#temporary insight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kaira-diaries · 6 months ago

Text

Older

warning: violence || death - gun usage || fluff || wound cleaning- mentions of blood

pair: Fem!reader x In-ho

wc: 5k

a/n: this is fluffyy, no smut. More of a "who did this to you" kinda trope if you catch my drift..

summary: You're injured from a rogue player and the frontman fixes you up while also revealing his feelings.

->Masterlist <-

The elevator doors slid shut with a low hum, isolating you in a confined silence broken only by the rhythmic throb of pain radiating from your upper thigh. You leaned heavily against the cold metal wall, gritting your teeth as you pressed a trembling hand against the angry, crimson wound. Blood seeped through your fingers, staining the black fabric of your suit with a wet heat that clung to your skin. You hissed under your breath, a string of curses escaping as the memory of the fight replayed in your mind.

Player 202.

The name alone sent a fresh wave of frustration through you. He'd escaped after ruthlessly taking down one of your men, disarming him with precision and fleeing into the labyrinth of the facility. The moment the alarm sounded, you sent out a brigade to track him, their boots pounding the metal corridors like a drumbeat of impending justice. Yet it wasn't them who found him first.

It was you.

The confrontation was savage and immediate. He had nothing left to lose, and his desperation made him dangerous. Your pistol clattered to the ground during the struggle, the sound of its impact lost in the chaos. The fight turned brutal, the two of you grappling for control of his weapon. The flash of the muzzle came before the pain—a white-hot, searing agony that ripped through your thigh and left you gasping.

Your troop arrived seconds later, fanning out like a tide of pink uniforms and barked orders before sending him to his grave. They pulled you back, their hands firm and voices taut with urgency.

You left them to handle the scene—the body, the blood, the weapon—but not before stuffing a bandage into the ragged hole torn into your flesh. It was a temporary solution, one that barely stemmed the bleeding and left you limping through the sterile halls, your body screaming with every step.

Now, you stood in the elevator, the walls pressing in like a cage. The report clutched in your hand felt heavy, not just with the weight of its contents but with the implications. You stared at it, the words blurring as your mind raced ahead to the confrontation awaiting you.

The thought of seeing him—In-ho—your boss—sent a shiver down your spine, a conflicting rush of anticipation and dread. You'd worked under him for a year now, long enough to decipher the cracks beneath his cold, enigmatic exterior. He didn't speak much, but you noticed the subtle signs: the way his hand would linger just a second too long on yours, the rare moments his unmasked gaze would meet yours in the low light of late nights spent planning the future of the games.

He was older, yes—marked by the faint lines etched near his eyes. But to you, that wasn't a drawback; it was a draw. The men your age always seemed unsure, fumbling through life with a bravado that couldn't mask their inexperience. They didn't have the weight of the world in their gaze, the scars of hard-earned insight that you saw in him.

In-ho knew who he was, and that confidence was intoxicating. It wasn't just the authority he wielded, though that certainly added to his allure—it was the way he made you feel seen, like he understood you in a way no one else did. He could cut through your defenses with a single look, his intensity both unnerving and thrilling. With In-ho, there were no games, no shallow conversations. Every interaction felt deliberate, meaningful. It was a stark contrast to the fleeting, empty flattery you'd grown accustomed to from others in the facility. In-ho didn't waste time on empty words—when he spoke, it mattered.

But his temper was something else entirely—a storm, sharp and explosive, that left you reeling in its wake. It terrified you, the sheer force of his rage when things went wrong. Yet somehow, you craved it. It drove you to work harder, to strategize smarter, to ensure that every piece of the game moved flawlessly.

Until now.

Now, the flow was broken, disrupted by a single player who had dared to defy the system. And you were the one left to account for it.

The elevator lurched to a stop, a soft chime signaling your arrival. You straightened as much as your injured leg would allow, smoothing the front of your bloodied suit with trembling fingers. Your heart thudded against your ribs, a drumbeat of adrenaline and apprehension. As the doors slid open, revealing the long corridor that led to his office, you took a steadying breath.

The door to his office stood ajar, a soft glow spilling into the corridor. You hesitated for a moment, drawing a shallow breath to steady yourself. The sharp ache in your thigh pulsed in time with your racing heart. Leaning heavily against the frame, you rapped your knuckles lightly on the wood.

He glanced up from his drink, his mask nowhere in sight. The bare planes of his face caught the light, casting sharp shadows along the elegant curve of his jaw. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and piercing, sending a jolt through your already frayed nerves.

"Just dropping this off," you said, lifting the report in a trembling hand. But your voice betrayed you, cracking under the weight of the pain you'd worked so hard to suppress. Quickly, you schooled your features into a mask of indifference, willing the flicker of agony on your face to vanish.

He didn't move at first, only watching you with a quiet intensity that made the air feel heavier. Then, slowly, he set his glass down on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. The light overhead carved out every detail of his features, drawing your attention to the sharp lines and the faint tension in his posture.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low but laced with an edge of something you couldn't quite place. His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the twitch in your expression before you could hide it.

"Nothing," you replied quickly, too quickly. "Just tired."

He hummed softly, a noncommittal sound that sent a ripple of unease through you. His gaze swept over you in one smooth motion, lingering too long on the torn fabric at your thigh. The faint sheen of blood there hadn't gone unnoticed.

You bit your lip, the faint taste of copper grounding you. He knew. You'd been made.

With deliberate steps, he closed the space between you, his presence both imposing and oddly comforting. His fingers brushed yours as he took the report from your hand, but he didn't step back. Instead, his other hand came up, warm and steady, wrapping gently around your wrist.

"What happened?" he asked, softer this time, but the command in his tone was unmistakable.

You flinched, the mask you'd so carefully constructed threatening to shatter. "I told you, it's nothing."

His thumb ghosted over your pulse, and his eyes, normally sharp and unyielding, held a flicker of something softer now. Concern, perhaps, though he kept it guarded.

"You're bleeding." His gaze dipped back to the torn slit at your thigh, voice tightening just enough to betray his frustration—or was it worry? "That doesn't look like 'nothing.'"

The silence stretched between you, taut as a wire. You looked away, but he didn't release you. Instead, his grip remained tight.

"Let me see," he said at last, his voice dropping lower, almost a plea.

You swallowed hard, torn between defiance and the strange pull of his concern.

The vulnerability in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you let your guard slip. Just a moment.

You sighed, the sound heavy with defeat, and allowed him to take control. His hand slid to your arm, carefully, as he guided you toward the bed. Each step sent a sharp jolt of pain radiating from your thigh, and you couldn't stop the grimace that twisted your face. When you finally reached the bed, you lowered yourself onto it with a hiss, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight.

He knelt before you without hesitation, the action fluid and purposeful. His gaze flickered up to meet yours for a fleeting moment, a silent reassurance passing between you before it dropped to the torn fabric of your suit.

With unsteady fingers, you widened the hole in the fabric, revealing the angry, blood-slicked wound beneath. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he clenched his teeth, but his eyes softened in contrast, shadowed with an emotion you weren't sure how to name.

"Who did this?" he asked, his voice low but tense, each word laced with barely restrained anger.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as the heat of his gaze on your injury made you acutely aware of your vulnerability.

"It's all in the report," you said, lifting your chin as if to distance yourself from the pain. "But long story short, a player escaped, and I happened to be the first to find him."

His brow furrowed at your words, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded slowly, his fingers ghosting just above the torn flesh as though debating whether to touch it. He didn't, instead leaning in closer to inspect the wound.

You watched him work, his focus sharp and unwavering, yet there was a tension in the way he moved—an almost imperceptible hesitation as if the sight of you like this unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

"Stay here," he said at last, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Before you could respond, he rose smoothly to his feet and strode out of the room. For a moment, the space felt colder in his absence, the tension in the air lingering like an aftershock.

You shifted slightly, the pain in your thigh flaring as you tried to settle into a more comfortable position. The scent of blood and the faint trace of his cologne lingered in the room, mixing into something oddly grounding. As you waited, the steady thrum of your heartbeat filled the silence, your mind replaying the look in his eyes—the clash of anger and concern.

He returned a few minutes later, the soft grating of the floor pulling your attention. In his hand was a first aid kit, its red cross glaring against the white metal. He placed it on the bed beside you with practiced precision, his movements deliberate and calm. You watched him intently, your nerves prickling as a sense of inevitability settled over you. You weren't one to jump at the chance to see a doctor—or anyone who'd come near a wound with tools—but right now, you had no choice. The jagged piece of metal lodged in your thigh needed to come out.

You swallowed hard, the audible gulp betraying your unease. His head snapped toward you, sharp and assessing, and for a moment, you felt entirely too exposed under his gaze.

"It has to come out," he said, his voice hard but not unkind. "One way or another."

You nodded, forcing a deep breath into your lungs to steady yourself.

"I'll need a better view of your leg," he added, his words carrying an unspoken implication that made your stomach twist.

Your fingers found the zipper of your suit, moving with determined efficiency despite the tremor in your hands. The cool slide of metal teeth was almost deafening in the quiet room. You managed to unzip it down to your hips, but the moment you tried to shimmy the fabric lower, the pain exploded, sharp and blinding. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped your lips as you froze, unable to continue.

Without a word, he stepped closer, his presence both grounding and intimidating. His hands moved to the crumpled fabric at your hips, firm but aware as they took over the task.

"Lay back," he instructed, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

You hesitated, your body stiff with the anticipation of pain, but you obeyed, easing yourself down onto the mattress. The ceiling blurred slightly as you stared up at it, trying to focus on anything but the throbbing ache in your leg.

"Lift your hips for me," he said softly, his tone low and coaxing.

The words carried a strange intimacy, making your pulse spike. You hesitated again, the sharp edge of fear creeping into your expression, and his gaze softened in response.

"I'll be quick," he assured you, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Trust me."

Something in his tone—a rare note of sincerity—eased the tension in your chest, just enough for you to comply. You braced yourself, gripping the edge of the mattress as you shifted your hips upward. His hands moved with quiet efficiency, sliding the fabric down your legs with as little movement as possible. Even so, the motion sent a fresh wave of pain rippling through you, and you clenched your teeth to keep from crying out.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice steady and grounding as he worked.

Finally, the suit was out of the way, leaving your leg exposed. He glanced down at the wound, his jaw tightening again as he assessed the damage. You caught the flicker of something behind his expression—frustration, concern, perhaps even guilt—but he quickly masked it.

He reached for the glass of liquor on the desk, the liquid catching the light as he extended it toward you. His movements were deliberate, slow, as though offering you a choice—but you didn't hesitate. You snatched the glass from his hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, though neither of you acknowledged it.

The cool weight of the glass felt solid in your grasp, and you brought it to your lips without a second thought. The liquor burned as it slid down your throat, sharp and unforgiving, a brief distraction from the pain radiating from your thigh. A few stray drops escaped, trickling down your chin, leaving a warm, tingling trail before dripping onto your chest.

The sight sent a flicker of awareness through you, heat threatening to rise to your cheeks, but you shoved it down, focusing instead on the sting of the alcohol and the sharp, metallic scent of blood that still hung in the air.

In-ho's gaze flickered, lingering for a split second longer than it should have. The contrast between the harsh situation and the intimate glimpse of black lace pulled at something deep within him, but he quickly masked the reaction, his jaw tightening as he tore his eyes away.

You, oblivious, shifted slightly, the motion sending another ripple of agony through you. The sound of your sharp intake of breath jolted him back into focus. He turned, reaching for the first aid kit, and the soft clink of metal brought your attention to the pliers he now held.

The tool looked unforgiving, its edges gleaming under the harsh light. A chill swept over you as he knelt by your side again, his expression grim and unreadable.

He placed the pliers against your thigh, the cold metal brushing the torn flesh. The sensation sent a wave of panic through you, and before you could think, your hand shot out, gripping his wrist tightly.

"In-ho—" you choked, the fear in your voice raw and unguarded.

He froze, his gaze snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, the room felt unbearably still, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

His eyes softened, the sharpness in them giving way to something quieter, something almost tender. But there was a flicker of conflict there too, a shadow he didn't allow to linger long.

"I'll make it quick," he said, his voice low, steady. The words were deliberate, spoken like a promise meant only for you.

You didn't respond right away, searching his face for any sign of hesitation or doubt. Instead, you found only calm resolve, a quiet assurance that somehow steadied you despite the circumstances.

Finally, your grip loosened, though your fingers trembled as you released his wrist. You closed your eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. "Okay," you whispered, almost too quietly to hear.

"Good," he murmured, almost to himself. His hand returned to your thigh, steadying it as he repositioned the pliers.

You didn't see the fleeting glance he cast at you again, the lace and soft curves drawing his attention one last time before he forced himself to focus. He tightened his grip on the pliers, his jaw hardening with determination.

"Just hold on," he said quietly, the words laced with both command and care, and you braced yourself for the pain to come.

The cold metal of the pliers pierced your torn flesh, sending a blinding wave of pain radiating through your body. Your hand flew to your mouth, pressing hard against your lips to stifle the cry that threatened to escape. The pressure did little to mask the muffled whimper that slipped through, but In-ho didn't flinch. His focus was absolute, his movements precise and unyielding as he worked.

Each subtle shift of the pliers sent another spike of agony through your leg, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You bit down on your knuckle, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, trying to breathe through the searing pain.

He remained silent, his jaw set in steely determination as he dug deeper. The pliers twisted slightly, the sharp edges brushing against nerves that made your leg jerk involuntarily. His free hand shot out to steady your thigh, his touch firm but grounding.

"Almost there," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, though it was clear he was speaking more to himself than to you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he paused. The small metallic clink of the bullet being gripped filled the silence. With a quick, decisive motion, he yanked it free.

You exhaled sharply, the release of tension almost dizzying as the pain shifted from sharp to dull. The air felt heavier now, thick with the metallic tang of blood. He set the pliers and bullet down on a clean napkin, the small hunk of metal glinting under the light like a grim trophy.

For a brief moment, you thought it was over—until your eyes caught the crimson stain blooming across the sheets beneath you. The deep red seeped outward, a stark contrast against the pale fabric, forming a small but growing pool.

Your stomach twisted at the sight, a new wave of discomfort settling over you. Your brows furrowed as you forced yourself to sit up slightly, wincing at the motion.

"In-ho," you said, your voice uneven as you gestured weakly toward the mess. "Your bed…"

He glanced at the bloodstained sheets, his expression unreadable. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached for the first aid kit again, his movements efficient as he grabbed a fresh bandage and antiseptic.

"It doesn't matter," he said quietly, not sparing the sheets another glance. His focus was back on you, his hands steady as he worked to clean the wound.

"It does matter," you mumbled, guilt creeping into your voice despite your exhaustion.

"It doesn't," he insisted, his tone firm, almost scolding, but his hands remained gentle. "You're what matters."

You lay back, forcing yourself to relax as he continued tending to your wound. His movements were practiced and meticulous, each gesture deliberate and careful.

The antiseptic stung at first, a sharp, biting sensation that made your leg twitch, but his steady hands didn't falter.

"Luckily, stitches aren't needed," he said, his voice calm and reassuring as he dabbed at the cleaned wound. "It should heal on its own, as long as you don't push yourself."

His tone carried an undertone of warning, though it was gentler than you expected. You nodded faintly, the tension in your body beginning to ebb.

With precise care, he reached for a roll of bandages.

The soft fabric unraveled with a faint rustle, and he began wrapping it around your thigh. His fingers brushed against your skin as he worked, warm and firm, grounding you with each pass. The pressure from the bandage was snug but not overbearing, and the dull ache that lingered in your leg already seemed more tolerable.

"There," he murmured, tying off the bandage neatly. "That should hold. Keep it clean, and you'll be fine."

You exhaled a shaky breath, relieved the worst was over. But just as you thought he was finished, he leaned closer, his head dipping toward your thigh.

Before you could process what was happening, you felt the faintest press of his lips against the bandaged wound. It was featherlight, a fleeting touch that sent a ripple of warmth cascading through your chest.

Your breath hitched, the unexpected gesture leaving you momentarily frozen. His kiss wasn't lingering or ostentatious—it was soft, almost reverent, and so brief that you wondered if you'd imagined it.

He straightened, his expression unreadable as he began gathering the used supplies and setting them aside. But you couldn't tear your eyes away from him, your heart fluttering erratically in your chest.

"In-ho…" you whispered, his name slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

With that, he slipped an arm beneath your legs and another around your back. The motion was effortless as he scooped you into his arms, holding you close against his chest.

His grip was steady, his movements smooth as he carried you across the room to a clean bed. The scent of fresh linen greeted you as he lowered you carefully onto the mattress, his hands lingering for a moment as he adjusted your position to ensure you were comfortable.

You winced slightly as your leg shifted, but the ache was manageable now, dulled by the care he'd already given. He pulled the blanket up over you, tucking it around your shoulders with a gentleness that felt almost out of place coming from him.

His expression softened as his gaze lingered on you, a quiet protectiveness in his eyes that made your heart stutter. "Rest. You'll feel better after some sleep."

You nodded, your body sinking into the soft mattress as the tension slowly began to leave your frame. "Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible.

He didn't respond right away, but his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, the first you'd seen from him in a long time. "Get some sleep," he repeated, his voice low and steady.

As he turned to leave, you couldn't help but watch him, your heart still fluttering from the weight of his touch and the warmth of his unexpected tenderness.

𐮛𐮛𐮛𐮛𐮛𐮛𐮛𐮛𐮛

You began to stir, your senses coming alive one by one. The first was touch—your fingertips gliding across the cool, luxurious texture of green silk sheets. The sensation was foreign, unfamiliar, but oddly comforting, like a gentle reminder that you were somewhere safe.

Your eyelids fluttered open, greeted by the soft glow of ambient light filtering through the room. The memory of pain made you tense, expecting the sharp, blinding agony to pulse through your thigh the moment you moved. But instead, there was only a dull ache, a faint throb that felt almost distant now.

Curiosity mingled with relief, and you slowly shifted, your muscles stretching cautiously as you tested the boundaries of discomfort. The bandage wrapped snugly around your thigh was a subtle reminder of the night before, but it no longer felt like an unbearable weight.

With renewed confidence, you threw the blankets off your body, the fabric sliding off your skin in a cascade of green silk. Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you planted your feet firmly on the floor.

Your red-painted toenails caught your attention for a moment, their vibrant hue a stark contrast against the polished gray surface below. The image was oddly grounding, a small burst of color in the midst of an otherwise muted room.

The coolness of the floor met your bare skin, sending a gentle shiver up your spine. You braced yourself, hands gripping the edge of the mattress as you prepared to stand, the memory of In-ho's care lingering in the back of your mind.

Pushing yourself to stand, you moved cautiously, every muscle in your body on high alert. The moment your weight settled on your legs, you held your breath, bracing for the sharp sting of pain that never came. Instead, the ache stayed dull, manageable, like a whisper of the injury rather than a shout.

Encouraged, you dared to take a step, your right leg moving first. It held steady, your balance wobbling only slightly. Then came your left. You hesitated for a moment before shifting forward, the bandage brushing against your skin as you tested the limits of your body.

The pain remained muted, like a dull ember rather than the roaring fire you expected. Slowly, you reached for the doorframe, the wood cool and solid beneath your fingertips, a reassuring anchor as you inched forward.

But then, as you took another step with your left leg, the sensation shifted. A sharp, searing pain shot through your thigh, fiery and unrelenting, as though the wound had been ripped open anew.

You barely had time to register it before the scream tore from your throat, raw and uncontrollable. The sound echoed in the quiet room, bouncing off the walls like a cry for mercy. Your legs buckled beneath you, the strength drained in an instant, and you clutched desperately at the doorframe to keep from collapsing entirely.

The scream was still leaving your lips when it happened—strong hands gripped your waist, steady and unyielding, as though they had always been there, waiting. It was almost as if In-ho had materialized from thin air, his presence sudden and grounding, like an anchor amidst your spiral of pain.

"Easy," he murmured, his deep voice low but firm, the single word laced with both command and concern. His arms wrapped around you with practiced ease, pulling you firmly against his chest. You felt the solid warmth of him through the fabric of his suit, his breath steady against the top of your head as if he was willing you to calm down with the rhythm of his own body.

Your hands instinctively clung to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as though letting go would mean collapsing entirely. The searing pain in your thigh was sharp, unrelenting, but his hold steadied you, his grip a lifeline pulling you back from the brink.

"You should have called for me," he said, his tone soft but with a trace of reproach. His words hung heavy in the air, not an accusation but a reminder of your limits, one you had clearly tested too soon.

His hands shifted, one sliding from your waist to brace your back, the other moving down to steady your injured leg. The tenderness in his movements was almost startling, a stark contrast to the cool authority he usually commanded. "I've got you," he said, his voice gentler now, an unspoken promise threaded through the words.

He made his way to the couch, lowering you onto it with care. The cushions were soft, and the cool leather soothed your overheated skin. He crouched in front of you, his hands never leaving your sides until he was certain you were settled.

"In-ho, I'm fine," you murmured, watching as he began to peel back the layers of gauze.

His brow furrowed as he leaned closer, unraveling the dressing and inspecting the wound. A faint sigh of relief escaped him when he found the area intact, the underlying bandage only slightly stained with blood. "You're lucky," he said, his tone softening. "You didn't tear it open."

You exhaled shakily, your shoulders slumping in relief.

A shaky breath escaped your lips. "I told you I'd be fine," you murmured, trying to keep your tone light, though the intensity of his gaze made it nearly impossible to focus.

He didn't respond immediately; his eyes locked on the wound as he replaced the bandage with a fresh one. "You need to stop pushing yourself," he said finally, his voice low, almost a growl.

Swallowing hard as his hands lay over your wound, he asked, "What happened to Player 202?"

"Dead," you said simply. "He was a liability. And liabilities don't survive here."

He nodded, with a smirk. You'd learned that from him.

He finished re-wrapping the bandage and sat back on his heels. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, as if searching for something unspoken.

"The games can't afford mistakes like this," he said finally, his tone measured. "You know that."

You flinched, the weight of his words hitting harder than you expected. "I know," you whispered. "It won't happen again."

You nodded faintly, unsure of what else to say. The games had always demanded sacrifices, but hearing it put so plainly was a reminder of the harsh reality you both lived in.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded, until he leaned forward, his arms braced on either side of you as his face hovered closer. His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, you couldn't look away, caught in the intensity of his gaze. His hand rose, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. The gesture was small, almost insignificant, but the way his touch lingered sent warmth rushing through you.

"You're too reckless," he said quietly, his voice low and rough.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in further, his forehead briefly brushing yours, his breath warm against your lips. The proximity made your heart race, anticipation thrumming in your chest like a drumbeat.

"I mean it," he murmured, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk.

"You drive me insane."

Before you could respond, his lips claimed yours. The kiss started soft, almost tentative as if testing the waters. But when you didn't pull away—when your hands gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him closer—it deepened, his mouth moving against yours with a fervent intensity that left you breathless.

The world seemed to fall away, the tension, the pain, the weight of the games fading into the background as his hands slid to your waist, holding you as if grounding himself. His touch was firm and steady, but his lips were anything but—they explored yours with a mix of hunger and restraint, every movement figured yet desperate.

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him to deepen the kiss further, and his hand moved to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest tighten.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as uneven as yours, his forehead resting against yours. "You're unimaginable," he muttered, though there was no anger in his tone—only something that felt dangerously close to fondness.

You smiled faintly, your fingers still gripping his jacket. "And yet, you're still here."

A rare chuckle escaped him, low and brief, as he leaned back just enough to meet your eyes. "Don't make me regret it," he said, though the faint quirk of his lips softened the words.

He stood, offering you his hand. "Come on. You need to keep your mind off things."

You raised a brow, curious but compliant as you took his hand, letting him help you to your feet.

Moments later, you were seated beside him in front of a large screen, the next round of games unfolding before you. The air still felt charged from the kiss, but the distraction of the games offered a reprieve.

"The Dalgona game," you murmured, leaning back against the cushions. Your thigh throbbed faintly, but the pain was muted now, dulled by his bandaging.

In-ho nodded, his gaze fixed on the screen. "A classic," he said, his tone calm, but there was a sharpness in his eyes as he watched the players being handed their candy disks and metal tools. "It's simple, but it separates the clever from the careless."

You watched as the players examined their candy pieces, each etched with a different shape—a star, a circle, a triangle, and, for the unlucky ones, an umbrella. The camera zoomed in on their faces, capturing the dawning realization and fear as they pieced together the task ahead of them.

One player hesitated, their hands trembling as they picked up the needle. "How many do you think will make it?" you asked softly, your gaze flicking to In-ho.

His expression didn't change, but his fingers tapped lightly against the armrest. "Less than half," he said. "The umbrella alone will take out most of them."

You nodded, your stomach knotting as a player snapped their disk in half, the sound sharp and final. The guards wasted no time—one raised their weapon, and the shot echoed through the room. You flinched, but In-ho didn't move, his face unreadable.

"It's brutal," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

"It has to be," he replied. "The games don't reward weakness."

You looked over at him with a smirk, "I know," earning one from him in return.

For a while, the two of you watched in silence. The tension in the game mirrored the tension in the room, each crack of the candy or echo of a gunshot adding weight to the air between you.

At one point, In-ho leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied the screen. His focus was absolute, but you couldn't help noticing the way his profile caught the light—the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.

"They're desperate," he said, nodding toward a player licking the back of their candy. "But smart. That one might make it."

You followed his gaze, watching as the player's determination paid off, the fragile candy shape finally sliding free. A rare smile ghosted across In-ho's lips.

"You like watching them figure it out," you said, a hint of curiosity in your tone.

"It's not just about survival," he said, leaning back again. "It's about adaptation. Those who can think under pressure, who can find unconventional solutions—they're the ones who deserve to win."

His words lingered in the air, and for a moment, the game seemed to fade into the background. You turned your gaze to him, studying the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested loosely on the armrest beside you.

"In-ho," you started, your voice soft.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were gentler now, the sharpness tempered by something quieter. "What is it?"

You hesitated, your fingers brushing against the edge of your bandaged thigh. "Thank you," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady on yours. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek. "You don't need to thank me," he said quietly. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with unspoken words. He leaned closer, his movements slow, deliberate and his lips met yours in a kiss that was soft, careful, and unhurried, a stark contrast to the brutality unfolding on the screen in front of you as the sounds of pleading and gunfire faded into nothing.

#hwang in ho #the frontman #front man #hwang in ho x reader #in ho squid game #front man x reader #the front man x reader #fan fiction #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game fanfic

703 notes · View notes

hamilton-here · 16 days ago

Note

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.

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

184 notes · View notes