around your clit. It is probably the most delightful thing he does, because it is always precise and pleasurable, as if he has perfected his technique to be at its very best.

Your grip on his shoulders, as he liberates your mouth from his palm, and you let out a sob of pleasure, trying not to scream so loudly, because if you did so, it was over for you and him.

He relishes himself in the little moans and whimpers, in the way your pussy clenches around his three fingers, and he kisses your lips; his hand on the back of your neck is firm, keeping you in place as he kisses and plays with your tongue. 

“Open your mouth” he whispers, and you look up to him, knowing exactly what he is up to. 

You love how he can dominate you so easily. Most men had to make an effort to try to look dominant. Aemond had it naturally. 

He spits on your mouth, making sure to look at you as it falls on your tongue, and the way your pussy clenches as you swallow.

Gods, you are soaking wet. He knows you are close by how loudly your wet pussy sounds as he fingers you, and the little mewls you let out as you press your forehead on his shoulder lets him know that you are losing composure, and your legs are becoming numb.

“I need it, you know that… Give me good luck, baby…” he says softly, and as you let out a loud moan, your thighs squeezing his hand, he leans down to capture your lips on his.

He knows how you need tenderness after cumming. You are prone to become sensible, and more these days, when you always need reassurance. 

He kisses you, sloppy and a bit urged, but not too messy. His tongue makes its own way on your mouth, and he can feel how you are trying to keep up as you let out a muffled loud moan, and he can feel how your walls involve his fingers as you cum.

As you rest your forehead on his shoulder, he takes his fingers out, just to suck them to enjoy your taste, even if it is just a bit. It drives him wild, but he has to restrain himself and nothing makes him more frustrated. 

He rubs your back, as you pant loudly, holding the edge of the broken table, which luckily didn’t break further. He moves to watch the hour on his expensive clock, and he still has twenty five minutes to arrive. He sighs, knowing that he cannot put it on hold any longer.

“We have to go” he says softly, and you whine, not wanting to. 

He moves a bit back, and you let your head fall down as you try to relax your breathing. He makes you lean slightly back, your hands hesitantly going back on the table to hold your weight. 

He moves your panties, which he moved and made sure they remained on the side, so it doesn’t bother his work. He places himself between your legs, as he looks down and both of his hands move to accommodate your panties gently, without a hurry. His fingers tentatively caress your clit, but don't press their luck. 

“Come on. We can go to the bathroom and get presentable again” he whispers, grabbing your hand, pulling you to your feet. 

The heels you wear are probably uncomfortable, and he sighs, suppressing the urge to roll his eye. He pulls down your carefully ironed pencil skirt, and he tries to make it presentable again. 

“You didn’t bring other heels?” He asks softly.

“No” you murmurs, looking at him with tired eyes.

“Gods, woman.” He says rolling his eye “I am going to start to buy you comfortable shoes and leave them in my office, so you don’t have to wear those things”

“It is protocol” you say looking at him, as he takes your purse and hangs it on your shoulder.

“I am the boss. If I want you to walk around naked or in pyjamas, it is my call to make” he states softly, and he leans to kiss your cheek lovingly. “Come on” 

He grabs your hand, and you follow him quietly, as he makes sure no one is around as you two walk, hand in hand to the bathroom.

He goes into the men’s bathroom and you to the opposite.

He is quite meticulous, and so your appearance isn’t messy or ruined. If something, you look exhausted. You reapply your red lipstick, and put a bit more mascara. Not too much, you don’t wanna look vulgar either.  

You place some loose hairs back into position, and accommodate your clothes again. You sigh, looking at yourself in the mirror.

The secretary and her boss. You think, as you press your lips together, nibbling the inside of your mouth. 

Once you go out, Aemond was outside waiting for you, using his phone to probably answer some texts. 

“Ready” you say, and he looks flawless once again. If he had an erection, there is no trace of it. He is truly surprising, like a little box of mysteries.

“Let’s go then” he says as he looks at you, hesitating before walking away and pressing the elevator button.

The way to the auditorium is silent. He checks his phone, and you check the little agenda where you write down everything he has to do. 

“Westeros' investors group will be here” you remind him. “And so will the Yi Ti’s empresarial boss, as you know…”

“Uh huh” he agrees. “Will my half sister…?”

“Yes. Rhaenyra will make her appearance as the heir of…”

“Don’t”

So you don’t. “Edyr Karstark will be as well” as the lift doors open, he walks out and you follow him. “Coryanne Dayne and Morgan Martell as well, from Dorne…”

You walk with him as he stops, and you see his mother and grandfather waiting for him at the door. 

Aemond looks at them, sighing. He turns to you, and you have to take a moment to move your gaze away from them.

You see the posture of Alicent straighten as she looks at you, as if squinting her eyes slightly. She holds her arms, her green dress is elegant and she looks intimidating. Otto Hightower makes no effort to hide his disgust, and he looks at you as if his eyes could throw daggers at you.

“Don’t mind them” he whispers to you “They just…”

“Hate me” you finish for him, accepting the fact.

“They… It’s just complicated”

“I am the whore who lies with my boss for his money.” You say the words that his family thinks but never say out loud. 

“You are not… You are more than that” he says softly. 

You walk behind him, as he goes to greet them. You always follow him everywhere, most of the time. You take care of the tiny details of his work life that he didn't care about. Learning names in meetings, learning the interest of the people to help him. Reminding him of his busy schedule.

“Aemond” his mother greets him, a kiss on both sides of his cheeks.

You two becoming closer was just natural, you’d told your friends. You two were single, and you spent more time with him than in your own home. And otherwise. 

It was not long ago when his sister and brother found out about you two, and so his mother knew naturally, and so did his father, grandfather, half sister… It scared you to death.

Alicent had talked to you about quitting, how easier it would be than a scandal. You never could realise if she was saying this from the goodness of her heart or to keep you away from his prestigious son. 

Otto Hightower was more direct, as he presented you with a letter of dismissal, which Aemond had to defend you. It was embarrassing, but you just… liked him, to endure his odd family.

“Hello, miss” Alicent says, and Otto greets you as well. You force a smile, and nod a quick greeting to her. “They are all waiting for you” she murmurs, and looks at him. “Your father has come for this, as well”

“Ah” he says, you can see how his mouth turns down in disgust. 

“It is well prepared” Otto adds “It is fine work. If your project is approved, those months in Yi Ti will be all for you” 

You look at your hands at the reminder. You won’t be going along, and it was a bit odd. On purpose, if even. But you have never said it outloud, less to Aemond, because it was truly an amazing project.

 “If you could bring me a glass of water…?” He asks you, and you nod. 

You walk to the presentation table, looking at the people around, chatting and greeting, no one really watches you. You take some of the bottles and pour it down in a glass for him, walking to the door, as you almost stumble against Alicent and Otto. 

“I wanted to thank you” Alicent says, and you stop a bit confused, looking at her. “He wouldn’t have done it so smoothly. You two do a great teamwork” 

It is half a compliment, you guess. She is trying, at least to be cordial. “Thank you”

You are quick to escape, and you watch Aemond at the door waiting for you. He doesn't seem too nervous, he never reveals his feelings so easily.

“Thank you” he says, in a softer voice. Drinking a bit of water, leaning out to see the people inside “I’ll remember those names you said. Any particular… thing you recommend me to say?”

You look at him, and say “Well, a greeting is much more welcomed than just starting speaking.” He looks back at you, and he nods softly “And look at them in the eyes”

“It is them who don’t see me in the eye.” He says trying to be funny.

“I am serious” your lips curl up, and add “Don’t be nervous. No one here knows more about it than you. And try not to fight” 

“You know me too well, for my disgrace” he says smiling. “How do you feel about that great bonus in your next check?” He asks slightly amused.

“Feels like the Gods have take mercy on my soul” 

You move to take a little lint on his shoulder, dangerously close in public. He isn’t one for public displays of affection, less with you. 

Perhaps that’s why his mother and family disapproved more than if you two were something. You were his secretary, and him your boss. Not partners, no compromise. 

It makes you anxious, sometimes. How could you even ask him? Not that he would take advantage of his power position over you. It wasn’t about asking your boss what exactly you two were. It was about asking him, Aemond Targaryen, what he truly felt about you. 

You could find another job, but you couldn’t find another him, another Aemond. 

“You’ll do fine. I made sure there is water, and those mint sweets” you tell him. “The control of the presentation is ready, and there are no cables for you to stumble on. The table is seated so your blind spot doesn’t face the public. It is rotated so you can read the presentation as well, so don’t worry.” 

Aemond looks at you, looking inside for a moment before wrapping one arm around your body, pulling you both out of sight as he leans to kiss you passionately, for a few seconds.

You kiss him back, if anything a bit surprised about his bold action. As he pulls away, he is quick to recomposture himself, and smirk. 

“I don’t have lipstick on?” 

“No…”

“Good” he says with a smirk. “Go and take a seat. You have earned it” 

With that, he walks inside. You blink, a bit flustered and surprised. When you look inside, you see Alicent Hightower watching you, all tense up, sitting next to her husband, who is talking to Rhaenyra. She saw you. 

You were about to be sick. You turn around as a gag comes out of you, covering your mouth, yet you don’t feel the disgusting feeling of something coming up your throat. Perhaps because you have not eaten anything today.

You try to act normally, as you walk to sit at the side of the window, looking at the cars in the street passing by, as you hear how the conference is to start. 

“Where is he, again?” 

 “Probably Yi Ti right now” you say, sitting on the kitchen counter as Amanda prepares the lasagna. 

“And he got funds for this? Like his rich family couldn’t just… allow him to borrow money?”

“Doesn’t work like that” you say amused. 

“Ha. I know” Amanda says, chuckling. She was one of your ex coworkers, and you used to have lunch with her everyday, before she quit for a better job. “How is he?”

“In what sense?” you ask, looking at your margarita yet you haven’t drink any of it yet, too occupied in the chatting.

“Happy, I mean. I don’t think I have ever seen him… Happy. Or smile. Have you?”

“Yeah” you say smiling at how silly that question is. “Duh.” You say rolling your eyes. 

Amanda turns on the furnace as she waits for it to get a bit hot before putting the lasagna, and she looks at you. 

“And did his family was there? His mum? The Alicent Hightower?”

“All of them. Viserys, Alicent, Otto, even Rhaenyra. Helaena went for moral support” you say chuckling. 

“And what about the mistress?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes.

“Alys Rivers?” You ask her. “I think she was there…”

You try to shrug it off, but it boils your blood the thought of her. More with her story with Aemond, how intimate they had been. It makes you gag.

“Oh, it burns you from the inside!” She giggles, and she places the lasagna inside the oven. “Is the Margarita good? I haven’t tried it…” she asks, moving across the kitchen to take a sip. 

“I will try it…” you say, moving your straw around, and you are hit by the hard scent of alcohol.

“It is good for a drink bought in the supermarket, you know? I waited for…”

“I am going to throw up” you say standing up from the seat, as you make your way to the bathroom of her house.

Aemond has been gone for maybe two weeks at this point, and you keep on gagging at smells, of any disgusting kind. There were only four things you relished on; the smell of the mints that Aemond liked, gasoline, hot dogs and coffee. 

Throwing up is not nice; the first time is because of the sickness, and the rest is purely out of disgust for the vomit. 

You wash your mouth, and try not to leave her bathroom with the scent. Once you come back, you see that Jasper, her fianceé, has arrived.

“Are you okay?” Amanda asks, as she walks over to you. “You love Margaritas, are you not sick? Oh! Is that restaurant where you went with Aemond to the triumph meal?” 

He made you accompany him, with his family and associates, to a dinner that his grandsire organised, in an expensive restaurant, after the triumph of having his project accepted and founded. You vomited all the food at night, probably because of the lobster. 

“It was over two weeks ago” you say, shaking your head. “I always get sick when I am about to get my period. Being irregular has its disadvantages ” 

“Oh, I get that feeling” she chuckles, going back to the kitchen as her finaceé is drinking her margarita.

You stand still for a few moments, and you realise the possibility. Probably the reality, as you had all the symptoms... it made total sense, and you stood frozen as you realised.

You were pregnant.

It is two months later when Aemond comes back. Half of his project has been completed, a total success. But his business in Yi Ti was more than done, and the oriental atmosphere was too much for a Westerosi man like him. 

He was not surprised with your resignation letter as he came back to the office, which was why you wouldn’t answer any of his texts or calls. Three weeks into his journey, he got your resignation letter, accepted by his grandsire, which only needed his signature. 

He called, and called. And nothing. You probably ghosted him, and he called Helaena to check on you. He didn’t trust his mother or grandsire. 

According to his sister, you just needed to let go of some things of the past as you realised you had more ambitions than being a secretary. 

On Friday, he is in your apartment. The building was old, and it had barely four floors, and you lived at the end of it. He has stayed in your apartment once or twice, but mostly he just passed when he dropped you off.

Luckily, he comes at the time where the old lady of the first floor is getting inside with all the supermarket bags.

“Let me help you” Aemond says as the lady is struggling between managing the heavy bags and opening the door. 

“Oh, thank you, young lad” the woman says, as he takes all the bags from her arms. He enters first, and waits for her to walk, very slowly.

The woman opens the second glass door to enter the building, and she stops at the mailbox, checking for her apartment number.

“You want me to grab yours too?” The sweet lady asks, and Aemond hesitates.

“Uh, sure. Thank you” he says, and in the silence he realises he has to say the number “41” he remembers the number of your apartment, and the lady grabs the mail for today. 

They make an exchange, where he leaves the bags in her house, and she gives him the mail. She is sweet and Aemond has a smile as he has to go all the way up to the fifth floor. 

He is not one to spy, but you have a lot of mail. Mostly about some subscriptions you made, he is curious to see if you have anything from your new job. 

He stops, mid stairs as he watches the pink envelope.  A woman’s choice. 

He hesitates a bit, before he pulls out his phone. He remembers that. Helaena and Rhaenyra both made a contribution for that clinic, didn’t they? It was the woman’s building of the hospital in Visenya’s Hill. He walks slowly upstairs, he is midway the third floor, as he walks up slowly. 

He searches for the name of the clinic, and he hates how bad the signal is. He sees the three dots moving, loading the page slowly. 

His stomach drops as he reads. Pregnancy termination clinic.

He doesn’t understand anything. 

He stands frozen, with phone on one hand as he holds the envelope behind. His mind is racing. He knows you are not subscribed to it just because. He hasn’t heard in months about you, and he doesn’t know what to conclude about this information. 

It feels an eternity before he knocks on your door. Once. Twice. Nothing.

He doesn’t hear the wood crack under your weight. It was painfully obvious when someone stepped on it, he remembers one time when he dropped you at your house, drunk, and you both laughed at how silly it sounded at every step you both took. 

He missed you, he realises. Scratch that. He knew that he missed you, but not that much for his heart to ache like that at the memory. He misses you. He feels incomplete. 

You open the door, obviously expecting anyone but him. 

You are wearing a black hoodie, using a face mask, probably orange scented. You always made sure to be well looking  in the sense that you took care of your appearance. 

You look different. He blinks slowly, as he looks at you, frozen in his place. He isn’t normally so stiff, he is usually more straightforward, a man of business. 

“Aem– Mr. Targaryen” you say, a bit surprised. The way you refer to him stings.“You are back. To what I owe the pleasure?” 

It is at the same time that you realise that he was holding your mail, as his eye trails down to your hidden stomach. Your clothes are too big to realise, which only makes him more confused, and suspicious. He can’t see anything to confirm, but it is unusual, you don't like to wear these kinds of clothes.

“You… quit” he says, dumbfounded.

“Yes. Nothing personal” you say tapping your fingers on the door. You were anxious. “I am sorry if it came at a bad time.”

He looks at you, as the lie comes naturally to you. 

“Can I come in?” 

Your place is a bit messier. He knows something is up. You move your hands to take off that stupid face mask, and your face is all shiny from it.

“I am not really… I was not expecting… visitors”

He was more than a visitor, and you knew it. You missed him. He looks as handsome as you remembered. You didn’t go to the airport, but you kissed him farewell in his office. 

“Are you… pregnant?” 

You blink at your boss. At your something. At your baby daddy. At Aemond Targaryen.

He can see the little panic in your eyes, and he lets a scared sigh. He covers his mouth as he looks at the side.

“I should have been with you” he says regretfully, and his heart feels at the floor. “I was away, and you…. You should have been so…” he doesn’t know if it is useful to say it, it was probably traumatic to you. “Forgive me. If there is anything…”

You hear his heartbroken words, still holding the door as you blink. “ thank you…” 

“We are still a team” he says, looking at you. “We… we always had been. I would have dropped everything to be with you at that moment” 

He looks at you, so calm and collected. He feels like losing his mind, and he feels pure guilt. He wants to ask you. Why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you? He knows it is selfish to ask, but it was also his mistake. He would have helped you, held your hand and all of it. He would have been prepared, read about it, to comfort you in the grief, all of it.

“And forgive me for… spying on your mail, I just wanted to see if you had a new job…” he says, extending the mail, embarrassed and vulnerable. You have never seen him like this, it is almost scary.

You take the mail, and you see the pink envelope first, among the white ones. It was atop, and you looked at him.

“Maybe you should get inside” you say, moving to let him in. 

He sits on the couch, and you sit by his side. The silence was crushing, and so you speak.

“I should have told you..”

“I understand-”

“Let me speak” you say, and he shuts up. He looks at you, and you keep talking. “I… I didn’t get an abortion, Aemond” you say softly, looking at him, at how his expression changes, trying to get the words in. 

“What?”

“I just… It was an option. I was… I was scared. I am still, a bit. But… I want this baby” you admit softly, not looking directly at him, as you so shyly admit your feelings to him.

He is confused. “You… You didn’t?”

“No…”

He leans back on the couch, breathing hard at the realisation. He might faint, he has gone through many emotions in little time.

“So you are…”

“Still pregnant. Very much” you confirm, and he lets out a sigh. “And… you are the father”

Aemond bites his lips on the inside of his mouth, and he looks at the ceiling, passing a hand over his face. 

“Oh” 

“Yeah…” you say, at how stiff he is. “Three months and a half.” 

As you stand to grab your wallet, he thinks. Three months and a half back, it was probably the time when he had so much work left, that he fucked you in his office. Or was it the time where you two fucked over the cabin? 

“Here” you say showing him the ecography picture. 

In the middle of the black part of the ecography, he could see the curled up little figure. He looks at it, as if it would disappear if he moved his gaze away. It is wonderfully diminutive, yet it fills him with pride, seeing something so little that makes him feel so many things. 

He missed it. It was the most important ultrasound, and he missed it. He wasn’t there to hold your hand either, when you took all the exams to determine any genetic syndrome. He should have been, right at your side, to be part of it as well.

“It is… wonderful” he says, with a small chuckle. “You think, I could… get a copy?”

It is the subtle confirmation that you didn’t expect. He wanted this, as you did. You never talked about having kids, less so when you were never anything serious. 

“Keep it” you say softly. “I already took like hundreds of copies, you can keep it.” 

It is a surprise that he sobs, and he looks at the image. 

“You… Oh, gods..” he says, feeling utterly hopeless as he watches the little paper. He is going to be a dad, it was so… odd. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have left..”

“I didn’t either” you say. 

He looks at the image, he doesn’t even cry on purpose, just some tears falling naturally. His thumb moves to caress the paper, as if it was a soothe for him and the baby.

“You quit, how are you… affording all of…?” He makes a gesture. Everything, he wants to say, but he doesn’t want to be invasive.

“I have a part time job at a friend’s coffee shop.” You say with a nod “And a fair bit of savings” 

He looks at you, shaking his head as he feels his tears dry. He was thinking so many things. He is going to be a dad. He has not contributed anything. He has to take care of you. And the baby. He has to help you. He was going to be a dad.

“you shouldn’t have quit. It was a stable, good paid job, and the office has great maternity leaves.” 

“And would they give me more months because my boss is my baby daddy?” You ask, not from malice, but he bites his lip.

“They told you to quit, didn’t they?”

“Nobody told me” you assure him.

“They paid you.” 

“They didn’t. I wouldn’t have accepted it”

“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” He asks, almost heartbroken.

You look at him, nervous, and you don’t dare to look him in the eye. “I did the maths, Aemond. You didn’t seem the type to… you know. Compromise” 

He looks at you. It was right. He wasn’t one to show his emotions. It was probably the first time someone saw him cry, since he was like twelve, and he always made sure to keep a distance between him and the rest.

“I am not.” He says softly, looking at the image, and he sighs. “But… you and I are a family” he says, licking his lips. “and we will always be a family, with… them” he adds, pointing with a tilt to the ecography.

It is a haunting truth, that you knew. You’ll always be bound to Aemond. A scary thought. 

“We will. But I want to know, what are we?” You finally ask him. Decisively, you need to know. 

“You have my body and soul” He admits softly, and he bites his lip. “Both of you. I am committed to you two…, always. Always, of course. There is no one else I want, that I choose.”

You truly don’t know how or when you end up in his lap, kissing softly as he holds you on it. It is different from his dominant demeanour. 

He is almost rewarding you with caresses and kisses, holding you gently. He would do anything you ask him to, and he is so afraid to lose you two. He almost did, both of you, and he doesn’t want it to happen ever. 

He holds you as if you were fragile, and to this moment you are; he holds both of his most precious things, and you carry his baby.

“I am not going to break” you say against his mouth, pressing a little tighter. “I need you” you add, your hot breath on his mouth as his hands presses in your back.

“I need you too” he admits, as he accommodates on the sofa to hold you. “Here or on the bed?” 

“Wherever…”

The bed it is.

He held you all the way there, which was not a long way either, but it is good to be in your bedroom, where it smells like you, and some strange mint scent that reminds him of the mints he eats.

“Look at you, baby” he says as he takes off your clothes, eagerly, and desperate. “So beautiful as always, dripping wet for me” he says, and you blush slightly from his compliments. “aren’t you?”

“yes. i am”

“how am i even going to go on with my work when you are not there to indulge me a bit?” He asks, as he is the one to desperately take off his clothes, as you lean against the pillows, watching him. “When the idea of leaning you on my desk was enough to make me finish all of it quickly, and call you to my office.” 

He accommodates behind you, both of you laying as he kisses your shoulder, and then your nape, and leaves soft love bites, not meant to last long.

“But now you’ll just wait for me at home, hm? In my own bed, all for me” he says and you search his lips and share a sloppy, messy and wet kiss, needy and primal. 

You missed him. You needed him. 

The pregnancy hormones drove you insane. And missing Aemond was something your little babe was sure to make you feel it at all times. 

“Yes, yes, I need you inside” you feel his hand, moving to wrap your waist, and he moves behind you, holding your leg with his other hand. 

He cannot wait to see you heavily pregnant. You have a little belly, which is adorable. He supposes that, as he was, the baby will be small too. 

But he craves for when you’ll need his help to do anything. And he’ll delight himself in it.

“you missed me?”

“So much” you turn your head, for your arm to be around his neck. It is probably a twisted position, but he is not one to complain. 

His lips capture yours as his cock finally slides into you, you moan against his mouth, and his grip on your body tightens a bit. He is going insane.

He is ruthless at every thrust he gives you, and you surely are more tender at each movement of his cock in your pussy. The time apart, or your hormones, he didn’t care, as he immerses himself in pleasure. 

“So big” you moan against his mouth, and his hot breath hits your mouth as well. “I love it”

“I love you too” he says, his face nuzzling your cheek as he doesn’t think too much about what he just said, and just focuses on the way your cunt clenched around him, warm and soaked, a very warm welcome.

He holds you as precious as you were to him, but firmly, tightly. His hips swing as his cock moved and makes it’s way in your pussy, the little way his cock throbs inside, leaking the precum inside. 

“You already marked me. Everyone will know that i am yours– so fucking yours…”

The thought makes him moan. He always loved that, making you go out of his office full of hickeys and love bites, sending you back to your desk all flustered and shaky.

“Hm, you love that, don’t you? They can’t fuck you like I do” he adds smugly, as he presses open mouthed kisses on your neck.

You moan as his fingers search your clit, and are quick to find it, and he groans at how receptive you have become.

“I’ll fuck you so hard, baby. So, so hard” he promises, for the future. For now, he just needs you. “Such a good girl. Always a good girl” 

The way you squirm, and your whimpers drive him into release as well. Your legs always do that thing that he knows very fondly, they shake and your muscles tense up when you are cumming, in a very certain way. It is almost always the same, and he has grew to find it endearing, everytime he fucks you he waits for that moment. 

He thinks he is much simpler, he holds you closer to him, as if forcing you to remain there, as his balls tighten and he cocks throbs before cumming deep inside. He lets out a loud groan, rolling his eye back as he holds you. 

The way you two remain naked, yet laying together it is something he never does usually. With you, a few times. He always tends to you, and made sure you were relaxed. But you never did pillowtalk after it, you usually were exhausted and he was tired too. 

“You know what? It is almost unfair” he says, moving to search his pants.

“Oh?” You ask curiously, as your eyes follow his frame. You don't get what he means exactly, but you wait for him to elaborate.

“I brought you a present. Well, I brought two things–” he finds it in his pocket and extends it to you, and you smile upon the realisation.

“oh, Aemond…” you say looking at the bracelet, and you smile at him. “It must have been… so expensive”

“It is your favourite colour” He points out “Isn't it?”

You nod, as he moves to leave it in your nightstand, just to pull you closer to him. 

“You have given me more… expensive gift” he adds, moving to your side again, and he wraps his arm around your waist, leaving one of his hand to rest atop of your belly, firm and growing. “Thank you”

You see the gratitude in his eye, and you smile softly. “Well, to be fair it is a product of very extensive teamwork…”  

“It truly is, hm?” He asks, smiling as he moves to your side again. “We truly do make an remarkable team”

[urbanwoodsgoods]

Rustic Barnwood Bench for Timeless Charm: Urban Wood Goods

Bring rustic charm to your home with the Urban Wood Goods Rustic Barnwood Bench. Handcrafted from authentic reclaimed barnwood, each bench carries a rich history in its grain and character. Perfect for entryways, dining tables, or porches, it blends beauty with durability. Urban Wood Goods designs each piece to highlight the natural textures and imperfections of barnwood, making every bench truly one-of-a-kind. Add warmth, sustainability, and artisan craftsmanship to your space with this timeless bench.

[viaxslz]

OFFICE LOVE (C.BC)

Y/N, a hardworking office employee, catches the eye of her strict and demanding boss, Chan. As they spend more time together, Y/N discovers a softer side to Chan, and they develop feelings for each other. But with their professional relationship and past experiences threatening to complicate things, can they make their love work?

WORD COUND — 10.1k (I’m tired)

PAIRING — Ceo!bang Chan x secretary!f!reader (cliché)

GENRE — fluff, drops of angst, ceo x secretary, not so slow burn, there’s like one time skip, mentions of exes and previous relationships, jealousy and possessive behavior,the end is just so fluffy fluffy

NOTE — first ever work that isn’t headcanons, stayed up almost all night writhing this 🫠, if you have any ideas or suggestions feel free to slip it into my inbox but come with a mind that says “just an idea if you ever need one” because you might be disappointed if I don’t write it 😭 anyways watch me disappear for another two months

You groggily opened your eyes, only to be met with the harsh glare of your alarm clock. 8:47 AM. Your heart sank as you realized you were running severely late for the interview. You had spent hours researching the company, practicing your responses, and perfecting your outfit. Now, it all seemed like a waste.

You tossed off the covers and leapt out of bed, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. You hastily got dressed, throwing on the first professional-looking outfit you could find. Your hands trembled as you tried to button your blouse, and you cursed yourself for not laying everything out the night before.

Grabbing your bag and a quick breakfast, you rushed out the door, hoping against hope that you wouldn't be too late.

You sprinted to the bus stop, relieved to catch the bus just as it was about to leave. The ride was a blur as you mentally rehearsed your interview answers and tried to calm your racing heart.

As the bus pulled up to the company building, you felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it. You took a deep breath, grabbed your bag, and stepped off the bus.

The sleek glass tower loomed before you, its modern design exuding an air of professionalism and sophistication. You smoothed your blouse, took a final deep breath, and pushed through the revolving doors.

Inside, the lobby was bustling with activity. You spotted the reception desk and made your way over, trying to look confident despite your growing nervousness.

"Hi, I'm here for an interview," you said, trying to sound calm.

The receptionist, a friendly-looking woman with a warm smile, nodded and checked her computer. "Ah, yes! You must be Y/n. The interview is on the 23rd floor, conference room 3. Take the elevator just down the hall."

You nodded, trying to commit the directions to memory. "Thank you!"

As you walked to the elevator, your nerves began to get the better of you. Your heart was racing, and your palms were growing sweaty. You felt like you were going to be sick.

The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the 23rd floor. As the doors closed, you took a final deep breath and tried to collect yourself.

It's showtime.

You stepped out of the elevator and made your way to conference room 3. You took a deep breath, smoothed your blouse, and pushed open the door.

Inside, a woman with piercing green eyes and raven-black hair stood up from behind the table. She smiled warmly and extended a manicured hand.

"Hello, Y/n. I'm Ms. Thompson, and I’ll be taking you for the interview today. It's lovely to meet you."

You shook her hand, trying to hide your nervousness. "Nice to meet you too, Ms. Thompson."

Ms. Thompson gestured to the chair across from her. "Please, have a seat."

The interview began, and Ms. Thompson asked you a series of questions about your qualifications, experience, and skills. You answered confidently, trying to showcase your strengths and enthusiasm.

As the interview progressed, you found yourself relaxing in Ms. Thompson's presence. She was warm and engaging, putting you at ease with her friendly demeanor.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the interview drew to a close. Ms. Thompson smiled and leaned forward.

"Thank you, Y/n, for coming in today. We'll be in touch soon to let you know our decision. You should receive an email within the next few days."

You nodded, trying to hide your disappointment. You had been hoping for a more definitive answer.

"Thank you, Ms. Thompson," you said, standing up. "I appreciate the opportunity."

Ms. Thompson walked you to the door, her heels clicking on the polished floor. "We'll be in touch soon," she repeated, smiling.

You left the conference room, feeling a mix of emotions. You weren't sure how you'd done, but you knew you'd given it your all.

Now it was just a waiting game.

You stepped out of the office building, blinking in the bright sunlight. The bus station was just a short walk away, and you made your way there, lost in thought.

As you waited for the bus, you couldn't shake off the feeling of uncertainty. Had you done enough? Had you said the right things?

The bus ride home was a blur, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios and what-ifs.

When you finally arrived home, you felt like a nervous wreck. You paced back and forth in your living room, trying to burn off some of the excess energy.

To calm yourself down, you made a promise to yourself. If you got rejected, you'd spend the day wallowing in Korean angst dramas, with a bowl of popcorn and a pack of tissues by your side.

But if you got accepted... oh, if you got accepted, you'd cook up a storm! You'd whip up all your favorite dishes, from spicy kimchi stew to decadent chocolate cake.

The thought of celebrating with good food was enough to make your stomach growl with anticipation.

As you continued to pace, you couldn't help but wonder... which scenario would become a reality?

You sat on the couch, your eyes glued to your phone as you waited for what felt like an eternity. Your lower lip was trapped between your teeth, and your heart was racing with anticipation.

Suddenly, your phone beeped, signaling the arrival of a new email. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw the sender's name: "Silverstone Corporation."

Your hands trembled slightly as you hesitated, wondering if you were ready for the news. Taking a deep breath, you tapped the email, and your eyes scanned the screen.

Dear Y/N,

We are pleased to inform you that after careful consideration, we would like to offer you the position of Secretary to our CEO...

Your heart soared as you read the words, a huge smile spreading across your face. You did it! You got the job!

You let out a little squeal of excitement, pumping your fist in the air. All your favorite dishes, here you come!

You read the rest of the email, taking in the details about your start date, salary, and benefits. But your mind was already racing ahead, planning the celebratory feast.

Kimchi stew, check! Chocolate cake, check! Spicy ramen, check!

The possibilities were endless, and your stomach was growling in anticipation.

Here's a possible expansion of the scene:

The rest of the evening was a blur of cooking, eating, and laughing. You spent hours in the kitchen, whipping up a storm of delicious dishes. The aromas wafting from the pots and pans were incredible, and your stomach growled in anticipation.

As you sat down to eat, you realized you'd made way too much food. But you didn't care. You dug in with gusto, savoring the flavors and textures of each dish.

To accompany your feast, you put on a Korean comedy movie, laughing and snorting at the hilarious antics on screen.

As the night wore on, you started to feel uncomfortably full. You reluctantly pushed the food away, deciding to save the rest for leftovers.

After cleaning up the kitchen, you treated yourself to a quick warm bath, feeling the tension melt away as you soaked in the water.

You changed into cozy pajamas, climbed into bed, and snuggled under the blankets. As you drifted off to sleep, you couldn't help but feel excited for tomorrow.

Your new job, your new life – it all felt like a thrilling adventure waiting to happen.

—

You woke up to the warm glow of sunlight peeking through the curtains, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated after a good night's sleep. You stretched lazily, enjoying the cozy comfort of your bed.

But as you glanced at the clock, your heart skipped a beat. 7:15 AM. You were supposed to start your new job at 8:00 AM!

Panic set in as you hastily threw off the covers and scrambled out of bed. You rushed through your morning routine, barely taking the time to brush your hair or apply makeup.

As you dressed in the outfit you'd carefully chosen the night before, you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves. This was it – your first day as a secretary to the CEO.

You grabbed your bag and hurried out the door, rushing to catch the bus. The ride to the company building was a blur, your mind racing with thoughts of what the day might bring.

As you stepped off the bus, you took a deep breath and smoothed your dress. You walked into the lobby, greeted the receptionist with a smile, and made your way to the elevator.

You pressed the button for the top floor, your heart pounding in your chest. The CEO's office was located on the top floor, and you couldn't help but wonder what your new boss would be like.

As the elevator doors slid open, you took a deep breath and stepped out into the unknown.

You stood outside the CEO's office, your heart racing with anticipation. You took a deep breath, smoothed your dress, and raised your hand to knock on the door.

The rap of your knuckles on the wood seemed to echo through the silent hallway. You waited, your ears straining to pick up any sound from within.

Finally, a low, smooth voice called out, "Come in."

You pushed open the door and stepped inside, your eyes scanning the room for the source of the voice. That's when you saw him – the CEO.

He sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his eyes fixed intently on you. His gaze was like a cold wind, sending shivers down your spine.

As you looked at him, you felt like you were staring at a work of art. His features were chiseled, his jawline sharp, and his eyes... his eyes were like two glittering icebergs, distant and unfathomable.

You felt a shiver run down your spine as his eyes locked onto yours, holding you in place. You couldn't look away, transfixed by the intensity of his gaze.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The world narrowed down to just the two of you, suspended in a sea of silence.

You stood frozen, unsure of what to do next. But then, the CEO spoke up, his deep voice breaking the silence.

"Are you my new secretary?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

You nodded, trying to find your voice. "Y-yes, sir."

He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'm Bang Chan, but you can call me Chan."

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. But then, you decided to play it safe. "It's nice to meet you, sir."

Chan's eyes sparkled with amusement, but he didn't comment on your formal address. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

"First task, get me a coffee. Black, no sugar."

You nodded quickly, trying to hide your nervousness. "Yes, sir. Right away."

You turned to leave, but Chan's voice stopped you. "And, secretary?"

You turned back to face him, your heart racing. "Yes, sir?"

Chan's eyes seemed to bore into yours, as if daring you to fail. "Don't spill it."

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, but you nodded calmly. "I won't, sir."

You took the elevator down to the lobby and stepped out into the bright sunlight. The nearby coffee shop was just a short walk away, and you quickly popped in to order Chan's coffee.

"Black, no sugar, please," you told the barista.

A few minutes later, you were back in the elevator, coffee in hand. You returned to Chan's office and knocked softly on the door.

"Enter," his voice called out.

You pushed open the door and handed him the coffee. "Here you go, sir."

Chan took the cup from you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Thanks. Now, I need you to get my schedule from the secretary downstairs."

You nodded, trying not to show your frustration at having to go back down again. "Yes, sir. I'll go get it."

With that, you turned and made your way out of the office, heading back to the elevator and the long trek downstairs to the secretary's desk.

You walked into the secretary's office, smiling warmly at her. "Hi, I'm here to pick up Mr. Bang's schedule."

The secretary handed you a sleek black folder, her eyes sparkling with a knowing glint. "Here you go. And, honey, I hope you're not bothered by Mr. Bang's attitude. That's just how he is."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the secretary's words. But before you could ask any questions, the secretary just smiled and nodded. "You'll get used to it."

You smiled back, taking the folder from her. "Thanks for the warning."

As you walked towards the elevator, you could feel her eyes on you, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

You made your way back to Chan's office, handing him the schedule. He nodded curtly, his eyes scanning the papers. "Thanks. You can go."

You nodded, taking that as your cue to leave. As you stepped out of his office, you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. Your new boss was definitely intimidating.

You walked down the hall to your own office, a small but cozy room with a desk and a chair. You took a seat, looking around at your new workspace.

It was going to take some getting used to, but you were determined to make it work.

You were sitting at your desk, typing away on your computer, when your phone buzzed. You picked it up to hear Chan's voice on the other end.

"Ms.Y/n, I need you to accompany me to a meeting with a client," he said, his tone crisp and professional.

You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "Yes, sir. Right away."

You grabbed your notebook and pen, and followed Chan to the meeting room. The meeting itself was a blur of business talk and handshakes, but you were diligent in taking notes and keeping track of the discussion.

As the meeting drew to a close, you noticed Chan glancing at you, his eyes lingering on your face. You felt a flutter in your chest, but tried to brush it off as mere imagination.

As you left the meeting room, you were stopped by the secretary from the other company. He smiled at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You look lovely today," he said, his voice friendly. "That dress really brings out the color in your eyes."

You smiled back at him, feeling a sense of gratitude for the kind words. "Thank you," you said. "You look pretty sharp yourself."

Chan, who was walking ahead of you, seemed to notice the exchange. He shrugged it off, his expression neutral.

You watched as he walked away, feeling a sense of relief that the encounter hadn't been awkward.

But as you turned to follow Chan, you couldn't shake off the feeling that he had been watching you, really watching you, during the meeting.

Before you knew it, the day had flown by, and it was already time to head home. You packed up your things, said goodbye to Ms. Thompson, and made your way out of the company building.

As you sat at the bus stop, waiting for your ride, you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. Your first day had been a whirlwind of new experiences and emotions, but you'd made it through.

The bus ride home was a blur, your exhaustion catching up with you. When you finally arrived at your house, you stumbled through the door, dropping your bag on the floor.

You made yourself a quick and simple dinner, too tired to even think about cooking anything elaborate. As you ate, you couldn't help but wonder what tomorrow would bring.

Would Chan be as intimidating? Would you get to know your coworkers better? And what about the secretary from the other company – would you run into him again?

As you finished your dinner, you pushed the thoughts aside and headed to bed, too exhausted to worry about anything else.

You snuggled under the blankets, feeling the softness envelop you. As you drifted off to sleep, you couldn't help but smile, wondering what the future held.

—

You walked into the office, feeling a bit more confident on your second day. As you made your way to your desk, you noticed a few of your coworkers glancing up at you with interest.

One of them, a friendly-looking woman with curly brown hair, caught your eye. She smiled and waved, and you returned the gesture.

As you settled in at your desk, the woman came over to introduce herself. "Hi, I'm Danielle," she said, holding out her hand. "Welcome to the team."

You shook her hand, feeling a sense of gratitude for her warm welcome. "Thanks, Danielle. I'm... " You realized you hadn't told anyone your name yet. "I'm Y/N."

Danielle chuckled. "Well, Y/N, I'm glad to meet you. We don't often get new faces around here."

As you chatted with Danielle, a few of the other coworkers started to wander over, introducing themselves and welcoming you to the team.

You felt a sense of relief wash over you. Maybe this job wouldn't be so intimidating after all.

Just as things were starting to feel more relaxed, Chan's voice cut through the chatter. "Y/N, I need to see you in my office."

Your heart skipped a beat as you excused yourself from the group. What did Chan want now?

You walked into Chan's office, wondering what he wanted to see you about. But as soon as you sat down, he dropped a massive stack of paperwork on your lap.

"Get these done by the end of the day," he instructed, his expression unreadable.

You felt a surge of panic as you scanned the documents. There were reports, contracts, and financial statements, all needing to be reviewed and signed off on. You knew it was an impossible task, but you couldn't say no.

You spent the rest of the day holed up in your office, pouring over the paperwork. But despite your best efforts, you were still only halfway through when exhaustion caught up with you.

Your eyelids drooped, and your head nodded forward, coming to rest on the desk. You were out cold.

The next thing you knew, Chan was standing over you, a hint of amusement on his face. "Forget about the paperwork," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it before. "Just go home."

You nodded, still feeling dazed. "Thank you, sir."

But as you stood up to leave, Chan surprised you by asking, "Do you want a ride?"

You hesitated for a moment before shaking your head. "No, thank you, sir. I'll just take the bus."

Chan's expression was hard to read, but you thought you saw a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "Suit yourself," he said, turning away.

You watched him go, feeling a pang of curiosity. Why had he offered you a ride? And why did you get the feeling that he was starting to see you in a different light?

—

You walked into the office building, exchanging a warm smile with the secretary at the front desk. You pressed the button for the elevator, stepping inside just as the doors were about to close.

But just as you thought you were alone, a hand shot out and stopped the doors from closing. You felt a jolt of surprise, wondering who it could be.

As the doors slid open again, a tall, dark-haired man stepped inside. He flashed you a charming smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Morning," he said, pressing the button for the top floor. "I'm Minho."

You smiled back, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "Hi, Minho. I'm Y/N."

Minho leaned against the wall of the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours. "So, how's it going? Enjoying your first week here?"

You chatted with Minho for the rest of the elevator ride, exchanging small talk about the office and your job. As the doors opened on the top floor, Minho smiled again and nodded at you.

"See you around, Y/N."

You watched as he walked away, feeling a sense of curiosity about this new coworker. Who was Minho, and what was his story?

As you made your way to your desk, you couldn't help but wonder if Minho was someone you could trust.

You spent the rest of the morning working on your tasks, trying to focus on the paperwork in front of you. But your mind kept wandering back to Minho and your conversation in the elevator.

Just as you were starting to get into a rhythm, Chan's voice came over the intercom. "Y/N, can you come to my office for a minute?"

You felt a flutter in your chest as you got up and made your way to Chan's office. What did he want to talk to you about?

As you entered his office, you noticed that Chan's expression was neutral, but his eyes seemed to be gleaming with a hint of intensity.

"Close the door," he said, his voice low and smooth.

You did as he asked, feeling a sense of trepidation. What was going on?

"I heard you met Minho this morning," Chan said, his eyes never leaving yours.

You nodded, wondering where this was going. "Yes, sir. We rode the elevator together."

Chan's expression didn't change, but you sensed a hint of tension in his body. "Just remember, Minho is a colleague. Don't get too comfortable around him."

You felt a surge of surprise at Chan's words. What did he mean by that?

But before you could ask any questions, Chan nodded curtly. "That's all. You can go."

You left his office feeling confused and a little unsettled. What was Chan's problem with Minho?

As you were leaving Chan's office, Minho appeared out of nowhere, a charming smile on his face.

"Hey, Y/N. I was thinking, since we're colleagues now, we should grab dinner sometime and get to know each other better."

You felt a flutter in your chest at Minho's invitation. You hadn't expected him to ask you out.

But before you could respond, Minho added, "Actually, I was thinking of hosting a dinner party at my place this evening. Would you like to come?"

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. Part of you was tempted to accept, but another part was wary of getting too close to Minho.

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond to Minho's invitation. But before you could say anything, Chan appeared out of nowhere, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Minho.

"Actually, Minho, Y/N is already committed to accompanying me to an event later this evening," Chan said, his voice smooth but firm.

Minho's smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "Oh, sorry to hear that. Maybe some other time, then?"

Chan nodded curtly. "Maybe."

You felt a surge of surprise at Chan's intervention. Why had he stepped in like that?

As Minho walked away, Chan turned to you. "As my secretary, it's your duty to accompany me to events like this. I expect you to be ready and on time."

You nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. You had been saved from having to make an awkward decision.

But as you looked up at Chan, you saw something in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat. Was it possessiveness, or something more?

As soon as you got home from work, you started getting ready for the event. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. You had never been to an event like this before, and the thought of it made you anxious.

But you knew you couldn't back out now. You had to be professional and accompany Chan as his secretary.

You looked through your closet, trying to find something suitable for the event. You finally settled on a black cocktail dress that fell just above your knees. The dress was fitted at the waist, accentuating your curves, and had a subtle sparkle to it.

You paired the dress with a pair of high heels, wincing as you slipped them on. You weren't used to wearing heels, and your legs already felt like they were on fire.

But you knew you had to suffer through it. You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm your nerves, and made your way to the living room to wait for Chan.

As you sat on the couch, you couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. What would the event be like? Would you be able to handle it?

Just as you were starting to get really anxious, you heard a knock at the door. You got up to answer it, smoothing out your dress as you went.

When you opened the door, you were taken aback by Chan's appearance. He was dressed in a tailored black tuxedo, his hair perfectly styled, and his eyes gleaming with a hint of sophistication.

You felt a flutter in your chest as he smiled at you, his eyes scanning your dress. "You look stunning," he said, his voice low and smooth.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks as you smiled back at him. "Thank you," you said, feeling a sense of gratitude towards him.

Chan offered you his arm, and you took it, feeling a sense of trepidation as you walked out the door with him.

You arrived at the event venue, a grand ballroom filled with elegantly dressed guests. Chan led you through the crowds, nodding and smiling at various people as you went.

As you mingled with the other attendees, you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the opulence surrounding you. The crystal chandeliers, the fine artwork on the walls, the exquisite cuisine being served – it was all so far removed from your usual life.

Chan seemed to sense your discomfort and placed a reassuring hand on your elbow. "Just relax and enjoy yourself," he whispered. "You're doing fine."

You smiled up at him, feeling a surge of gratitude for his support.

As the evening wore on, you began to feel more at ease, chatting with various guests and even managing to laugh at a few jokes.

But just as you were starting to relax, you saw a familiar face across the room – Minho.

As the evening wore on, you couldn't help but notice how effortlessly Chan charmed the other guests. He laughed and joked with the men, and smiled warmly at the women.

You watched in amazement as he expertly navigated the crowds, shaking hands and kissing cheeks with ease. He seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to adore him.

You, on the other hand, felt a bit like a fish out of water. You stuck close to Chan's side, trying to absorb some of his confidence and charm.

As you observed Chan's interactions, you began to notice something interesting. Despite his charming facade, there seemed to be a hint of tension beneath the surface. A flicker of intensity in his eyes, a tightness in his jaw.

You wondered what could be causing it. Was it something to do with the event, or was it something more personal?

Just as you were pondering this, Minho appeared at your side, a smile on his face. "Hey, Y/N. Enjoying the party?"

You smiled back at him, feeling a sense of unease. What did Minho want?

As the evening wore on, Chan excused himself to mingle with the other guests. You sighed, feeling a bit abandoned, and decided to grab some food from the buffet.

As you scanned the tables, looking for something that caught your eye, you heard a friendly voice behind you.

"Hey, Y/N! Enjoying the party?" Minho asked, falling into step beside you.

You smiled, feeling a sense of relief at seeing a friendly face. "Hey, Minho! Yeah, it's been... interesting."

Minho chuckled. "I bet. These corporate events can be a bit much, huh?"

You nodded, laughing. "Definitely."

As you chatted with Minho, you felt a sense of ease that you hadn't experienced all evening. He was easy to talk to, and you found yourself opening up to him in a way that you hadn't with anyone else at the office.

Just as you were starting to relax, you caught sight of Chan watching you from across the room. His eyes narrowed slightly, and you wondered what he was thinking.

Minho followed your gaze and smiled. "Looks like the boss is keeping an eye on you."

You felt a flutter in your chest at Minho's words. What did Chan think of your conversation with Minho?

You laughed and brushed off Minho's comment, continuing to scan the buffet tables for something that caught your eye. Minho fell into step beside you, chatting easily about everything from the food to the music.

As you reached for a mini quiche, you suddenly felt a presence behind you. You couldn't see anyone, but you could sense eyes on you, boring into your skin.

You shivered, despite the warmth of the room. Minho noticed and raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

You nodded, trying to play it cool. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little... chilly, I guess."

Minho smiled and put a hand on your elbow. "Let's go get you a drink, then. Something to warm you up."

But as you turned to follow Minho, you caught sight of Chan standing behind you, his eyes fixed intently on you. You felt a jolt of surprise, and your heart skipped a beat.

Chan's hand closed around your wrist, his fingers wrapping tightly around it. You felt a jolt of surprise as he pulled you back, his eyes locked on Minho.

"I think Y/N should be with me right now, Minho," Chan said, his voice low and smooth. "As my secretary, she should be by my side most of the time."

Minho's eyes flicked to Chan's hand on your wrist, and you saw a hint of surprise and curiosity in his expression. "Of course, Chan. I didn't mean to monopolize her time."

Chan's grip on your wrist tightened slightly, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. "I appreciate that, Minho. Let's just say I need Y/N's attention right now."

Minho nodded and smiled, but you sensed a hint of tension beneath the surface. "No problem, Chan. I'll catch up with you later, Y/N."

As Minho walked away, Chan turned to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "Let's get some fresh air," he said, his voice low and husky. "I think we need to talk."

Chan dragged you outside, the cool night air enveloping you as you stepped onto the balcony. The city lights twinkled below, but you barely noticed them, your attention fixed on Chan's tense form beside you.

There was an awkward silence between you, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the soft rustling of the wind. You fidgeted, unsure of what to say or do.

Chan stood still, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. You could sense the tension coiled within him, like a spring waiting to snap.

Finally, he spoke up, his voice low and rough. "I don't like seeing you with Minho," he said, his words sending a shiver down your spine.

You turned to him, surprised by his admission. "What do you mean?" you asked, trying to sound calm.

Chan's eyes snapped to yours, burning with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "I mean that Minho is not a good influence on you. He's... reckless. And I don't want to see you get hurt."

You felt a flutter in your chest at Chan's words. Was he really concerned about your well-being, or was there something more to it?

You frowned, confusion etched on your face. "But Chan, Minho seems like a nice person. I don't see what's wrong with talking to him."

Chan sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. He seemed to be searching for words, but couldn't find any. "I just... don't trust him, okay? He's not good for you."

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "What do you mean? You don't even know him."

Chan's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. "I don't need to know him to know that he's trouble. Just... stay away from him, Y/N. For your own good."

You felt a shiver run down your spine at Chan's intense gaze. There was something in his eyes that made you feel like he was hiding something, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

You shrugged off Chan's warning, chalking it up to his overprotective nature. As you continued to admire the view, you felt Chan's gaze on you, but you didn't turn around.

The event eventually came to a close, and Chan offered to drive you home. You accepted, and the ride was quiet, with only the soft hum of the engine breaking the silence.

When you arrived at your apartment building, Chan walked you to the entrance, his eyes scanning the surrounding area before nodding in satisfaction.

"Get some rest, Y/N," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You smiled and thanked him, watching as he turned and walked back to his car.

As you stepped into your apartment, you couldn't shake off the feeling that something had shifted between you and Chan tonight. You freshened up and got ready for bed, your mind replaying the events of the evening.

You thought about Minho's friendly smile, and Chan's intense gaze. You wondered what had prompted Chan's warning, and whether you should be concerned.

As you drifted off to sleep, you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for what tomorrow might bring.

—

You rushed to work, still feeling a bit sleepy from the previous night's events. As you stepped into the elevator, you let out a sigh of relief, looking forward to a quiet ride to the top floor.

But your peace was short-lived. The elevator stopped on a floor, and Chan stepped in, his eyes scanning the small space before landing on you.

The atmosphere in the elevator became awkward, the silence thick and heavy. You avoided eye contact, staring instead at the floor numbers ticking by.

But then, disaster struck. The elevator jolted to a stop, the lights flickering before stabilizing. Chan groaned and cursed under his breath, pulling out his phone to call for assistance.

As he waited for someone to answer, his gaze landed on you, and you could sense his realization that he was stuck with his secretary. The silence that followed was oppressive, the tension in the air palpable.

But then, Chan seemed to make a conscious effort to break the silence. "So, Y/N," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Tell me, how many siblings do you have?"

You were taken aback by the sudden question, but you answered readily enough. "I have two older brothers."

Chan nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "And are you in a relationship?"

You felt a flutter in your chest at the personal question, but you brushed it off, trying to play it cool. "No, I'm not."

Chan's eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you felt like he could see right through you. But then, he looked away, apologizing for asking too many questions.

"I just wanted to get to know you better, Y/N," he said, his voice low and sincere. "I didn't mean to overstep any boundaries."

You smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "It's okay, Sir. I don't mind."

As you stood there, stuck in the elevator together, you couldn't help but feel a sense of connection to Chan. It was as if, in this small, confined space, you'd found a sense of intimacy that you hadn't experienced before.

The morning flew by in a blur of paperwork and phone calls. When break time rolled around, you weren't really in the mood to eat, preferring to tackle the mountain of paperwork on your desk instead.

Just as you were starting to make a dent in the pile, someone knocked on your door. You looked up to see Chan standing in the doorway, a hint of a smile on his face.

"Hey, Y/N," he said, his eyes scanning the cluttered room. "I noticed you weren't going out for lunch. What's wrong?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Just a lot of paperwork to get through, sir."

Chan's eyes crinkled at the corners. "No need to call me sir, Y/N. Just call me Chan."

You nodded, taking note of his request.

But before you could respond, Chan continued, "Leave the paperwork for now. Come have lunch with me."

You declined, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the sudden invitation. But Chan was insistent, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You don't have a choice, Y/N," he said, his voice low and teasing. "Come on."

You felt a flutter in your chest as Chan led you out of the office, his hand resting on the small of your back. You tried to brush off the feeling, telling yourself it was just your imagination.

But as you slid into the passenger seat of Chan's sleek black car, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement.

Where was he taking you?

As it turned out, the answer was a fancy restaurant that seemed to cater to the rich and elite. The waiter showed you to a cozy table by the window, and Chan gestured for you to take a seat.

The menu was overwhelming, with dishes you'd never even heard of before. But Chan just smiled and told you to order whatever you wanted.

"Even if it's the whole menu," he added, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I won't mind."

You felt a surge of surprise at his offer, but you tried to play it cool, ordering something that looked nice without going overboard.

As the food arrived, you couldn't help but stare at the mouth-watering visuals. Chan noticed the way your eyes sparkled, but he didn't say anything, just smiled to himself.

You took a bite, closing your eyes in appreciation of the flavors. Unbeknownst to you, you stomped your foot quietly on the wooden floor, a habit you'd had since childhood.

Chan's eyes flicked to your foot, a small smile playing on his lips. He thought you looked cute, but he didn't say anything, just continued to watch you as you ate.

As you gazed out the window, lost in thought, Chan's eyes never left your face, his expression soft and contemplative.

—

Months had passed since you started working with Chan, and you'd grown accustomed to his presence in your life. He'd become softer and gentler, his rough edges worn smooth by time.

But despite the familiarity, you couldn't shake off the feeling that something had shifted between you. It was a feeling you couldn't quite put your finger on, a sense of awareness that made your heart skip a beat whenever Chan was near.

You'd tried to brush it off as mere imagination, but the feeling persisted.

As you sat in Chan's office, typing away on your laptop, the door burst open and a woman strode in. She was beautiful, with long, curly hair and a smile that could charm the birds from the trees.

But as she approached Chan, you could sense the tension in the air. Chan's expression turned cold, his eyes narrowing as the woman began to flirt with him.

"Chan, darling," she cooed, running her hand over his arm. "I've missed you so much. Can't we just... talk?"

Chan's voice was icy as he rejected her advances. "We have nothing to talk about, Sophia. Please leave."

The atmosphere in the room was thick and awkward, and you felt a strong urge to escape. You began to pack up your things, preparing to make a hasty exit.

But Chan's voice stopped you. "Y/N, don't go."

You turned to him, surprised. "Sir?"

Chan's eyes locked onto yours, a hint of desperation in their depths. "Please, just... stay."

You hesitated, unsure of what to do. But as you looked at Chan, you saw something in his eyes that made you stay.

Despite Chan's plea for you to stay, you couldn't shake off the feeling of awkwardness that had settled over the room. You glanced at Sophia, who was watching you with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

Feeling like an intruder, you decided to leave, gathering your things and making a hasty exit. As you closed the door behind you, you could hear Sophia's voice, sharp and inquiring.

"Who is she?" Sophia demanded. "What do you have going on with your little secretary?"

Chan's response was cold and dismissive. "She's none of your business, Sophia. Just leave."

But Sophia was persistent, her voice growing more urgent as she tried to win Chan back. You could imagine her moving closer to him, her hands reaching out to touch him.

Chan's patience finally snapped. You heard a loud, sharp sound, followed by Chan's voice, firm and commanding.

"Back off, Sophia. I mean it."

The sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway, followed by the slam of a door. You peeked out of the nearby conference room to see Chan storming out of his office, leaving Sophia standing alone in the doorway, her face twisted in anger and frustration.

Sophia's face twisted with anger and humiliation as she watched Chan storm out of his office. She couldn't believe he'd rejected her so publicly.

But as she stood there, seething with resentment, a sinister idea began to form in her mind. She'd make Chan pay for his rejection, and she'd do it by targeting the one person who seemed to be getting in the way: Y/N.

Sophia's eyes narrowed as she thought about Y/N, the quiet, reserved secretary who seemed to have captured Chan's attention. She'd find a way to take Y/N down, to make her look bad in front of Chan and the rest of the office.

A sly smile spread across Sophia's face as she began to plot her revenge. She'd start by spreading rumors about Y/N, whispers that would erode Chan's trust in his secretary.

And then, she'd take it a step further. Sophia's eyes gleamed with malice as she thought about the ways she could sabotage Y/N's work, make her look incompetent and unprofessional.

Chan might have rejected her, but Sophia was determined to make him regret it. And Y/N was just the pawn she needed to play her game of revenge.

Sophia thought she'd cleverly manipulated the situation, spreading rumors and half-truths about Y/N to anyone who would listen. But she underestimated the loyalty and kindness of Y/N's coworkers.

As Sophia whispered her venomous lies, the other employees exchanged skeptical glances. They knew Y/N to be a hardworking, diligent, and kind person, and they weren't about to believe Sophia's malicious rumors.

One by one, they spoke up in Y/N's defense, sharing stories of her dedication and professionalism. Sophia's face grew redder and redder as she realized her plan was backfiring spectacularly.

Just as it seemed like Sophia couldn't sink any lower, Chan appeared, his eyes blazing with anger. "Sophia, what are you doing?" he demanded, his voice low and menacing.

Sophia tried to play it cool, but Chan wasn't having it. "You're being immature and petty," he snapped. "Stop spreading rumors about Y/N. She's done nothing to deserve your malice."

Chan turned to the security guards, his expression stern. "Please escort Sophia off the premises. And let me make one thing clear: if any of you allow her back into this building, you'll be fired. Do I make myself clear?"

The security guards nodded, their faces serious, and escorted Sophia out of the building. As she was dragged away, Sophia's face was twisted in a mixture of anger and humiliation.

Chan watched her go, his eyes narrowed in disgust.

—

You sat in the conference room, your gaze fixed on the computer screen as you tried to focus on the task at hand. But your mind kept wandering back to the awkward encounter with Sophia.

Just as you were starting to get lost in thought, you sensed a presence behind you. You turned to see Chan standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on you with a look of concern.

He slowly entered the room, his movements quiet and deliberate. "Y/N, I..." he began, his voice low and sincere. "I'm truly sorry about Sophia's behavior. She had no right to come here and cause a scene."

You looked up at him, surprised by the apology. "It's not your fault, Chan," you said, trying to reassure him.

But Chan shook his head, his eyes still clouded with concern. "I should have handled the situation better. I shouldn't have let her get to you like that."

You felt a flutter in your chest at Chan's words, his apology and concern touching a chord within you. You looked up at him, your eyes locking onto his, and for a moment, you felt like you were drowning in their depths.

As the day drew to a close, you couldn't help but overhear the buzz of excitement among your coworkers. They were all talking about the company's upcoming New Year's Eve party, and how they couldn't wait to let loose and celebrate.

But as you listened to their chatter, you couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. You didn't have a dress for the party, and even if you did, you weren't really the partying type. And worst of all, you didn't have a date.

Feeling anxious and overwhelmed, you decided to come up with an excuse to get out of attending the party. You took a deep breath and knocked on Chan's door, trying to look as pitiful as possible.

"Chan, I'm so sorry," you said, trying to sound weak and feeble. "I'm not feeling well. I think I'm coming down with something."

Chan looked up from his computer, concern etched on his face. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft and gentle.

You tried to maintain the act, coughing weakly and clutching your stomach. "I don't know," you said, trying to sound miserable. "I just feel really awful."

To your surprise, Chan nodded sympathetically. "Okay, take the day off tomorrow," he said. "Get some rest and feel better."

You felt a surge of relief and guilt at the same time. You hadn't expected Chan to fall for your act so easily. But as you left his office and made your way home, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and freedom.

You had managed to get out of the party, and now you had a whole day to yourself to do whatever you wanted.

You were having the perfect evening. You'd spent the day lounging around in your cozy pajamas, watching your favorite TV shows, and munching on delicious snacks. The party was the last thing on your mind, and you were grateful to have avoided it.

As you settled in for a relaxing night, the doorbell rang, breaking the silence. You frowned, wondering who could be visiting at such an odd hour. You weren't expecting anyone, and you were pretty sure your brothers were busy with their own lives.

You shrugged and ignored the doorbell, thinking it was probably just some silly teenagers playing a prank on you. But then the doorbell rang again, this time more insistently.

With a sigh, you hesitantly got up from the couch and made your way to the door. You peered through the peephole, expecting to see a familiar face - maybe your brother or your neighbor.

But to your shock, you saw Chan standing on your porch, looking as handsome and imposing as ever. You felt a jolt of surprise and embarrassment, realizing that you were still in your pajamas and your hair was a mess.

You stood frozen for a moment, wondering what Chan was doing at your doorstep. Had he somehow discovered that you weren't really sick?

You opened the door, trying to play it cool despite your embarrassment. "Chan, what are you doing here?" you asked, letting out a small cough in an attempt to remind him that you were supposed to be sick.

But Chan just ignored your feeble attempt at deception. "You're coming with me to the party," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "And you don't look sick to me."

You felt your face heat up with embarrassment as you realized you'd been caught. "I...I just didn't have anything to wear," you admitted, hoping that Chan would understand and let you off the hook.

But Chan just smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I could've thought of that," he said, pulling out a dress from behind his back. "That's why I bought this dress just for you."

You mentally cursed yourself as you stared at the beautiful dress in Chan's hands. You'd been outmaneuvered, and now you had no choice but to go to the party with him.

You nodded reluctantly, feeling a sense of resignation wash over you. "Okay, I'll go change," you said, taking the dress from Chan and stepping aside to let him in.

As you went to change, you couldn't help but wonder what you'd gotten yourself into. What did Chan have planned for tonight, and why was he being so insistent on taking you to the party?

You came back downstairs, feeling a bit more confident in the beautiful dress Chan had chosen for you. You opened the door, and Chan's eyes widened in surprise as he took in your transformed appearance.

For a moment, he just stood there, frozen in awe. You had to wave your hand in front of his face to snap him out of his trance-like state.

"Hey, are you okay?" you asked, laughing nervously.

Chan quickly recomposed himself, a hint of a flush rising to his cheeks. "Yeah, sorry about that," he said, his voice a bit gruff. "You just...look really beautiful."

You felt a flutter in your chest at his words, but you tried to play it cool. "Thanks," you said, smiling up at him.

Chan held out his arm, his eyes sparkling with gallantry. "Shall we?" he asked, leading you to his car.

The drive to the event was quiet, but you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and nervousness. What would the party be like? And why had Chan been so insistent on taking you?

As you arrived at the event, you were struck by the grandeur of the venue. The ballroom was filled with glittering lights, and the sound of music and laughter filled the air.

Chan led you onto the dance floor, his hand on the small of your back. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he pulled you close, his eyes locked on yours.

As Chan stopped to chat with his friend, you took the opportunity to glance around the ballroom. The music was lively, and the crowd was buzzing with energy. You spotted many familiar faces from the office, all dressed up and having a great time.

Just as you were taking in the sights, you felt a hand tap your shoulder. You turned to see Minho, one of your close friends from the office, grinning at you.

"Hey, you look amazing!" he exclaimed, his eyes scanning your dress. "I'm so glad we can finally let loose and celebrate the end of the year."

You smiled back at him, feeling happy to see your friend. "Thanks, Minho! You look pretty sharp yourself."

Minho chuckled and launched into a conversation about everything from work gossip to holiday plans. You found yourself laughing and joking with him, feeling more and more at ease.

But just as things were starting to feel comfortable, you felt an arm wrap around your waist, pulling you close. You turned to see Chan, his eyes sparkling with a hint of possessiveness as he gazed at Minho.

As you stood there, chatting with Minho, you felt a sudden jolt of surprise. A familiar face had appeared in front of you, a face you hadn't seen in a long time.

Your ex-boyfriend, Alex, stood before you, a charming smile spreading across his face. "Y/N, do you remember me?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You stared at him, your mind reeling in shock. What was he doing here? You hadn't seen or heard from him in years.

Alex chuckled at your reaction, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes, it's me," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Come on, now, let's talk things out."

But before you could even process what was happening, Chan's grip around your waist tightened. Alex's eyes flicked to Chan, and he gently reached out his hand to touch your arm.

Chan's reaction was immediate. He shot Alex an angry glare, his eyes flashing with possessiveness. Alex's eyes narrowed, and he asked Chan to leave you alone.

But Chan refused. "I'm her boyfriend," he said, his voice firm and commanding.

You and Alex both widened your eyes in shock at the same time. Alex's face fell, and he apologized before turning and walking away.

Chan didn't waste any time. He dragged you outside, away from the crowds and the music. You found yourself standing in a quiet alleyway, the cool night air enveloping you.

Chan turned to face you, his eyes burning with intensity. "What's going on, Y/N?" he demanded, his voice low and urgent. "Who is that guy?"

You took a deep breath and explained the situation to Chan. "He's my ex-boyfriend," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "We broke up four years ago."

Chan nodded in understanding, his gaze softening as he looked at you. The air seemed to thicken around you, and for a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

The silence was palpable, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was as if Chan was giving you space to process your emotions, and you were grateful for that.

Finally, Chan spoke up, his voice low and gentle. "Y/N, from the moment I met you, I knew there was something special about you," he said, his eyes locked on yours. "At first, I thought it was just your intelligence and your wit, but as I got to know you better, I realized it was so much more than that."

Chan's words sent a flutter through your chest. You could sense where he was going, but you couldn't believe it.

"I love the way you make me laugh, the way you challenge me, and the way you always know how to make me feel better," Chan continued, his voice filled with emotion. "Y/N, I think I might be falling for you."

Your heart skipped a beat as Chan's words hung in the air. You felt like you were melting into his gaze, and you couldn't look away.

And then, Chan went straight to the point. "Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?" he asked, his eyes burning with intensity.r

Your heart was racing as you processed Chan's question. But deep down, you knew exactly what you wanted. You nodded eagerly, a smile spreading across your face.

"Yes, I'll be your girlfriend," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chan's face lit up with joy, and he took a step closer to you. "May I kiss you?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

You nodded again, your heart pounding in anticipation. Chan leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, gentle kiss.

The world around you melted away as you lost yourself in the kiss. But as the fireworks exploded in the sky, you both pulled away, gasping in wonder.

"Happy New Year," Chan whispered, taking your hand in his.

You smiled up at him, feeling a sense of magic and wonder. "Happy New Year," you replied, squeezing his hand.

Together, you watched as the fireworks lit up the sky, the colors and lights reflecting the happiness and excitement in your heart. You knew that this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your life, one that you were eager to explore with Chan by your side.

—

Chan leaned back in his chair, letting out a dramatic sigh. He was bored, and he needed entertainment. His eyes landed on Y/N, who was sitting beside him, completely absorbed in her work.

"Y/N?" Chan said, trying to sound pitiful.

Y/N didn't even flinch, her focus solely on her computer screen.

Chan tried again, this time adding a whiny tone to his voice. "Y/N, I'm boooored."

Still, Y/N didn't budge.

Chan's face scrunched up in a pout. He started to fidget in his seat, making annoying little noises to try and get Y/N's attention.

Finally, Y/N couldn't take it anymore. She chuckled and turned to face Chan, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Chan's face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He grinned, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Hey," Y/N said, smiling. "What's wrong?"

Chan's response was to lean forward, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Nothing's wrong now," he said, his voice filled with satisfaction.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. "You're such a baby," she teased.

Chan just grinned, looking unrepentant. He was happy now that he had Y/N's attention, and that's all that mattered.

—

You were chatting with a coworker, laughing and joking around, when you felt a presence behind you. You turned to see Chan standing there, his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched you interact with your coworker.

At first, you thought he was just checking in on you, but as the conversation went on, you realized that Chan was actually getting a little possessive. He kept finding excuses to touch you, his hand brushing against yours or his arm wrapping around your shoulders.

Your coworker didn't seem to notice, but you did. And to your surprise, you found it kind of cute. Chan's possessiveness wasn't aggressive or controlling; it was more like he just wanted to make sure you knew he was there, and that he cared about you.

As the conversation wrapped up, Chan leaned in close, his voice low in your ear. "Hey, can I steal you away for a minute?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.

You smiled, feeling a flutter in your chest as you let Chan lead you away.

As you walked, Chan's arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. You could feel his warmth, his strength, and his possessiveness. And you had to admit, it felt kind of nice.

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @intartaruginha

[hamilton-here]

Hey! I know requests are closed but I just had to send this before I forget it (you’re just the best, so I had to send it to you, you can save it for whenever you open requests again if you want, or just delete it).

So, my idea is (I got it when reading your latest story with the university professor), that Reader works in the education system and now has to work closely together with Lewis for his mission44 project to reform the education system.

Thank you so much! I hope you will better soon!

𝑅𝑒𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐹𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I finally moved into my new house but I’m still sick. I recently posted a Wattpad story that’s in the works(Account: hamilton-here) if you want to check it out. I hope you enjoy this request. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: You work in the education system and soon work with Lewis Hamilton on the Mission44 project. Feelings soon bloom between you two.

Warnings: slight slow-burn

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

MASTERLIST

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

The Room Where It Happens –

The familiar drone of the air conditioner in your tiny staff room was usually the loudest sound you heard all day, punctuated only by the distant echo of the school bell. Policy briefings, borough strategy sessions, education panels - they always started the same.

You’d be introduced, maybe even praised for your “invaluable frontline insights,” but within minutes the conversation would inevitably drift toward budgets, test scores, or some abstract bureaucratic concern far removed from the actual students you taught every day. You were used to being in rooms where people barely listened, where your voice was just another data point in a sea of well-meaning but ultimately hollow rhetoric.

So, when the Department for Education’s email landed in your inbox, proposing a “groundbreaking partnership with Mission 44,” you almost deleted it without a second thought. Another initiative. Another roundtable. Another well-intentioned man with a cause, usually accompanied by an entourage of handlers and a glossy brochure that promised the world and delivered very little. You’d learned to temper your expectations, to protect your heart from the inevitable disillusionment.

Except this time, the man was Lewis Hamilton.

A flicker of curiosity, quickly followed by a healthy dose of skepticism, made you open the email. The idea of Lewis Hamilton, a global icon, venturing into the labyrinthine world of education policy seemed almost fantastical. Still, you confirmed your attendance, half-expecting it to be a brief photo opportunity, a celebrity endorsement without substance.

The meeting was held in a modern glass conference room at the edge of Westminster, its sleek lines and panoramic views a stark contrast to the faded posters and chipped paint of your classroom. Your temporary badge, emblazoned with the Department for Education logo, had barely finished printing when someone, a harried young woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm, materialised beside you. Her voice was brisk, her eyes already scanning for her next task.

“They’re just about to start, you’re sitting beside Mr. Hamilton.”

You blinked. The words hung in the air, surreal and unexpected. “I’m sorry, beside?”

The woman didn’t pause, already gesturing down a wide, polished corridor. “He asked specifically for a frontline educator at the table. Said he didn’t want to do this without the people who actually know the system.” Her tone implied this was a perfectly normal, albeit slightly demanding, request from a VIP.

Your heart gave a sudden, heavy thud against your ribs. This wasn’t just a photo op. This was different. A nervous tremor ran through you as you followed her, the sound of your sensible shoes clicking on the marble floor suddenly amplified in the quiet grandeur of the building.

And then you stepped into the room.

There he was.

Dressed in tailored dark navy, a stark contrast to the casual tracksuits you’d seen him in on television. His braided hair was swept back from his face, revealing strong, thoughtful features. A small, elegant Mission 44 pin gleamed on his lapel. He was already seated at the head of a long, polished table, reviewing something on a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. But he looked up the moment you entered, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on you. His eyes steady, warm, intensely observant caught yours.

And suddenly, in that brief, impactful exchange, you saw something you hadn’t expected: not fame. Not ego. But intent. A profound, almost tangible purpose that seemed to emanate from him.

He stood as you approached, a natural, unhurried movement, extending a hand across the table. His grip was firm, reassuring.

“You must be the education lead from Brixton,” he said, his voice low and sincere, surprisingly devoid of any pretence. “I read about your inclusion pilot last year. It was brilliant, honestly.”

Your fingers closed around his, a little stunned. The scent of a subtle, expensive cologne reached you. “You read my report?” The words came out a little breathier than you intended.

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, softening the intensity in his eyes. “I asked for everything ahead of this meeting. Wanted to understand what’s already working.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “You’re actually the reason I insisted on today’s agenda.”

Your throat tightened. The usual preamble, the polite but dismissive nods, the subtle hints that your input was appreciated but ultimately secondary none of it happened. You weren’t used to being heard before you even spoke.

The meeting unfolded around you with government advisors with their crisp presentations, youth ambassadors with their earnest testimonies, data analysts poring over spreadsheets. At first, you still harboured the suspicion that Lewis might be a symbolic figurehead, someone there to lend celebrity clout to an otherwise standard policy discussion.

But then he started asking questions. Real ones. Not the kind that were rhetorical or designed to showcase his own knowledge, but genuine inquiries born from a desire to understand. And he listened not just politely, waiting for his turn to speak, but deeply. You could see it in the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes tracked the speaker, the subtle clench of his jaw.

When you spoke, your voice initially hesitant, about the disproportionately high exclusion rates for Black boys in Year 9, a statistic you knew intimately from your own school, you saw a profound shift in him. He looked furious. Not performative outrage, not the kind of fleeting anger politicians displayed for the cameras, but something deeply personal. Painful. Raw.

“I remember being pulled out of class for no reason,” he said at one point, his voice quieter, more reflective. “They said I was ‘disruptive.’ I was quiet. Just…different.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, a vulnerability that cut through the sterile atmosphere of the conference room. It was a raw, unscripted moment, and you felt something fundamental shift in the room. The air itself seemed to settle, hushed and attentive.

No one interrupted after that. The advisors, typically quick to interject with their own data points, remained silent.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when your voice stopped shaking, when your carefully prepared notes stopped mattering, becoming mere prompts for a more authentic dialogue but at some point, you realised Lewis was turning to you after almost every question.

Not the Secretary of State, whose department was spearheading the initiative. Not the Director of Inclusion, who had years of experience in policy. You.

“Would that work in practice?”

“What have you seen in your classroom?”

“Do you think it’s enough?”

It was both terrifying and thrilling to be taken so seriously, to have your lived experience elevated to the same level as, or even above, abstract policy frameworks. You found yourself speaking with an unprecedented clarity and conviction, drawing on years of classroom moments, of conversations with students and parents, of small victories and heartbreaking setbacks. You weren't just being heard; you were being relied upon.

After two intense hours, the meeting adjourned. The room buzzed with renewed energy as people began filtering out, chatting in small clusters. Some seized the opportunity to snap selfies with Lewis, who graciously obliged, his smile unfading.

You gathered your papers, a familiar sense of detachment starting to settle over you. This was just another meeting, albeit an unusual one. You’d go home, decompress, file a debrief. This wasn’t personal. It was—

“Hey,” a voice murmured beside you, startling you from your thoughts. “Can I steal a few more minutes of your time?”

You turned to find Lewis standing close, closer than felt appropriate for a mere acquaintance, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other fiddling with the Mission 44 badge on his lapel. The lingering scent of his cologne was subtle, yet distinct.

“I’m working on something separate,” he said, his gaze direct and unwavering. “A school initiative we haven’t launched yet. Grassroots. I want someone with field experience to co-design it. Someone who actually knows what works on the ground, not just in theory.”

You stared at him, the implications of his words slowly sinking in. “You want me?”

He shrugged lightly, a gesture that belied the intensity behind his eyes. “You’re not afraid to say hard things. You cut through the noise. I need that. Mission 44 isn’t just a name or a branding exercise - I want it to actually work. And I can’t do that with PR people or those who are just going through the motions.”

A pause, heavy with unspoken weight. Then, his voice softer, almost reflective:

“I meant what I said earlier. You made me feel heard today. Truly heard. I haven’t had that in years.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was a confession, an unexpected vulnerability that transcended the professional setting and touched something deeply personal.

“Okay,” you said, somehow keeping your voice steady despite the sudden surge of emotion. A profound sense of purpose, almost a solemn vow, settled over you. “Let’s design something that changes lives.”

He smiled and this time, it was a wide, genuine smile that reached all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. It was a smile of relief, of shared understanding, of genuine connection.

“I’ll have my team reach out,” he said, but then he hesitated, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But” he added, “I’d rather hear from you directly. If you’re okay with that.”

He handed you his phone, the screen already open to a new contact.

Your fingers brushed his as you typed your number in, a current passing between you both was subtle, barely perceptible, but undeniable. An electric hum that promised something more than just a professional collaboration.

And just like that, you were in.

Not just in the room. Not just another voice among many.

But in the heart of something real. Something profoundly impactful. Something that might just change everything.

The buzzing of your phone, two hours after stepping back into your quiet flat from the whirl of Westminster, was an unwelcome jolt. You were still in your work blazer, half a bowl of soggy cereal neglected on the coffee table, your mind replaying the day’s unexpected turn. Then you saw the name: Lewis Hamilton.

A single message: Hey. It’s Lewis. You were brilliant today. I meant what I said. Would you be free Friday to start mapping this out? Private planning session. No suits, no media. Just you and me and a whiteboard.

You read it twice, then a third time, the words blurring slightly as your hands began to tremble. This was happening. The casual tone, the directness, the invitation – it all felt surreal. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Friday, 3:04 p.m.

The Mission 44 workspace was a revelation. Forget the sterile corporate gleam you’d anticipated; this was a haven, a co-working sanctuary pulsating with quiet purpose. Exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves brimming with educational research and policy papers, colourful beanbags scattered near chalkboards, and long, communal tables that invited collaboration. It was vibrant, lived-in, and entirely unexpected.

Lewis was already there, a striking figure in a fitted black t-shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. A worn notebook lay open beside a tray laden with oat milk lattes and a crinkling bag of vegan biscuits. He looked up as you entered, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Figured you’d need caffeine,” he said, gesturing to the drinks. “Also, I didn’t want to look unprepared.”

You raised a brow, a genuine smile forming. “You’re Lewis Hamilton. You could show up with glitter and no notes and still run the room.”

He laughed then, a rich, warm sound that held a touch of surprise. “Yeah, but I don’t want to just show up. I want to build something. With you.”

That phrase again. “With you.” It resonated in your chest, a strange, hopeful flutter.

The first hour flowed effortlessly. You plunged into the core of your shared passion, talking through the raw edges of lived experiences, your pens scratching furiously across notebooks as you scribbled down ambitious goals: reduce exclusion rates, build robust in-school mentorship programs, challenge systemic bias head-on. It was heady and focused, the kind of deeply resonant conversation you’d yearned for, the kind only possible with someone who truly gave a damn.

But as the second hour began, the atmosphere subtly shifted. The energy remained, but it deepened, becoming more personal, more vulnerable.

“I used to think I was the problem,” Lewis said suddenly, his voice dropping to a quieter, more reflective tone. His fingers absently turned his pen, a small, unconscious gesture. “Back then. At school. I’d get pulled out of class, sent home early, talked down to and I thought, maybe I was the troublemaker. Maybe it was something inherently wrong with me.”

You looked up, surprised by the intensity of his gaze, how carefully he was watching you, as if gauging your reaction.

“I didn’t have anyone who looked like me in authority. No teachers that understood. No one who told me I was allowed to be brilliant. No one who told me my potential wasn’t limited by their expectations.” He paused, his eyes distant for a moment, lost in memory. “Until I found racing.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, compelled by his candor. “That’s what we need to create,” you murmured, your voice low but firm. “A system that finds kids before they give up. Somewhere safe enough to truly see them, to nurture that brilliance, even if it looks different from what’s expected.”

He nodded slowly, a profound understanding passing between you. “Somewhere I would’ve felt like I belonged. Somewhere I wouldn’t have had to fight so hard just to be seen.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, a profound quietude that didn’t demand words. It was the kind of silence that held a deeper communication, a shared empathy that transcended spoken language.

You didn’t voice the ache in your throat, the fierce protectiveness that welled up as you imagined the little boy he used to be, yearning to reach back through time and tell him he was more than enough. Instead, you simply let the silence embrace that unspoken understanding for both of you.

By the third hour, the workspace had transformed into a dynamic hub of your collective thought. You’d pushed two tables together, the whiteboard was half-filled with intricate flowcharts and bold declarations, and your forgotten latte had been abandoned in favour of lukewarm water and pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

“That’s your third time referencing the 2022 SEND reforms,” Lewis observed, a grin spreading across his face. His eyes, bright with engagement, were fixed on you. “Are you always this passionate when you teach too?”

You mock-glared, a playful spark in your own eyes. “Only when I’m trying to stop vulnerable kids from getting permanently excluded because of bureaucratic red tape and systemic apathy.”

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face, his gaze never leaving yours. “I like that you don’t sugar-coat it. It makes people listen.”

“I don’t always want them to listen,” you admitted, your voice dropping, a flicker of weariness touching your tone. “Sometimes I just want them to care.”

Lewis was quiet for a beat, his expression softening. Then, simply: “I care.”

You didn’t mean to, but your gaze involuntarily dropped to his hands. Strong, steady hands, capable of incredible precision and power, now fidgeting subtly with the corner of his notebook.

He’d taken off a distinctive bracelet, and it lay on the table beside your own pen, your belongings blending together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

When you looked back up, you found him still watching you. There was something there, unspoken, unacted upon, but undeniably there. A quiet recognition, a mutual awareness that hummed beneath the surface of your professional collaboration.

7:16 p.m.

You had completely lost track of time. The world outside the Mission 44 workspace had ceased to exist. Lewis only noticed the late hour when his phone vibrated – a dinner reminder, likely something formal and forgettable in his demanding schedule. He glanced at the screen, then deliberately ignored it, setting the phone face down.

“You hungry?” he asked, looking at you.

You blinked, emerging from the deep focus of your discussion. “For food?”

His lips twitched, a hint of amusement. “Unless you eat whiteboard markers when you’re low on blood sugar.”

You laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound, shaking your head. “Yeah. I could eat.”

He stood, stretching slowly, his movements fluid and powerful. And God, his back flexed under the fitted black t-shirt, the graceful curve of his spine a testament to years of athletic discipline. You snapped your eyes away, hoping he hadn’t caught your inadvertent stare.

“There’s a Thai place two blocks down,” he said, his voice casual as he tossed you a dark hoodie. “Bring this. It’s freezing out there.”

You hesitated, the soft fabric warm in your hands. “I’m not cold.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes holding yours. “But I want you to wear it anyway.”

Something in his tone, a quiet insistence, made you comply. You slipped it on. It was soft, worn, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus, ink, and something warm and uniquely him that you couldn’t quite name.

The walk to the restaurant was quiet, but it wasn't awkward. It was a comfortable silence, filled with the lingering energy of your intense planning session. At one point, your hands brushed, and neither of you pulled away. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible contact, yet it sent a subtle current through you.

You told yourself it was the adrenaline, the lingering high of the project’s boundless potential. You told yourself it was nothing.

But then, as you sat across from him over shared bowls of fragrant curry, Lewis leaned in, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, as if the answer truly mattered more than anything else in the world: “Why did you say yes?”

You tilted your head, genuinely surprised by the question. “To the project?”

He nodded, his eyes searching yours, deep and steady. “To me.”

The air shifted, becoming thick with unspoken meaning. You swallowed, the weight of his gaze almost palpable.

“Because for the first time,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest, “someone with power asked not for my opinion, but for my partnership. And because I believe in this.” You paused, gathering your thoughts, and then, the words slipped out, raw and honest: “In you.”

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, as if you were something he hadn’t expected to find, a surprising, beautiful discovery. And maybe, in some profound way, you were.

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

The first time Lewis invites you to his flat, it's entirely innocent. Or at least, that's the narrative you meticulously construct for yourself. "It's just quieter there," he says, his voice a low murmur, as you both step out of another Mission 44 session – this one a vibrant but exhausting dialogue with passionate youth workers from Leeds and Manchester. "We'll get more done without people buzzing in and out."

You nod, perhaps a little too readily. "Yeah. Sure. Just work." But every fibre of your being is hyper-aware of the subtle ways he moves around you: the fractional pause as his hand hovers near your lower back when he opens the car door; the quiet intensity of his glances while you speak, as if the very cadence of your words holds as much significance as their meaning.

The flat is in Notting Hill, a hushed corner of London. It's tasteful, understated, bathed in the soft glow of natural light. This isn't the kind of place that screams celebrity; rather, it whispers sanctuary. It feels like a carefully curated retreat from the relentless gaze of the world.

"This place is beautiful," you murmur, stepping into a living room imbued with warm wood tones and eclectic framed prints. Your eyes drift to the bookshelf, a treasure trove of unexpected titles: sociology, philosophy, and poetry. You spot a few authors you adore some you've only ever discussed in hushed academic tones with fellow educators.

Lewis watches you quietly, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "I don't show many people this side of my life," he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You glance at him, a question forming on your lips. "Why me?"

He hesitates, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, but it's only for a moment. "Because I trust you." The words hang in the air, weighted with sincerity. It’s not just a statement; it’s an offering, a small, precious piece of himself, just real enough to mean everything.

You work. You actually work. The first hour is a whirlwind of focused energy: outlining a rough framework for the pilot programs, debating granular strategy points, meticulously identifying underserved boroughs to prioritise for intervention. The air is thick with ideas, shared ambition, and the satisfying scratch of pens on paper.

But somewhere between the fourth page of meticulously planning notes and the second round of steaming Earl Grey tea, the rigid professional facade begins to soften.

He's sitting opposite you on the floor, legs stretched out comfortably under the large coffee table, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

You’re cross-legged, a sprawl of papers surrounding you, notes scribbled in two distinct handwritings across a shared pad. The quiet that settles between you is comfortable, companionable. And maybe…close.

You find yourself explaining some esoteric point about community resilience models something technical, theoretical, pulled straight from a university lecture. He laughs, a sudden, delighted sound that ripples through the calm. It’s not mocking; it’s pure, unadulterated amusement.

“You sound like a research paper,” he says through a wide grin.

You blink, genuinely surprised by his reaction, then burst out laughing too, the sound echoing lightly in the room. “That’s because I am a research paper half the time.”

His laughter deepens, a rich, warm rumble, and for a precious moment, the intricate layers of work and ambition fall away. All that remains is the simple warmth of shared air, a profound mutual understanding, and a tantalising flicker of something neither of you dares to name.

When the laughter fades, the quiet that descends isn’t awkward. It's charged. You look up, and he’s already looking at you, his gaze steady, perceptive.

“Can I tell you something?” His voice is soft, almost reverent, as if he’s about to share a secret.

You nod, your breath catching in your throat, a sudden anticipation tightening your chest.

“I’ve never felt more seen than I do when I’m around you.”

You don't speak right away. The words land with too much weight, too much raw sincerity. He’s not flirting; he’s confessing. This is something deeper, more fundamental.

“I’m always…on,” he continues, his fingers absently tracing a soft crease in the page between you. “Every room I enter. Every lens pointed at me. Even when I’m fighting for change, there’s a performance in it. A pressure to be infallible, to have all the answers. But you… You don’t expect that from me. You expect truth. Just truth.”

You swallow, the honesty of his words resonating deeply within you. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted from people too.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, perhaps something even more profound, but instead, he simply nods, a silent acknowledgment passing between you.

The moment stretches, suspended in the soft afternoon light. You don’t reach across the space between you, though a powerful pull draws you. Neither does he. But something has irrevocably shifted. A deeper understanding has settled between you, a quiet tether that is no longer invisible, no longer merely implied.

You don’t stay too late. You finish your tea, the lukewarm liquid a grounding presence. You review the pilot proposal one last time, making a few final, crucial notes. And when you finally stand to leave, Lewis walks you to the door without a word, the shared silence comfortable, profound.

The city outside is hushed, a typical London night that hums with its own quiet breath, the streetlights casting long, soft shadows.

You turn, offering him a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for letting me see this side of things.”

He nods, his gaze unwavering. "It means more than I can say."

And just as your hand reaches for the doorknob, he says your name, a quiet utterance that halts your movement.

You pause, your heart giving a small lurch. When you look back, his gaze is steady, earnest, filled with an intensity that mirrors your own burgeoning feelings.

“I know it’s still early,” he says, his voice low, “But I meant it. Working with you it’s different. You get it. And that means everything.”

You nod once, a silent affirmation that carries a multitude of unsaid emotions. “It means everything to me too.”

The next few weeks blur into a relentless but exhilarating rhythm. You’re now co-leading the grassroots pilot, and the workload has tripled, but so, too, has the palpable sense of impact.

Your days are a whirlwind of meetings with government liaisons, policy teams, and school leaders. You speak on panels, articulate the project’s vision, and witness firsthand the ripples of change your work is creating. Lewis, true to his word, insists on being at every single one.

You find him in the crowd every time – arms crossed, a picture of focused concentration, his eyes fixed entirely on you, radiating a quiet pride.

Still, what happens off-stage, in the liminal spaces between official engagements, lingers more vividly than any public appearance. The long, reflective walks along the Thames after intense meetings, the city lights shimmering on the dark water.

The shared coffees on park benches, scribbling notes on napkins as you brainstorm solutions to unforeseen challenges. His voice on the phone at 1 a.m., calm and reassuring, after you’ve just finished reading a particularly devastating report on exclusion rates.

The way he listens – really listens – when you talk about your past, your deep-seated frustrations with systemic inequities, your quiet, fervent hope that this project will become something more than just politics, more than just another initiative. He listens with an intensity that makes you feel heard, understood, and valued in a way you hadn't realized you craved.

You never touch, not intimately. Not yet. But there are moments. Charged, lingering moments that hum with unspoken potential.

Like the time your fingers brush as you pass him a critical note during a high-stakes meeting, and neither of you moves for a beat too long, the soft contact sending a jolt through you both. Or the night you leave a formal dinner, and he opens your car door with one hand, the other grazing your lower back, just briefly, lightly, as if he couldn’t help the unconscious gesture, a silent apology for withdrawing it so quickly.

But it’s never rushed. Never spoken aloud. Not yet. The tension, the anticipation, builds slowly, exquisitely.

Then comes the day of the press conference. The culmination of months of relentless groundwork. The partnership with the Department for Education is official. Six cities. A full rollout. A national pilot for equity and inclusion in schools – backed by the immense power of Mission 44 and fuelled by your shared vision.

Lewis insists you sit beside him at the table, front and centre. “No one else but you,” he says quietly, his voice firm, just before the cameras flash and the microphones are thrust forward.

You squeeze his hand once under the table. Just a squeeze. And just for courage, a silent acknowledgment of the monumental moment you are about to step into together.

The press barrage you both with questions about the project, its anticipated impact, the personal cost of such ambitious work. Then, a reporter asks him why this initiative, above all others, mattered most to him. Why now.

He pauses, the silence in the room suddenly amplified. His gaze finds yours, a flicker of something profound passing between you. Then he looks out at the assembled room, his expression thoughtful, sincere.

“I met someone who reminded me what it felt like to be heard for the first time.”

He doesn’t name you. He doesn’t have to. You feel it anyway – the sudden burn under your skin, the way your chest tightens as if trying to contain something vast and uncontainable. You don’t say a word. You don't need to.

But when it’s all over, when the cameras are down and the lights dim, he turns to you, his hand gently touching your arm. You meet his eyes, and there’s still no kiss. Still no explicit confession.

But it’s in the shared exhale, the quiet understanding that passes between you – like the space between you is safe now. And like whatever this is…it’s only just beginning.

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

Current time is Monday, June 9, 2025 at 2:03:36 PM AEST.

The article drops three days after the triumphant press conference. You’re halfway through a critical meeting with two sharp, passionate East London youth leaders, dissecting community engagement strategies, when your phone begins its insistent chorus – once, twice, then a rapid succession of buzzes until even Lewis, usually impervious to such digital interruptions, glances over. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question in his eyes, as you flip the screen face down, determinedly ignoring the persistent summons.

After the meeting, as you both walk towards the internal cafe, Lewis catches your wrist gently, his touch light but firm. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low with concern.

You sigh, a weary exhalation. “I think… someone wrote something.”

He frowns, pulling out his own phone, his fingers flying across the screen with practiced speed. A moment later, he exhales hard through his nose, a sound of exasperation.

He turns the screen to you, displaying the headline: Hamilton’s Hidden Partner: The Educator Beside the Mission.

Below it, a grainy, slightly blurred photo, undeniably you and him, captured outside the conference venue. You’re both laughing, genuine and unposed, his hand resting casually on your arm, your eyes on his.

You don’t speak, the image a stark, public mirror of the private world you've been building.

“They’re speculating,” he says carefully, his voice a balm against the sudden intrusion. “About us.” The word "us" shouldn't mean anything in a professional context, but your heart gives an involuntary skip anyway.

You take his phone, your fingers brushing his. You skim the article, your eyes darting over the familiar tabloid sensationalism. Phrases leap out at you like venomous insects: Unusually close working relationship. A source claims the two have been spending late nights together. Whispers of something more than collaboration…

You hand the phone back, a soft, humourless laugh bubbling up. “All it takes is a look, huh?” The irony is bitter. For weeks, you’ve been navigating a delicate dance of unspoken feelings, and the press has, with one snapshot, laid it bare.

His jaw tightens, a visible clench of frustration. “This wasn’t supposed to be about us.”

“It still isn’t,” you say quickly, fiercely. “This is about the work. The kids. The system. This is about Mission 44.”

He studies you, his gaze piercing. “But it changes things, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is – it does. You’ve spent weeks, months even, meticulously constructing something quietly sacred between you: trust forged in shared purpose, a vision that bound you together, and an undeniable, unspoken connection that thrived in the shadows of collaboration. But now, with one cynical article, the world has tilted it into a spectacle, cheapening something profound. The cafe suddenly feels too loud, too bright, the fluorescent lights harsh, and the edges of your skin feel terrifyingly exposed.

That night, alone in your flat, your phone vibrates with his text:

You okay?

You stare at it, the simple words holding so much weight. Then, your fingers hover, reluctant, before typing:

Not really. I feel like someone just turned a light on in a room I didn’t want anyone to see.

You don’t expect a reply, preparing yourself for the privacy that usually defines his guarded life. But it comes a moment later, almost instantly:

Same. Can I come over? Just to talk.

Your fingers hover again, a dizzying mix of apprehension and yearning swirling within you. Then, a decisive tap:

Yeah. Just talk.

He arrives with tea, the same soothing chamomile blend from his flat, a quiet comfort in the unsettling evening. You sit side by side on your sofa – not touching, not looking directly at each other – but somehow, the air between you hums with an almost tangible energy, a silent recognition of the bond that has been publicly laid bare.

“They’ll do it again,” you say finally, breaking the comfortable quiet, your voice tight. “Twist things. Fabricate narratives.”

He nods; his gaze fixed on some unseen point across the room. “I know.”

“And if this…if whatever this is between us complicates the work—”

He cuts in gently, his voice firm, unwavering. “It doesn’t. You are the work. Everything we’ve done together – that’s what matters. That’s what they can’t take away.”

You turn your head to look at him, seeking reassurance. “But you’re Lewis Hamilton. If people think you’re distracted by personal matters, they won’t listen. They’ll dismiss the message, the impact.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back into the cushions, eyes on the ceiling, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “I’ve been told I’m ‘Distracted’ my whole life. That I need to pick between passion and purpose. Between my art and my activism. But what if they’re the same thing? What if the very things that fuel your passion are your purpose?”

You sit with that for a moment, the profound truth of his words sinking in. Then, the question you’ve been afraid to ask, slips out: “Is that what this is for you? A distraction?”

He turns toward you slowly, his gaze locking with yours, intense and utterly sincere. “No. This - ” His voice drops, raw with emotion. “You - are the thing that’s been keeping me grounded through all of it. The constant, the real.”

Your throat tightens, a powerful ache blossoming in your chest. But you nod, a quiet acknowledgment. Because you understand. You feel it too, the sense of being anchored, of finding a profound clarity in his presence.

Still, you both know this path is delicate. You’re not ready to fall into something undefined, not while so much is at stake. Not yet. So, you say, your voice soft but resolute: “Then let’s be careful.”

His eyes search yours, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. “You mean… don’t rush?”

“Yeah,” you affirm, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.

He exhales, a quiet sound that could be relief, or perhaps, immense restraint.

You smile back, just barely. “Besides what we’re building, Mission 44, the pilot programs, or the outreach - it deserves our full hearts. No distractions. No complications.”

His gaze lingers on you, a deep, silent understanding passing between you. Then he nods, a decisive gesture. “No distractions.”

But as you walk him to the door and your fingers brush again just briefly it feels less like restraint and more like a promise. A promise to protect what is growing, to allow it to bloom in its own time, shielded from the harsh glare of public scrutiny.

The next few weeks are relentless. The government signs off on the second phase of the pilot, a monumental achievement that sends a ripple of excitement through your small, dedicated team. You’re flown to Birmingham for a school site visit, the energy in the classrooms palpable.

A regional headteacher asks you for your thoughts on restorative justice practices, and Lewis, who is usually the centre of attention, turns to listen to you, his entire focus shifted, before you even speak. It’s a small detail, but it speaks volumes.

At one point during a school Q&A session, a bold teenager, brimming with youthful curiosity, asks, “Are you two dating?” The entire classroom erupts in embarrassed laughter, and you nearly choke on your water, your cheeks flushing a furious red.

Lewis, however, just smiles, his composure unruffled, and says, with a charming twinkle in his eye, “Only dating ideas. And there are a lot of them.” The answer is clever, deflecting, and yet, somehow, it feels like a subtle nod to the truth.

Later that day, you find a small, folded note on your desk – written in his sharp, slanted handwriting: That kid had guts. Reminded me of you. You fold it carefully and tuck it into your notebook, a private treasure.

The tension doesn’t fade. But it shifts. From overwhelming to familiar. From a burdensome weight to a comforting tether. You’re in this together now, not just Mission 44 but the strange, quiet knowledge of something profound growing between you both.

You start staying late again, the boundary between work and something else, becoming increasingly porous. Brainstorming by lamplight, the city quiet outside. Sharing moments between work that feel less like strategy and more like connection.

Like the night he walks you to your car and doesn’t let go of your hand right away, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, a silent assurance. Or when he sees you overwhelmed, perhaps close to tears from the sheer weight of responsibility, and says softly, “Take a breath. I’m right here.”

He always is.

The tension doesn’t fade. But it shifts. From overwhelming to familiar. From weight to tether. You’re in this together now not just Mission 44, but the strange, quiet knowledge of something growing between you both.

And when the speculation resurfaces louder this time, fuelled by blurry paparazzi photos and increasingly bold, speculative headlines you respond not with a defensive statement, but with a unified, strategic front.

Three carefully curated Instagram posts go live within minutes of each other, a coordinated digital strike.

On your page: A powerful still from the National Youth Equity Conference – you, Lewis, the Prime Minister, and three bright-eyed young leaders, their faces alight with hope. Your caption reads: Change doesn’t happen in silence. Proud to stand beside students, leaders, and partners reshaping the future. #Mission44 #PolicyInAction

On Lewis’s page: A candid shot from backstage of the two of you, heads bent together, reviewing speaking notes, his hand mid-gesture, your brow furrowed in concentration. The caption: Not rumours. Reality. This is what collaboration looks like for purpose, not performance. #Mission44

On Mission 44’s official page: A high angle shot of the entire stage, the full team and students seated in discussion, the Prime Minister at the centre, a symbol of the institutional backing you’ve secured.

The caption: We’re not here for tabloid stories. We’re here to amplify youth voices and build policy change with the people who live it. Our team stands united. #YoungVoicesMatter #Mission44

It works enough to steady the turbulent waters. Enough to remind the world that this isn’t a distraction. It’s a movement. A movement too important to be overshadowed by cheap gossip.

And the movement is still growing, stronger and more resilient with every challenge it faces, just like the quiet, powerful connection between you and Lewis.

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

The Pilot Launch Day: South London

The air outside the school is thick with tension not anxiety, not fear but the weight of something earned.

It’s the first official day of the Mission 44 Education Reform Pilot.

Six cities. Dozens of schools. Hundreds of educators trained in trauma-informed practice, equity frameworks, and community-based learning. A year of drafting, rewriting, coalition building, sleepless nights, early flights and now it’s here.

And this school a quiet brick building tucked between tower blocks in South London is where it starts.

A student greets you at the door, hand outstretched. “Miss, you remember me?”

You pause. And then you do.

Devon. From one of the early youth roundtables. The one who sat with his arms crossed and said the system was “bullshit” and that no one ever listened.

Now he’s in a school uniform that fits properly. His lanyard says Student Council Lead.

Your throat tightens. “You clean up well.”

He laughs. “They made me tuck my shirt in for this, innit. But I’m still saying the same things.”

Lewis joins you a beat later, nodding at Devon. “Glad to see you again.”

Devon grins. “Sir, I’m watching you now, you know. Not just for the cars. For this.”

Lewis chuckles. “That’s the idea.”

The student leads you both inside. The halls have been repainted. The posters lining the walls aren’t generic slogans they’re student-created: “Learning should feel like power.” “Justice belongs in classrooms.”

Inside the main assembly hall, press line the back wall, but they’re quiet. The energy is too respectful, too reverent, to break with shouts or flashbulbs.

You sit side-by-side on stage. Lewis’s knee just barely brushing yours.

The headteacher speaks first. Then a student. Then a youth worker.

When it’s your turn, you stand behind the mic and pause because it hits you.

This moment. This reality.

What began as scribbles and what-ifs is now a breathing, living thing.

“I remember the first time I was told I didn’t belong,” you say. “It was Year 10. A teacher looked at me and said, Some people just aren’t cut out for this system. But no one ever stopped to ask if the system was cut out for us.”

You glance down. Lewis is watching you. Not like a colleague. Not like a co-founder.

Like something else.

You go on. “Today, we’re not just launching a pilot. We’re launching a truth: that young people especially those failed by traditional structures, deserve education that meets them where they are, and lifts them higher.”

The applause is soft at first, then spreads like a wave.

When the speeches end, the cameras roll. You and Lewis take a brief walk through the school classrooms in session, teachers with new materials, students who’ve never been asked for input now shaping their own curriculum.

In one room, a girl raises her hand and says, “Sir, is it true you two designed this together?”

Lewis looks at you. “We did.”

The girl squints. “So…are you like, best friends or something?”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

Later, once the press clears and the staff breathe again, you slip out to the empty courtyard.

It’s quiet. Cold, but clear.

Lewis finds you there.

“Didn’t know you’d vanished,” he says gently, holding out your coat.

You take it, tug it on. “Needed a second. It’s a lot.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause. Not uncomfortable. Just…weighty.

Then he says, “I watched you speak today. And I kept thinking if I’d had someone like you in my corner when I was younger, I would’ve believed in change a lot sooner.”

You swallow. “I think the same. About you.”

He looks at you and it’s not a glance this time. It’s a full-on search. Like he’s trying to find the version of you that’s been hiding behind purpose and late nights and policy drafts.

Like he’s found her.

You don’t say anything more. Neither does he.

But when he reaches out just lightly and touches your wrist, you don’t pull away.

And when your fingers stay there, almost laced but not quite, for the rest of the evening… it feels like more than enough.

He doesn’t tell you where you’re going only says, “Dress nice. No blazers. You’ve earned at least one night off.”

So, you do.

You trade your workwear for a soft, fitted dress. Something simple. Comfortable. Something that still makes you feel like yourself but seen.

He picks you up himself, no driver. His car smells like cinnamon and clean leather. He doesn’t say much, but the glance he gives you when you slide into the passenger seat lingers.

“Okay,” he says. “You really didn’t have to go this hard.”

You smirk. “You said ‘dress nice.’ I follow instructions.”

He laughs, and it’s the first time all day he sounds like he’s not carrying the weight of ten thousand expectations.

The restaurant he’s chosen is tucked away no paparazzi, no fuss. A low-lit place with floor-to-ceiling windows, jazz humming from a speaker near the bar. There are no white tablecloths. Just dark wood, gold cutlery, and the kind of hush that invites conversation.

You order drinks ginger mocktails for both of you and share plates between you.

And for the first time in weeks, it’s not about strategy.

It’s about you.

“What was the moment it all clicked for you?” he asks, leaning forward. “The one that made you say, ‘Alright. I’m gonna change the whole damn system.’”

You grin. “Year 11. My best friend got suspended for something she didn’t even do. They didn’t even ask her side. Just a phone call home and an assumption.”

He watches you closely.

“I remember thinking, if the system doesn’t care about truth, what is it doing? And then later, when I started learning about law and policy, I realised maybe I could do something from the inside.”

He nods. “You’ve done more than ‘something.’ You made this real.”

You shrug, looking down at your drink. “We did it together.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “You know, I’ve worked with a lot of people. Been in boardrooms with some of the most powerful folks in the world. But I’ve never felt this kind of clarity before.”

You glance up.

He continues, slower now. “You’ve made me braver. Sharper. More focused. Like I’m not just fighting for something anymore - I’m building it.”

Your heart is a live-wire.

You sit in it. Let it stretch between you.

The check comes. He pays — quickly, before you even reach for your purse.

You leave the restaurant with a lightness in your chest and a warmth in your cheeks.

Outside, the air was crisp but not cold, carrying the faint, sweet scent of damp earth and distant city life. The London streets shimmered under lamplight, still a little wet from earlier rain, each glint a secret shared with the night. You walked quietly, side by side, your shoulders brushing now and then, a soft friction that sent a quiet warmth through you. Your breath, a delicate mist in the low light, mingled with his.

“Walk for a bit?” he asked, his voice a low thrum against the city's quiet hum.

You nodded, a single, soft brush of your chin against your chest. “Yeah.”

So you did. Slowly, unhurried, as if the ground beneath you held no urgency. The city hummed around you but didn’t intrude like it was giving you this moment, a hushed, private space in its vastness.

“I thought about you that night,” he said suddenly, his voice even lower now, as if afraid to break the delicate stillness between you. “After the article came out. I kept wondering if I’d messed it up. Put a spotlight on something that should’ve been private.”

You slowed your steps, your heart giving a quiet, responsive beat. “I thought about you, too. But not like that.”

He stopped walking, and so did you, the sudden absence of motion emphasising the charged air.

You turned to face him beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp, the rain-slick pavement catching pieces of light like scattered glass. The light softened the edges of his face, drawing your gaze to the gentle curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes.

“I thought about how I’ve never met anyone who made purpose feel this possible,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky with the admission. “Like it’s not just an idea. It’s a life.”

He was looking at you the way he did during your speech earlier like he was seeing every version of you at once, pulling them into a single, cohesive truth. The fighter, the strategist, the girl who once wanted to be invisible, and the woman now standing at the centre of something seismic, vulnerable and powerful all at once.

His eyes, dark pools in the lamplight, flickered to your mouth. Then back up. Then down again, a silent, electric tracing.

He took a step closer, then another, his presence enveloping you, blurring the edges of the world.

Your breath hitched, a soft intake of air that felt impossibly loud in the quiet. You didn’t move.

You knew before it happened before his hand grazed your jaw, a feather-light touch that sent shivers through your skin. Before his fingers slid gently behind your ear, finding the sensitive hollow there, the pad of his thumb resting just under your cheekbone, a warm anchor.

Before the soft, ragged inhale he took as his forehead leaned in, touching yours, the slight rasp of his skin against yours.

Everything narrowed, sharpened. The cool, crisp press of the night air against your skin, the radiating warmth from him, a protective aura. The distinct scent of cinnamon and something deeper, richer - something undeniably his, a scent that resonated deep within you.

You didn’t close your eyes yet. You just looked at him, memorising the landscape of his face, the intensity in his gaze, the question in his eyes.

And then he whispered, his voice a raw murmur against your lips, “I’m going to kiss you now, unless you don’t want me to.”

Your reply was breathless, barely there, a sigh of surrender and longing: “I do.”

He didn’t rush it. This was not a moment to be hurried.

His lips brushed against yours like a question the softest ask, a hesitant exploration. And when you answered by pressing closer, your hand sliding up, fingers instinctively curling into the soft fabric of his coat over his chest, he deepened it. Still slow. Still careful. But with a quiet intensity that made your whole-body ache with a sweet, profound longing.

It wasn’t the kiss of impulse.

It was the kiss of weeks of near misses, of accidental touches that lingered too long. Of shoulders touching in crowded rooms, sending sparks beneath your skin. Of late nights with mugs too warm to hold, sharing secrets in hushed tones. Of glances exchanged across tables that said not yet, not here, but soon.

It was the kiss of trust earned through quiet battles, of tension survived, of recognising a kindred spirit.

You tilted your head, allowing deeper access, and his other hand found your waist, firm but reverent, grounding you as if you were something precious, something sacred.

Your fingers curled further into the fabric of his coat, gripping him gently as the kiss lingered, built, softened, deepened a symphony of sensation, a silent conversation of souls. And when it finally broke, it was with a pause that felt like a breath held between heartbeats, a suspended moment before the world rushed back in.

He stayed close.

His forehead remained against yours, his hand still cradling your jaw, his other firm at your waist. In the quiet that followed, all you heard was the distant, soothing hum of traffic and the incredible, effortless way your breaths synced without trying.

Then he murmured, his voice husky, “I’ve wanted to do that since the first night you challenged me in that strategy meeting.”

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound that vibrated between you. “And I’ve wanted to do it since you brought me that terrible chamomile tea the first time I stayed late.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against your forehead as he brushed his nose against yours, a tender, playful gesture. “I knew it was bad. I just needed a reason to walk over.”

You smiled, warm and real, and it bloomed in your chest like something unstoppable, something radiant.

You stayed like that a little longer no expectations, no deadlines, no next steps. Just two people in the middle of a London street, caught in the tender glow of a streetlamp, in the middle of something profound and new.

Something built not from rush or fleeting desire alone, but from shared purpose, deep respect, and a thousand quiet moments that had led, inevitably, exquisitely, to this one.

And when he finally walked you back to the car and opened the door for you, his hand brushed yours again.

This time, neither of you let go for a long while. The connection, now undeniable, hummed between your joined hands, a silent promise in the quiet night.

The kiss didn’t change everything overnight. It didn’t unravel months of carefully constructed caution or send you spiralling into something too big, too fast. If anything, it settled something between you turned tension into a gentle tether, potential into a quiet, comforting presence.

The next morning, there were no grand declarations, no sudden shifts in title or pace. But when you walked into the meeting room and saw Lewis already there, flipping through the week’s schedule, he looked up like he always did with that quiet flicker of something just for you, a warmth in his eyes that had always been present but now felt undeniably acknowledged. And this time, you let yourself return it fully, a soft, open acceptance in your gaze.

You still immersed yourselves in the work, still spent hours in schools, in hushed rooms with policy advisors, with students who carried more weight than any young shoulders should. But now, a new softness was woven into it all. A quiet knowing that hummed beneath the surface.

A foundation that felt just as much about mutual care as it did about systemic change. This deepening connection didn't distract; it enriched, grounding you both as you navigated the demanding landscape of their shared mission.

When the first round of national expansion was confirmed after months of rigorous trial programs, relentless lobbying, and delicate negotiations you were called into a press conference. You sat beside Lewis, the education secretary, and a panel of remarkable young people who had helped shape the pilot. The air thrummed with anticipation.

The announcement came: Mission 44’s groundbreaking school reform initiative would be rolled out to thirty more institutions across the UK. A model rooted in dignity, access, and profoundly, powerfully, youth-led solutions.

The applause rang out, a wave of sound that seemed to lift the very ceiling. You glanced at him, a natural, almost magnetic pull, and found he was already looking at you. And in that look a small, private smile exchanged amidst the joyous chaos, a silent acknowledgment shared in the middle of something massive - you felt it:

You made it.

Not just the program. Not just the policy.

But this. The thing between you. Built slowly, deliberately, like a strong, resilient current. Without ever needing to rush, or to name it before it was truly, unequivocally ready. It was a growth, a blossoming, unfolding at its own organic pace.

Later that night, when it was all over and your shoes were off and the city had gone quiet again, he walked into your living room with a mug in each hand.

Chamomile, of course. It was still terrible. You still drank it, a small, shared ritual.

He sank into the couch beside you, a little closer than strictly necessary. Your legs brushed, a warm, reassuring contact. Neither of you moved away.

You didn’t talk about work. You didn't need to. That day's triumph had already been shared in a look, a touch. Instead, you talked about music. Family. The versions of yourselves that existed before all this began, before the mission, before each other.

And somewhere between laughing about your mutual fear of karaoke and teasing him about his endless collection of knit beanies, you rested your head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of it - absent, affectionate, a comfortable gesture that felt as natural as breathing.

And it was then you realised:

This wasn’t a beginning.

Not really.

This was continuing.

You were still doing the work, the urgent, vital work of building a better system. Still learning how to love each other with care, with patience, with clarity, allowing your connection to deepen as naturally as the shifting seasons.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel heavy with expectation or burden.

It just felt open. Filled with possibility, both for the world you were shaping and the quiet, profound love blooming within it.

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

One Year Later:

You don't even notice the camera flash at first. You're too utterly absorbed in the vibrant energy of the students before you - their eyes bright, their questions bubbling over, a perfect mix of cool indifference and starry-eyed awe at being in the same room as him.

Lewis is to your right, leaning in, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing way he gets when he's truly locked into a conversation. A bright girl with box braids is passionately explaining her school’s new peer mentorship program, and when she finishes, he grins, a flash of pure warmth that reaches his eyes, and nudges you lightly with his elbow.

"She just described half the model you spent six months drafting," he murmurs, his voice a low, playful rumble meant just for you. "You've infected the youth."

You bump your elbow back against his, a comfortable, well-worn rhythm that’s become second nature. "Mission accomplished."

The students, sharp as ever, don't miss it, of course the shared look, the quiet, effortless sync between you two that speaks volumes without a single word. One of the boys raises an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye, and mutters something under his breath to his friend, a soft giggle escaping. Later, you'll scroll past a TikTok with a blurry, slightly shaky zoom-in of that exact moment, captioned:

THEM??? #powercouple #educatorera #mission44royalty

It has half a million likes by dinner, but you just scroll past it with a soft smile, a warmth spreading through your chest. You don't care anymore. Because somewhere along the way, the whispers stopped mattering. The mission got louder than the noise, a roaring testament to change that echoed far beyond any gossip.

And people, finally, truly saw it for what it was: two people not just working side by side, but loving without spectacle, building something substantial and enduring that would outlast any fleeting headline. Their relationship, once a quiet, private bloom, had simply become another natural, undeniable part of their public story.

You move in together in March. Not with an announcement splashed across news sites or a formal press release the world already knew, or at least suspected, from the easy way you interacted in public, the lingering touches, the undeniable glow that seemed to follow you both.

It was just boxes filled with shared memories, a collection of beloved mugs, and a shared playlist that became the soft, melodic backdrop as you gently, beautifully, folded your separate lives into the same sun-drenched space. Your worn sneakers found their place next to his polished shoes by the door, a small, perfect tableau of domesticity. His well-loved paperbacks were shelved next to your dog-eared academic texts, a silent blending of worlds, each page whispering tales of your individual journeys now intertwined.

A calendar on the fridge, covered in outreach trips and campaign dates, now sported a little heart drawn in your handwriting next to "Cambridge student conference," a sweet, thoughtful idea that was entirely his, marking a shared commitment that extended beyond the professional.

You fall asleep most nights with your head nestled against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a lullaby. His hand is always curled around yours, a soft, protective weight, a quiet promise in the dark.

You still talk about work, about the intricate dance of policy and people, about the breakthroughs and the challenges, still dreaming bigger, together, his presence making every aspiration feel more attainable.

One quiet night in June, after a long, fulfilling day of school visits in bustling Manchester, you're brushing your teeth, the low hum of the electric brush a familiar sound, when you hear him call your name from the living room. It’s a soft call, but laced with a certain tenderness that makes you pause, a tremor of anticipation running through you.

You walk out to find him standing by the window, the soft glow of the city lights painting gentle shadows on his skin. He's in nothing but comfortable joggers and a soft white tee, looking utterly at peace, yet somehow more profoundly present than ever, bathed in the quiet glow of the city.

"I keep thinking," he says, his eyes finding yours across the room, full of a quiet wonder, "about how none of this would've happened without you."

You arch a brow playfully, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "The work?"

He shakes his head slowly, a faint, contented smile playing on his lips, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "The work. The change. Me."

He crosses the room, his steps unhurried, as if savouring every inch of the distance between you. He reaches you, and his hands cup your face, so gentle, so utterly natural, as if they were always meant to fit there, anchoring you with a profound, quiet strength.

"I didn't know I could do this," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking softly along your cheekbones, a tender caress, "and feel whole. Until you."

Your throat tightens, a sweet ache blooming in your chest. Not because you didn't know but because you did. You've felt it, every single day, for the past year. The quiet completeness, the profound belonging that his presence had brought into every corner of your life.

So you kiss him. Not like that first night, charged with nervous possibility and the thrilling unknown. This one is different. It's steadier. Familiar. Like something well-loved, deeply cherished, and perfectly settled, a deep breath of coming home. It’s a kiss of deep roots and shared future, of everyday magic, and a love that has bloomed into a comfortable, enduring truth.

When you pull back, only just, he presses his forehead to yours, his breath a soft caress against your lips. "Stay with me," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, "All of it. Always."

And you say, "I already am." Every fibre of your being, every beat of your heart, affirmed the truth of those words.

[interiorergonomics]

Conference Tables vs Meeting Table Size and Purpose

The UNIQ Boardroom Meeting Table, priced at د.إ 8,925 including tax, offers a sophisticated solution for executive meeting spaces. On the other hand, the BELLA : Meeting Table (Square) is at د.إ 1,103 incl. tax

Both tables are designed to enhance both functionality and aesthetics in boardrooms. They provide a high-quality and professional environment for important discussions as well as decision-making. With their elegant design and durable construction, their design size and shape are tailored to meet the needs of high-level meetings.

Conference Vs Meeting Table

while conference room tables are ideal for large, formal gatherings, meeting tables offer versatility for smaller, more informal settings. That means consider the size and purpose of your meetings before selecting the right table to enhance productivity and communication in your workspace.

[rebelfell]

Welcome to your appointment, @wolfqueenxxx we do so hope you find it to your liking!

18+, MDNI┃1.5k

cw: workplace romance, older!eddie (implied age gap), friends to lovers, modern au (real modern, as in like…last month)

Eddie wasn’t used to having you at his place yet.

He loved you being there, don’t get him wrong, he still just sort of couldn’t believe you were?

For so long he’d only gotten to see you for fleeting moments around the office, flitting about in your professional wear or appearing at his office door sheepishly holding up your laptop for him to fix.

You had steadily given up the pretense of needing his expertise in IT as your excuse to drop in, until you were appearing before him nearly on a daily basis. Sometimes twice, if he was lucky.

Whether you were just stopping by to chat, or to let him know when there were doughnuts in the communal kitchen, or to bring him a cup of coffee from the fresh pot you just made, the times when he got to see you and share a few words quickly became the brightest spots in his day.

And yes, in the beginning, he maybe might have (definitely) had the faintest inkling of a crush. 

How could he not, you know? Just look at you.

Still, he didn’t dare entertain the notion you had any intentions beyond pure friendship. He’d been around long enough by now to know the pretty, young administrative assistant wasn’t going to be making eyes at the prehistoric barely-rockstar turned corporate computer monkey.

He wasn’t that much older than you, but he’d always been a sort of crotchety and cranky sort. Older in spirit than in actual years. Except now his age was truly showing—extra creaks and clicks in his joints, deepening lines on his face, a dusting of salt and pepper in the scruff under his jaw.

Not to mention the streaks in his dark curls that flashed silver when they caught the light.

He really was thinking about dying it one of these days. He never expected to go so gray so fast.

He was barely forty for chrissake.

It didn’t matter, though. The very idea was a non-starter. You were just being friendly. End of.

The kind of friendly where you noticed the pens he liked and ordered them regularly; where you’d switched the coffee to one he recommended, and kept his favorite flavor of creamer stocked; where you brought in potted plants to put in his window because he had the nicest, biggest one in the office and didn’t utilize in the slightest.

And he in turn was friendly back. The kind of friendly where he had upgraded the RAM on your laptop just because you mentioned it was running a little slower than usual; where he only attended the Happy Hour gatherings you organized; where he set up an automatic back-up of all your files after one hard drive failure that nearly had you crying underneath the conference table.

Friendliness. That was all it was.

And that’s all it would ever be.

He loved it best, though, when you were watching the same show. That guaranteed at least a twenty minute convo of swapping theories and analysis, excitedly talking over one another you were so eager to share your thoughts.

Shows he might never have watched or maybe abandoned after one or two episodes, he found himself watching religiously just to be able to talk with you about it the next day. And the stuff he’d seen a million times felt fresh again seeing it through your eyes.

Then you started talking about the shows you were looking forward to coming back on.

You told him how pumped you were for White Lotus to start back up, but lamented that you’d let your Max subscription lapse, so you’d have to avoid spoilers until the season was over and you could binge it with a free trial or something. Eddie commiserated, telling you how he burned through Severance on an Apple TV trial and totally screwed himself over for season two.

He laughed. Said it was funny the way you both had what the other needed. At best, he thought a simple password exchange might be in order.

But you suggested a different sort of trade.

If he came over to your place on Thursday nights for Severance, you could come over to his on Sunday nights for White Lotus.

“It’s perfect, right?” you’d asked with your head tilted sweetly, so unaware what it did to him.

Eddie coughed and sputtered like he’d swallowed one of the thumbtacks on his desk.

You in his house? Him in yours? You seeing all his tour posters and records and the weird art pieces he’s collected over the years? Him getting to look at your books and your geode collection that he’s heard so much about? Meeting the pet he’s only ever seen in the framed photos on your desk?

He tried to at least act as though his head wasn’t full-on exploding at the thought.

“Yeah, definitely,” he said, voice cracking like he was going through a second puberty at 42.

From that point on, Thursday nights were reserved for emotional devastation while your Sundays were taken up by bemusement at rich people’s antics and giggling over increasingly silly imitations of Parker Posey’s southern accent.

The visits grew longer each time, both of you getting more comfortable in the other’s space. Often you traded off making dinner and bringing a bottle of wine or the makings for a cocktail to share. He quickly learned your preferences for food and drink, filing it away in his head.

You know, just in case he ever needed to know.

But as both the shows drew to an end, he found himself despising the modern model of television. What genius decided to cut whole seasons down to a measly eight or ten episodes, anyway? 

For months, he had gotten to spend at least one night a week with you (as it turned out the shows only overlapped for a total of four episodes) and now, what? He was supposed to give it all up?

Eddie sighed as the credits rolled for the White Lotus finale, and not just because the ending had left him slightly unsatisfied. Truth was, he’d only halfway been paying attention from the moment your eyes had begun to droop and he felt the weight of your head drop onto his shoulder.

His heart pounded and his body froze, his spine as straight as if someone had jammed a steel rod down the back of his shirt. Your head was close enough for him to smell your shampoo and he could feel the warmth of your body seeping through the cotton of his paper thin shirt.

For one brain splitting second, Eddie wondered if this was some kind of move you were making. At least he did until he heard your steady, rhythmic breathing and the soft rasp of you snoring.

You didn’t stir until he reached for the remote and tried to lower the volume as the post-season interview with the creator started playing. Oddly enough, the absence of noise rousing you faster.

“Oh, shit. Did I miss it?” you mumbled sleepily as you rubbed one of your still-closed eyes.

“Yeah, kind of,” Eddie chuckled, regretting how it made his shoulders shake, thinking how it might have made you move your head.

Thankfully, you didn’t. You kept it right where it was, not making any kind of shift to get up.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” he said as he clicked off the TV, his voice laced with disappointment.

Disappointment he let himself believe he saw mirrored in your eyes as you nodded and worried your bottom lip with your teeth. Was he crazy?

Or did you not want this to be the end either?

“You know,” you started, twisting your fingers in your lap, “The Last of Us starts back in a couple weeks. Maybe we can keep it going?”

“We could…” he answered slowly and rubbed the flat side of his palm against his pant leg, trying to alleviate the sweat starting to accumulate. “Or…you could let me take you out on a real date?”

All the air in his apartment whooshed out, leaving nothing but a deafening silence in its wake. More sweat collected in the center of his palm and he swore you could see how his heart thumped.

“Is that you asking me out?” you asked, your even and nonchalant tone debilitatingly hard to read.

If you were horrified, if you felt totally violated, if you were extraordinarily creeped out—it was just about impossible for him to tell. If you were filing a report with HR in your head, he wouldn’t have the faintest idea until the pink slip hit his desk.

But he took some solace in the fact that you never lifted your head off his shoulder.

“Uh…yes,” he answered after a long pause. A long pause followed by an even longer one; a long and silent one from you during which Eddie debated defecting to the company’s Canadian office.

And then he heard it—the soft, yet unmistakable sound of you chuckling sweetly.

“About fuckin’ time, old man,” you murmured in your half-sleep, the hint of a smile curling up the corners of your mouth as you draped an arm over him and nestled fully into his embrace.

Eddie’s own arm slipped around your back, hand landing on your shoulder like he’s been dreaming of it doing since January. He pulled you into him, wrapping you up tightly and exhaling in relief.

Shit. He had to tweet Mike White now.

Thank you so much for visiting the spa, we hope your services were satisfactory 🌿