#university of westminster | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hollowdeath · 1 year ago

Text

obsession (hjp)

pairing: harry james potter x fem!reader AU (18+)

summary: harry potter (19) is attending university after hogwarts, and isn't recovering well from the war. completely alone, harry soon grows attached to you, the girl from his potions class. however, his attachment quickly turns to obsession, and harry isn't sure how much longer he can be just friends.

content warning: smut!!! perverted thoughts/acts, shame, masturbation, stalking, obsession, yearning/pining, intoxication, jealousy, stealing panties, dry humping, cumming in pants, oral sex, overstimulation, penetration, creampie

a/n: sooo i wrote over 19k words in like 2 days. but i haven't written a proper fanfic in literal years so please be kind. heavilyyy inspired by "never have i ever" from @selfcarecap , please go read it when you have the chance!! this is very much a SLOW BURN, do not proceed if you do not thoroughly enjoy pining…ft. a shy, inexperienced, slightly obsessive university student harry who has jealousy issues and perverted tendencies but is still such a complete gentleman…some of this might not be book/movie accurate…sue me...

song: Do Friends Fall In Love? - Rachael & Vilary

harry's expectations of university weren't very high to begin with, but he didn't expect it to be this shit.

there were limited options for him since he had no desire of leaving the U.K. to further his career as an auror. and since the only 2 schools that offered a program for him were either an old, run-down campus in the middle of nowhere or an overpopulated city school known for its infamously average quidditch team, his decision wasn't difficult.

the dorms, however, made him reconsider entirely.

though harry was grateful to have a solo room, it was entirely bleak and smelled vaguely of mildew. one tiny window he's unable to open past a few inches and a depressing overhead fluorescent bulb was enough to have him searching the other university's dormitory information, only to be just as disappointed with the result.

harry gets over it quickly, as it becomes fitting to his mental state at the time. plain, cold, and unforgiving, harry feels like it's what he deserves to live in after everything he's seen.

to say harry hadn't been doing well after the war was a criminal understatement. his whole life had been leading up to and dedicated towards killing voldemort before he killed harry first. in that time, he held a purpose and drive to fulfill everyone's expectations of him. and, once he did, he was left with nothing.

voldemort had consumed harry's entire life, and the lives of everyone around him as well. though they technically both died, harry had the choice to live again. after he made that choice, he was never the same.

the relationships around him were changed forever. he lost friends. he lost family. he lost himself. and yet, life continued.

applying for university felt so silly to harry at the time. he had just fought in a war and died, and now he had to sign up for 9 a.m. transfiguration classes. to say he was uninterested was putting it lightly.

it didn't help that he knew no one there. it was nobody's first choice school by any means, and it didn't exactly have the best reputation. his classmates fizzled out into other schools or already had jobs, like ron…

ron and hermione. seems like lately wherever hermione went, ron followed. of course she got accepted into some of the most prestigious schools of magic in the world, with some practically begging her to pick them over the others.

in the end she chose westminster, a legendary university along the northern ireland coast that saw many great members of the ministry in its time. harry's school was practically the furthest it could've been from her all things considered.

ron worked for the ministry office in the area like his father, though he was more like an assistant or secretary than an active member. still, he was paid well and ultimately he and hermione were able to find a place near both of their priorities that worked well for them.

harry knew he wouldn't see them very often at this point. no matter, his relationship with them had long since changed, and not for the better. ron had lost his brother and hermione had lost her parents. once the calm settled after the storm, there was a lingering tension between him and them that went unmentioned for over a year before they split ways silently.

harry still talked to hermione towards the end, mainly to discuss ron and his grief. harry knew the growing coldness between him and his friend wasn't unjustified. harry felt a level of guilt that he previously thought was impossible when it came to fred, and though ron never out right blamed harry, it was just never the same between them.

harry knew their relationship wasn't completely at a loss. like hermione told him, it just needed time. once they both process what happened they can always come back to each other.

but for now, harry was alone. completely and utterly alone.

his first day of classes were confusing, boring, and packed with students. seriously, every seat in every lecture hall was filled, and the hallways were just a mess. the sidewalks weren't much better with too many people being too loud, walking too slow or too fast. in the end, harry was exhausted by the time he showed up for his last class of the day.

another packed room despite his effort to be there earlier than he planned. rather than a lecture hall like all his other classes that day, this last one was set up with plenty of tables and cauldrons. potions. harry loved this class at hogwarts. as his eyes scanned the room for an empty seat, he felt eyes fixated on him from every direction.

though he looks like the same harry potter everyone's read about, he's completely different now. his once bright eyes and radiant smile have been replaced with eye bags and unkempt facial hair. both his short beard and his overgrown hair gave him a messy, disheveled appearance that was rougher than people remember. but, as always, the glasses had never left, and neither had his scar.

ignoring the curious glances and whispers, harry takes a seat towards the middle of the room at an empty table. as more students filed in, his table became the last place to sit. he couldn't help but feel like an outsider, his first day and he already had a reputation.

as the final bell rings, the last student comes walking through the doorway.

it's you.

you're walking quickly, rushing into the classroom just as the ringing of the bell comes to an end. right behind you is the professor, a man of small stature with an impressive beard yet bald head.

"ms. [y/l/n]." he simply states.

you stop in your tracks, a look of defeat crossing your face as you slowly turn to him.

"professor rodden." you respond cheerfully. "it's nice to see you."

he looks unimpressed with your tone.

"we should try to be a bit more punctual next class period, hm?" he asks condescendingly.

harry is taken aback by the immediately intense interaction between the two of you. there's clearly an established relationship there that doesn't seem to be positive.

he can't see the look on your face as your back is turned to him, but he can hear the forced smile in your voice as you cordially respond, "of course. my apologies."

you turn on your heel, facing harry as you quickly find your seat across from him at his table. with all eyes on you, harry looks away and at the front of the room towards professor rodden.

rodden had an indistinguishable look on his face about the situation, but quickly moved on with introducing the class. as he shut the door and began writing on the board, harry took a moment to look back at you.

somewhere in that time you had pulled out a book and ink pen as you began taking notes. your hair fell around your face as you concentrated on your penmanship; a slight furrow of your brows and pursing of your lips.

you were gorgeous. he couldn't deny it.

something about the way you got lost in your notes was so mesmerizing to him. the intense exchange between you and the professor seemed to have no effect on you as you continued to scrawl your thoughts onto parchment. harry couldn't imagine himself being so calm as to just begin jotting down notes immediately after such a conflict.

his eyes flickered from your concentrated expression to your ferociously moving hand, writing line by line in succession without so much as a second's pause. he had to admit he was impressed with you, but he wasn't quite sure how to describe it.

finally, you felt his curious gaze on you.

looking up at him, harry's struck with how beautiful your eyes were. his heart jumps along with his stomach, he's never had such a physical reaction to someone's features before. you're just, so…right. like everything about you just makes sense together.

harry's used to people recognizing him pretty quickly, mostly before he even sees them first. it almost feels like having a big sign taped to his back that says "harry potter, the boy who lived twice". but, you…you just looked at him. simply looking, nothing more.

he felt so see-through at that moment, like you were looking right past him. he could feel his heart thumping, and would be surprised if you couldn't hear it for yourself.

you give him the most casual smile in the world, barely an acknowledgement of his existence in that moment, and yet it fills him with something entirely warm and familiar. he's sure he looks completely lost staring at you, turning his head at the last moment to relieve you of his gaze.

it's a simple, introductory, first day of class. you're all let out half an hour early with no assignment other than to show up for the next, real class on wednesday.

as you're packing up to leave, harry is back and forth between introducing himself to you or letting you leave. surely you'll talk to him at some point during this class, right? especially if no one else seems to sit with you two for the rest of the semester.

but, as you turn your back to him to leave, he makes the split second decision that he can't let you leave without a proper introduction.

quickly gathering his books, harry follows you out the door along with the ridiculous amount of students flooding the halls. scrambling for a reason to talk to you, harry catches up to your left side as you look over at him with surprise.

"how does rodden have it out for you already, hm?"

it's a genuine question he has, but he's not sure it's a great topic to bring up during your first interaction.

looking up at him as you both walk away from the classroom, your cheeks go red as you chuckle dryly to yourself and look away. "oh, arthur?" you ask.

harry's shocked. not just at the way you're looking at him, but the boldness of calling your university professor by their first name so casually. he doesn't know how to respond.

"he's a total wanker," you say with a smirk. "had him 3 semesters in a row now and he just…ugh," you groan, rolling your eyes. harry is even more at a loss. he's surely never called anyone a wanker, let alone a professor, but he can't help himself from laughing at your frustration.

"oh? what's so bad about him?" harry asks as he continues to follow you outside, a cool breeze blowing your hair back in the most cinematic moment harry's ever experienced in real life. as you look up at him, your eyes catch the sunlight and practically melt him on the spot. his breathing hitches at your shy smile and rosy cheeks, and he just couldn't understand how a human could look like that so casually.

"honestly, he's not so bad. he's actually quite a good professor…" you say with a twinge of guilt, turning to look ahead of you. "he just doesn't like me, i guess. we don't see eye to eye, to put it kindly." you laugh it off.

harry doesn't understand. you seem like such a pleasure to be around, and he's only known you these past few minutes. how could anyone dislike you? especially when they're looking into those eyes.

he continues to walk with you, asking about your classes and what your schedule's like. no other classes together, to harry's disappointment, but it's because you're a year above him.

"wow, have any advice for a first year, then?" he asks. it feels like a bit of a silly question, but he just wants to keep talking to you.

you chuckle, like you do after everything he says. he's not sure what to make of it, hoping it's that you truly do find him that funny. "well, i guess i would just tell you to study constantly, keep to yourself, but don't take any shit." you smirk at him again.

he likes that advice. he can already tell you're the type to not let anyone push you around, like with rodden. he likes that about you. you're a bit more confident than him, and you're not afraid to be bold despite your naturally sweet, gentle nature. you're funny, witty, intelligent, and, of course, unbelievably beautiful.

harry just keeps coming back to it through your walking and talking together. every time he looks at you he instantly loses his place in time. it's like everything goes quiet for just that split second that you're looking at him. he's never felt like this, but he's practically addicted to the feeling after the 10 minutes it took for him to walk you to your next class.

before parting ways, he asks for your name. "well, it's nice to meet you then, [y/n]. i'm–" "harry, right?" you ask sarcastically, giving him a cheeky smile. normally that answer would have left him defeated, you already knowing who he was, but for some reason, it didn't feel so bad this time. you never acted like you knew him once this whole conversation. you just let him talk and ask questions without feeling like he was anyone special.

well, of course he felt special. when you looked at him, that is.

he didn't want to let you leave, it physically hurt him to say goodbye. but he wasn't about to creep you out already. no, he had to make a good impression with you. so, he simply turned around and walked away, knowing he would see you again soon.

and as harry walked to his potions class that next wednesday, he had the biggest pep in his step he's had in a while. you'd think there was a tree full of presents waiting for him in that classroom the way he practically jogged through the maze of people between him and you.

as soon as he walked in, he saw you.

how could you get even more beautiful than you were before? he's actually taken aback for a moment as he makes eye contact with you. his heart is so loud in his ears it's deafening. as he slowly makes his way towards the table left for you two, he can't help the goofy smile that spreads across his lips.

"[y/n]." he says, letting it roll of his tongue. you smile warmly at him, your eyes softening. "harry. it's nice to see you again," you chirp.

he's just mesmerized by you yet again, the way you say his name is like a song he never wants to turn off. he's pretty much in complete awe of you as he sits across from your seat.

you chat a bit before class starts, an introduction to your first experiment. professor rodden explains that each table of four will split into partners for each assignment. as harry instinctively looks at you, he's already meeting your eager gaze.

he can't help it when he smiles like a fool at you. he can just hardly believe someone as amazing as you would want to spend even more time with him.

after class, you gush to harry about how excited you are to be potion partners together. his face completely flushes as he tries to return the sentiment, thanking whatever luck he has in this universe to be deserving of this opportunity to be with you all semester, twice a week at least, not including outside studying and walking you to your next class.

that night, after exchanging numbers with you to "discuss class", he finds himself staring at the number you scrawled on a ripped piece of notebook paper along with your name. he just holds it for a while, tracing the curves of your name with his eyes. you're just so amazing to him in every little way.

weeks later, harry is a wreck.

you see, he's become, well…completely obsessed with you. every moment he spends awake is spent thinking about you. in the midst of hours-long homework sessions or mind-numbingly long exams, all he wants to do is think about you.

you two have become increasingly close over time, figuring out your commonalities and learning about each other's interests. you invited him to your dorm and he was amazed at your ability to dress up such a desolate space. it felt warm, inviting, and quickly became a common place for you two to spend your time together.

you also bonded over food, and would often meet up for lunches or dinners and sometimes even breakfast if you were up early enough to respond to his calls.

and you two were always studying together, you really inspired him to stay on top of his classes not only to keep up with you but to also impress you. he really admired your work ethic as a second year and would always ask for your help with assignments.

of course it was nice to have help, but he mainly just wanted you to sit closer to him, your breath hitting his cheek as you explained something complicated to him in your soft voice, pointing at the book that sat in his lap. you could read the most boring textbook to him and make it sound like the most interesting piece of literature in the world.

a lot of things he did were mostly just an excuse to have you pay attention to him in some way. if he felt a bit unwell, he'd play it up a bit to get your sympathy and a back rub. he still gets the most insane goosebumps thinking about your hands all over him.

if he was hungry, he was suddenly starvinggg and needed one of your amazing grilled cheese's made in the student common room kitchen. you would roll your eyes every time, reminding him that you don't do anything special to it, but he insists it's better because you make it specifically for him.

in short, he was head over heels for you. he pretty much knew that first day you two met that he was already smitten with you, but it took a while for him to fully realize just how deep he'd gotten himself into this.

not only had he learned your entire class schedule without asking you directly, he knew your schedule outside of class as well. not through any disrespectful tactics, he just so happened to always study at the library next to your dorm building with a perfect view of the door you go in and out of.

he also knew who all of your friends were, at least the ones he's seen you with so far. it's not difficult when the university yearbook practically gives away their books for free to get rid of them. that's also how he found out what clubs and organizations you're apart of, and knew exactly what to ask you to get you to talk about them with him.

see, some might see this and think harry's a bit creepy or overstepping some boundaries. and harry would agree.

he constantly feels guilty when it comes to his feelings for you. he's a complete gentleman when he's with you, but then he turns around and becomes this incessant stalker who needs to know what you're doing at all times.

that's not even the worst part. he feels so, so incredibly guilty about the thoughts he has of you.

harry's not one to feel shame from lust or masturbation, he doesn't have much experience with that stuff anyways so he never really understood the hype around it.

but now, things are different.

he's had random erections before, and he's gotten riled up from previous makeout sessions, but now, he was constantly horny.

all it took was an innocent look from you and he was hard. you often sat in your bed with him as you two studied and insisted on having a leg or arm touching him at all times, which made him completely hot and bothered. certain tones of voice you use or things you say to him can completely melt his brain on the spot.

this isn't meant to brag, harry felt truly awful for these one-sided thoughts. he felt like such a stereotypical man who thinks with his dick. the last thing he wanted was to make you think he saw you in a sexual way at all; he hated your stories about guys who only turned out to be sex fiends with no respect towards you. his blood boiled to think about it, actually, and swore to himself he would always be your friend first despite what he may feel towards you.

this is where the guilt was heaviest. you were constantly saying he was your best mate, one of your closest friends, someone you can really trust, and he held that so close to his heart. above all else, he cared about you so deeply. he wanted to keep you safe.

so when he started to think these thoughts or feel these feelings, harry beat himself up. how could he truly be a good friend to you if he was just so obsessed with you in every way?

you two had just finished up the last steps of your potion experiment for professor rodden's class in the library that harry frequented by your dorm building. as you and harry are talking and packing up to leave, you look out the wall of windows and laugh.

"hey, look. you can see my dorm perfectly from here." you say, pointing towards your building. harry freezes, feeling his mind go blank as you look back at him with a laugh. "little creepy," you say with a smirk, lifting your bag over your shoulder and the rest of your books in your arms.

harry is still frozen, terrified you're going to somehow figure out that that's exactly what he's been doing for the past month now.

"yeah, weird." is all he managed to get out.

as he walks you into your dorm, he barely has the door closed before you start taking your shirt off right in front of him, not even 3 feet away.

harry immediately turns around, letting the door close in front of him. "oh, sorry." he quickly mutters, his heart racing yet again. he didn't even see anything crazy, just the small of your back and the navy of your bra, but it was enough to immediately get him worked up.

he hears you laugh behind him, opening up your drawer. "you don't have to turn around, harry. i'm just changing my shirt." he can hear the smirk in your voice.

he's dumbfounded. all he's thought about for weeks is your body in front of him, and it's right here, and he can't bring himself to look. he feels each second pass by painfully slow, trying to answer himself as to why the fuck he's not turning around.

"okay, you can turn around now." you laugh as you roll your eyes at him. he slowly turns to you with an undoubtedly pale face and shocked expression.

you're standing at your drawer, new shirt fully on, and he can't help but feel a bit disappointed. he didn't want to make you uncomfortable by watching, but you seemed okay with it. he's a bit lost in his feelings before you start asking him about something completely irrelevant, taking his mind off the mini-show he just got for free.

that night he's lying in bed, room completely dark except his bedside lamp, and he's thinking of you. like always.

as he replays the moment you took your shirt off right in front of his eyes, he finds himself grabbing for his cock without even meaning to. his hand wraps around the shaft as he begins thrusting his hips, imagining it's your hand like he has so many times before. it only takes a few seconds of stroking and thinking about your blue bra before he's made a mess of himself.

cleaning up afterwards was always the most guilt-ridden part of the entire experience. it was bad enough he thought of you sexually and constantly got hard just from you looking at him or calling him a loser as a joke, but to actually jerk off to the idea of you is something else entirely.

he tried not to get too down about it, plenty of guys do this right? whats so wrong with it if it doesn't affect his relationship with you?

except, it does. harry doesn't know how much longer he can go without telling you how he feels. the guilt he feels every time you refer to him as your best friend, not knowing he spends almost every night cleaning up his own cum off his chest just from thinking about your smile. how would you feel finding out your so-called best friend had these perverted thoughts about you?

as harry falls asleep, he hugs his pillow and pretends its you, asleep in his arms, completely safe.

it's halloween, and harry's never been more excited.

you enthusiastically asked if you could do a matching costume with him, and he'd never been so quick to agree. wearing a matching costume with you to a university party was possibly the first step in becoming a real couple. he wasn't necessarily thrilled about going to a party, but he knew if he was with you he would enjoy himself no matter what.

you couldn't decide what you two should be until harry suggested pirates as a joke.

"oh my gosh, harry! that's perfect!" you said with a huge smile. harry laughed at you, shaking his head. "really? i was kidding." he deadpanned. you narrowed your eyes at him. "yes, really! i think it'd be so cute. and i have the perfect top."

harry gets excited once you say it's cute, and is just happy to be included in your plans.

you take harry shopping just a few days before the party to find pirate-like clothes and end up with a good collection of stuff. at the last minute, harry pays for everything you bought and you give him the biggest, warmest hug he's ever gotten.

yeah, that was enough for him to know this was worth it.

the night of the party, harry feels a bit ridiculous walking up to your dorm in such a billowy white button up and the most uncomfortable, oversized pants he's ever worn. to top it all off his bandana didn't look right on his head, so he embarrassingly knocked on your door and waited for your reaction to his failure of a costume.

when you opened the door, he was stunned into silence.

you were just. so. hot.

your hair was loose around your face under a perfectly tied bandana, an off-the-shoulder white top similar to his worn over a red lace bra, along with ripped fish net stockings under a tied skirt and, shit, a fucking garter wrapped around your thigh.

to say he was insanely turned on and completely stunned by your beauty was an understatement. he couldn't believe this gorgeous woman in front of him was dressed like this to match with him at a party in front of everyone. he just couldn't stop staring at you up and down, not caring if you noticed him practically drooling over you.

"you look so cute!" you exclaimed at the sight of harry standing at your door.

he looked up at you, your soft eyes wide with excitement as you clasped your hands together. you motioned for harry to come in and opened the door further for him. he slid past you into your dorm room, intentionally breathing in your scent as he did, and practically fell apart at the seams. he was so, so attracted to you right now.

"but, let me fix that bandana." you say with a giggle. he turns around and you're already reaching for his head. his breath gets caught in his throat as your arms wrap around his head, retying the bandana tightly just below his hairline. you pull away a bit and smile at him before looking down at his shirt, reaching for that as well.

harry carefully watched your fingers begin to unbutton his white shirt, his world stopping in its tracks in this moment. he was so lost until you said, "gotta show off the chest hair."

as you continue to adjust his shirt with the top buttons undone, he can't help but admire your body and outfit from this angle, this close. everything worked together so well on you, and fit you perfectly in every spot. he felt like such a joke standing next to you, who could ever compare to such a goddess like yourself?

on your way to the party just outside of campus, you felt chilly in just a skirt and cropped top. harry noticed instantly. "cold?" he asks. you nod, crossing your arms in front of your chest as you start to shiver. harry instinctively wraps an arm around you before he can even process what he's doing. "uh, is this any better?" he inquires.

you look up at him with those damn eyes, and he's lost once again. "a lot better." you say sweetly.

at the party, you stick with him for a bit until a few friends pull you away to do some shots. he gives you a reassuring smile as he tells you to go, and he watches your barely-covered ass as you run along.

and so do a few other guys.

harry notices at least 3 guys around him who watch you leave, and at least one of them makes some snide comment about you to a buddy. his blood boils like he's never felt before. he could feel himself tensing up as he imagined what he would do to them if they ever tried to touch you.

harry takes a deep breath and finds a bathroom, running some water over his face to calm down. you were not his girlfriend. not even close. but he felt like any other guy who looked at you was looking at what was his. he was there for you 24/7, he knew your favorite everything, he saw how beautiful you were in all your states, not just dressed up at some costume fraternity party, and though that gives him no right over you, he just couldn't help but feel protective over someone who means so much to him.

you find each other again at some point during the party, and you're a bit drunk. harry finds it somewhat amusing at first, but quickly hates the way those guys are looking at you again. so, he wraps your arm around his waist, tells you it's time to go home, and you mindlessly abide.

on the way home he's completely in awe at the feeling of your arm wrapped around his waist, and his around your shoulder. he felt like you looked like a proper couple, matching costumes and all, and he loved that thought.

as he walked you into your room, you immediately began stripping off your accessories. he was caught in that same predicament he found himself in not too long ago. does he casually let you unclothe in front of him or turn around and give you the privacy you deserve?

he quickly decided on the latter and turned away, making sure the door was locked for your privacy. you started giggling infectiously, stumbling around behind him. "you ok?" he asked with a smirk, amused at the sound of you struggling.

"no, need helppp," you whine, slurring your words slightly while still giggling. harry freezes. he hadn't even considered that you might be too drunk to get undressed by yourself. he's even more conflicted than before.

"m-my help?" he asked. obviously he knew the answer, he just didn't feel right taking your clothes off of you while you were intoxicated. "well duhh…" you giggled, taking another stumbling step behind him.

what should he do? if he says no you might feel like he's annoyed with you or doesn't want to help you out, when that couldn't be further from the truth.

before he can make a decision, you turned him around, his eyes landing on your glazed over eyes.

you had taken off the bandana and gotten your shirt partially off before asking harry for help. he's a bit startled to see you half dressed in front of him, but he quickly makes the decision to be professional and friendly about this situation.

he helps you take off your shirt the rest of the way, and unties your skirt around your waist. harry tries to divert his eyes as he does so to give you the most privacy possible in this moment, though his mind was pushing the most sinful thoughts he could muster.

his hands were shaky as he put both your skirt and top in the laundry, not even noticing how hard and fast his heart was beating until he took a moment to breathe.

just behind him, he hears you take a seat on your mattress. "can you take my shoesss pleaseee," you whine, sticking your left heel in the air towards harry.

the sight that beholds him in this moment is unholy.

you, practically naked except for your underwear and fishnet stockings, pointing a bright red heel at him with a pouty face as you wait for his help. he could devour you whole right here, right now. the fact that he hasn't kissed you yet tonight honestly had harry impressed with himself.

he nervously swallowed before reaching for your shoe, carefully sliding it off your foot as you gracefully lift the other leg towards him. he takes that heel as well and sets them next to your other shoes. he reaches in your closet for a big, comfy t-shirt and turns around to give it to you.

he sees you on your back, rolling around on the mattress, struggling to get your fishnets off, laughing to yourself as they get tangled on your legs. harry cant help but laugh at you as well, your carefree intoxicated state was just so adorable to him.

harry briefly helps you out of the stockings before handing you the t-shirt. "here, is this okay to sleep in?" he asks, putting the stockings on your dresser. "yeah!" you say cheerfully. "thanks, harryyy," you coo. harry immediately blushes, the way you carried out his name just made his heart sing. he was so lucky to be this close to you.

"gotta take this off," you say, pulling at the straps of your bra. harry nods and turns away. you giggle softly, grabbing for his hand. he turns to you in shock, looking down at your hand as you stand up from the bed.

"help me?" you ask seductively.

harry is frozen. are you meaning to be so overtly flirty right now? is this a bit from the alcohol? are you about to start laughing him off and put the shirt on anyway?

but you don't, you just patiently wait for his answer with puppy dog eyes. he glanced between you and the t-shirt in your hand, clearly a worried look taking over his expression.

"you don't have to," you say softly. that snaps harry out of his daze. "n-no, of course i'll help," he says eagerly. you smile again and turn around, gathering your hair to one side to get it out of the way for him.

harry has never been so aroused in his life. this is the most intimate he's ever been with anyone. he's never unclasped a bra before, and worries he's about to make a fool of himself in front of the most beautiful girl in the world.

but he soon figures it out and manages to unclasp it for you. "there you are," he assures you. you slowly turn around, your arms crossed in front of your chest as you hold the bra up. harry's completely infatuated with the delicious sight of you in front of him in this moment, but quickly diverts his gaze to an uninteresting part of the room.

"harry, do you want to see my boobs?"

harry snaps his head back at you with concern. his brows are furrowed and mouth agape. you have a genuine expression but your eyes are still a bit bloodshot.

"wh…what?" he choked out. he can't believe you asked that, even in this state. you've truly never showed interest in harry like this before, only subtle touches and looks that he interpreted how he wanted, but never anything like this.

well, unless you count the other day when you undressed near him.

but that was friendly, wasn't it? you were just changing, lots of friends change in front of each other. but this was completely different, you were purposefully exposing yourself to him. not only that, but you were asking him if you could, as if it wasn't the only thing he wanted in this moment.

"do you wanna see my boobs?" you ask again, giggling slightly.

harry blinks a few times, trying as hard as he can to not ogle over your body. this is all he's wanted, for months this is the only thing he's wanted, but right now just didn't feel right. you weren't fully aware of what you were doing or saying, and he couldn't, in good faith, continue further with this situation.

he carefully places his hands on your crossed arms, keeping them close to you as he talks.

"[y/n], you're drunk right now. and while i helped you get undressed, which was already a bit over the line, i don't want you to do something you'll regret."

you give him a look he can't quite decipher. your smile drops, your eyes focus, and your arms tense.

"i'm sorry," you say softly.

harry quickly reassures you. "don't be! seriously, don't be. i am so, so glad that you trust me enough to help you in this state. truly. it means the world to me, because i care about you so much." he gives you a warm smile.

you smile back at him. "then i hope you understand when i say i want to do this,"

you begin to pull your arms away from your chest, but harry is still holding them. he looks you in the eyes with worry, afraid of what you're about to do, yet more excited than he's been in a long time.

"but [y/n]..." he protests. "please?" you ask simply.

harry is reluctant, but he can tell you're going to be insistent, so he slowly lets go of your arms as you remove your bra from your body.

harry glances at your chest, his heart dropping. you're perfect.

perfect, perfect, perfect.

your skin looked so beautiful in the lowlight provided by your lamps and fairy lights. the curves of your boobs looked so soft and untouched. this was the first time harry was seeing tits in real life, and he was pretty sure this was the best they could possibly get.

he looks back up at your eyes, a shy smile spread across your expression. "beautiful…" harry whispers before he even realizes what he's saying.

you giggle, unfolding the shirt you handed him and swiftly pulling it over your head. "thanks, harry," you say so casually, turning around to make your bed so you can sleep in it.

he can hardly believe what's just happened. the girl of his dreams, the girl he'd practically been obsessed with for months, just willingly showed him her boobs for fun. though you were intoxicated and would most likely regret it tomorrow, hopefully not mad at him for letting it happen, he was still grateful that you felt that level of trust with him in any capacity.

what he wasn't grateful for, however, were these bloody pirate pants that gave him the most uncomfortable erection of his life. this was also definitely the hardest and most turned on he had ever been, so he's not sure if there's any comfort to be had in this moment anyway. while you focus on the bed, harry takes a step away and tries to calm himself down, thinking different thoughts to try and let the hornieness subside for just a bit longer.

as you plop into bed and begin getting comfortable, harry turns off a few lamps for you but keeps on the fairy lights in case you need the bathroom at any point.

"do you need anything before i head out, [y/n]?" he asks.

you sit up in your bed, a look of pain on your face.

"you're leaving me?"

harry is utterly heartbroken at the tone of your question. you sound so genuinely upset he immediately comes to comfort you, sitting on the edge of your mattress.

"oh, no, i-i won't if you don't want me to." he stumbles out. harry wasn't planning on staying, he was actually just imagining how good of a jerk he was about to have in 10 minutes, plus he's never technically stayed the night with you before. but he quickly pushes his perverted thoughts of you to the side and knows it's much more satisfying to him if he stays here and makes sure you're okay through the night.

you reach for the bandana that's still tied around his head and pull it off swiftly, leaving his hair disheveled. you throw it across the room with a laugh.

"sleepoverrrr" you cheer, patting the spot next to you on the bed. harry laughs with you, standing up and realizing he's still dressed as a pirate. "i didn't bring any clothes…" he says with a twinge of sadness.

you look at him confused. "you're a guy, just sleep naked." you say it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. harry is a bit stunned at this statement but quickly laughs you off, going to your drawers to look for a pair of pants. besides, he's still slightly struggling with a situation in his boxers and being naked next to you wouldn't exactly help him out.

he eventually put together a shirt and pants combo that fit him comfortably enough to sleep in. "hope you don't mind," he says as he changes into them.

"not at all," you say, watching him change in the lowlight. there's something in your voice that makes harry feel feral, an overwhelming desire to just let go and release the tension between you two. at least, the tension he thinks is there.

he quickly gets dressed, setting his pirate clothes and glasses on your dresser as the sleep begins to settle into his bones. he crawls into bed next to you, and is quickly invited to join you under the covers. he's a bit reluctant at first, but realizes he doesn't have much of a choice as he starts getting cold.

within a few minutes of saying goodnight to each other, you and harry drift off to sleep together.

you're the first one awake, a splitting headache and dry mouth creating an unpleasant feeling immediately after opening your eyes. you rub the sleep away from them and reach for a glass of water on the nightstand next to you, sitting up a bit to sip slowly.

"good morning," a deep voice rumbles just beside you. you instinctively jump a bit before your brain quickly recognizes harry's tone and accent. as you turn to him, he's adorably disheveled wearing one of your university crewnecks under your blanket.

he smiles at you. he looks so different without his glasses on.

"morning, harry," you say groggily. the moment doesn't last long before another wave of your headache hits you, causing you to rub your forehead. you groan in pain. "what happened last night?"

harry's a bit frozen. this is exactly what he was afraid was going to happen. you don't remember anything from last night. he should've just dropped you off here and left right away, not even letting there be a chance of anything happening.

he's brought out of his thoughts when you look back down at him, a look of curiosity in your eyes as you continue to rub your head.

harry also sits up a bit before climbing out of bed, putting his glasses on from the top of your dresser.

"well…" he starts out nervously, scratching his head. "we went to the party," he says as he begins to stretch his back out.

"oh yeah, the party. we were definitely the best costumes there." you recall the night fondly. harry laughs nervously, worried about how you're going to react when you find out he undressed you and even saw you nearly completely naked in such an intoxicated state.

"right, yeah, of course." harry chuckles dryly. "but, um��at some point you left me and started drinking, so we didn't stay for long." he says carefully, his mind racing as he slowly, nervously paces between your bed and your dresser.

"classic," you chuckle, reaching for a hairbrush as you begin to comb through your knotty hair. "thanks for bringing me home, harry," you smile at him.

the guilt twists in his stomach like a knife, he can't believe how innocent you are. but he also can't believe what happened between you two last night, and just how eager you seemed for it to happen. he has to stop thinking about it before he gets turned on again.

"of course, [y/n], but, um…" he takes a deep breath before he continues. "you look cute in my jumper, by the way," you interrupt him, standing up from your bed as you begin to collect toiletries to take a shower.

his brain fogs from the compliment, but doesn't let it distract him from what he knows he has to tell you.

"well, thank you, but, um…" harry says with a blush.

you give him a confused look. "what's up?" you ask him. he's just going to come right out and say it.

"look, [y/n], i don't know if you remember, but…you asked me to help you get undressed last night because you were too drunk," he spits out, trying to immediately gauge your reaction before continuing. you just give him an even more confused look. "oh, well, thank you then. is that okay?" you ask incredulously.

harry stiffens. "yeah, um…i didn't mind helping, of course, it's just…" you giggle, opening the door to your en suite bathroom that's barely bigger than the shower within it. "harry, you're such a dork. do you actually feel bad for taking care of me when i was drunk?" you ask sarcastically as you set down various lotions and hair products onto the sink.

he cracks a small smile at you calling him a dork, but it doesn't last long. his heart settles a bit after hearing your positive outlook on the situation so far, but it doesn't stop completely.

"it's not that, um…but, uh, afterwards, you, well, kind of…" he awkwardly tried to find the words.

"you…showed me your boobs." not the most eloquent way of putting it.

your face goes pale. his stomach drops immediately.

"n-not by my request or anything!" he quickly reassures you (and himself). "it's just, i told you you might regret it, but you were insisting on doing it anyways…" he doesn't want to feel like he's blaming you when he was the sober one in charge.

"oh…" you say despondent, seeming lost in your thoughts as you search his expression. he gives you a moment to process what he's said. "yeah…" is all he manages to say.

you sigh. "i'm sorry, harry. it was wrong of me to force that on you." your apology is so sincere, and it immediately confused harry. force that on him? bloody hell. you really had no memory of just how much he enjoyed himself in that moment. harry's sure he looked like a kid at a candy shop just staring at your beautiful body in the warm light.

"what? no! i-i'm sorry i let that happen," he responds with a ridiculous tone. "i was the sober one, i should've tried harder to–""to what? stop a drunk girl from showing her tits? yeah, good luck with that one." you laugh, cracking a joke.

harry's nerves are much more calm. he's insanely grateful that you seem to be taking this news well and aren't angry with him.

"look, harry…" you start, adjusting your shirt around your shoulders. harry's been stealing glances of your delicious thighs and legs every so often as you talked.

"i'm really grateful for you. just in general, but for last night especially. you helped me out, and you were a complete gentleman, at least from what i can remember…" you joke with him. he cracks a smile too.

"so don't stress about it, yeah?"

harry lets out a breath of relief, physically feeling the weight of the situation lift from his shoulders. "yeah, of course. i'm really grateful you trust me like that." he's in awe of your grace in this moment.

you smile, stepping over to the laundry next to your dresser. you grab a shirt and some pants from your closet, and, before harry even realizes what you're doing, you drop your underwear you were wearing last night to your ankles, stepping out of them and walking towards the bathroom again.

"gonna shower for a bit," you inform him as you close the door behind yourself.

harry's left behind, staring at the door before returning his gaze to your panties.

they're red, much like your bra from last night, and he remembers taking note of them to keep in his fantasies later for accuracy. but now, here they were, just laying right in front of him.

he finds himself still staring at them when he hears you turn the shower on and step inside, closing the sliding glass door behind you. he looks at the door, and looks back at your panties.

for a while he just looks at them incredulously, not entirely sure why this specific detail has made him so irrationally horny. you were completely naked on just the other side of this wall, but he's practically mesmerized by the image of you casually sliding your red panties down your legs right in front of him like it wasn't the most erotic thing he's ever witnessed in his whole life.

before he knows it, the shower turns off. he's still left staring at your red panties. as he shifts his weight, he can see that they're a bit wet and slick in the light from you wearing them all night.

he can't take it anymore. his erection from last night has returned with a vengeance this morning. before harry could even realize what he's doing, he's picked up your underwear carefully, holding them between his fingers, your wetness still soaking through the cotton.

his heart is racing as he hears you brushing your teeth. what is he doing? if you caught him being perverted with your panties like this after just reassuring him that he wasn't in the wrong for what happened last night, he'd surely be on your bad side. but he can't stop himself.

he brings them to his face and takes a slow, deep inhale.

you smell completely divine. slightly sweet, slightly bitter. he gets goosebumps just thinking about how you must really smell. his erection is raging beneath your sweatpants he put on last night, feeling incredibly dirty from being so turned on by your used panties.

his stolen pleasure is too quickly interrupted by the sound of the bathroom doorknob jiggling. shit. as you're about to open the door, harry panics and shoves your panties into the pocket of his sweatpants.

you come out with freshly damp hair and raw skin. the wonderful smell of your shower products fill the room as you brush through your hair casually.

harry keeps a hand in his pocket over the panties so you don't have the chance of catching him, and to better conceal the raging boner that's not going away anytime soon.

you don't say anything as you place your toiletries back in their rightful spots, humming to yourself as you comb through your hair occasionally.

so casually beautiful, so effortlessly pristine. you amazed him every time with just how ethereal you could be at any given moment. a freshly clean angel fluttering around the room without a care in the world.

you begin complaining of your hangover headache and ask harry to get food with you. he's more than willing, his stomach already growling in response for him.

at breakfast, you sit in silence with harry as you both hungrily devour the pancakes you ordered. harry got you two glasses of orange juice to keep you hydrated after last night.

after a while, you inform him you have to go study, and he offers to help you. "thanks, but i can't be distracted. this exam is going to kick my ass." you complained to him. harry gave you a look. "i distract you?"

you laugh at him, leaving him at the lunch hall with a simple, "goodbye, harry. call me later."

when harry gets to his dorm room, he realizes he's still wearing your clothes. and, shit, he's still got your panties in his pocket.

harry slowly reaches for them, feeling a twinge of guilt and lust once his hand finds the fabric. pulling them out, he's in shock that he actually stole a pair of your panties. to be fair he didn't intend to, he just panicked and wasn't thinking straight.

but, now that he has them…

keeping the red lace hanging from his fingers, harry climbs into bed and begins to remember those unforgettable moments with you just the night prior. it doesn't take much to get him just as riled up as before, imagining the moments he was undressing you in slow motion. taking your heels off as you looked up at him with the most seductive eyes in the world. seeing the flesh of your breasts for the first time in the dim lighting, imagining how they'd feel in his rough hands. god, he feels so bad finding pleasure in these moments, but he physically can't resist it.

his hand is already wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking slowly as to savor the memories flashing through his brain. he's been aching for this release since seeing you in your costume last night, just another memory that brings him closer to the edge.

finally, he slowly brings your panties to his face. though they've since dried in his pocket during breakfast and the walk home, the lingering smell is still enough to drive him wild. he's breathing them in like it's oxygen and he's drowning.

just as he's nearing the end, he brings the panties to his other hand and begins stroking his cock with them. the sight alone is enough to break him, his cum spilling onto his hand and all over your red panties as images of your half naked body continue to infest his brain.

this time, the immediate guilt was the worst it'd ever been.

as he began to clean up, he realized just how much he ruined your panties in his excitement. his cum had soaked through the thin fabric and was already drying around it. he cursed himself for ruining such a sacred momento that he should've cherished, but also quickly cursed himself for thinking that way about you in the first place.

you even said yourself that harry was being a perfect gentleman last night. yeah, a gentleman with a raging erection the entire night who steals your used panties for his sick pleasure…

he continues to clean himself up, putting your panties in a safe place where nobody can find them and he won't lose them. even just the thought of them being in his possession was enough to get him riled up again.

it's the stressful time between thanksgiving and christmas where school has the two of you completely spread thin. harry's constantly writing essays while you seem to have endless lab experiments to finish for other classes. the one saving grace is your potions class together, twice a week. it's what kept harry sane during this chaotic time.

spending even just this short hour and 15 minutes with you is enough to fulfill harry. he hasn't properly hung out with you in nearly two weeks and was missing you like he was withdrawing.

sitting close to you to copy some notes about the potion you two are working on, harry admires your handwriting for the millionth time since he's met you. "i just don't understand how you write so well, i can barely read my own," harry jokes, holding out his notebook, making you laugh and blush.

the potion you're working on is one that allows the consumer to communicate with animals for a short period of time. it's rather complex, but harry helps you keep things organized and encourages you when you get frustrated.

"i just don't get it, how is it 3 drops and not 6? i swear it was 6 last week…" you groan, looking through your notes as you set down the tincture, rubbing your face, exasperated.

harry sets a reassuring hand on your arm. he's gotten pretty good at being more physical with you, and isn't afraid to touch you casually like you always have with him. "hey, [y/n], it's okay," he tells you, catching your eyes with his. "it's been a stressful week, yeah? just a mistake, no big deal."

you give harry that same, warm smile you delivered on your first day meeting him. he often looks back at that day fondly, forever grateful he got the sudden courage to talk to you after this class. not only were you now his closest friend, you were also the light of his life.

as harry finishes up, he hands you the round vial full of luminescent, purple potion. "here you are, test it out."

you take a small swig of it just as professor rodden makes his way to your and harry's table. next to the table is a bird's cage on a hook, with a sweet owl inside named jewel.

you make eye contact with the owl, and begin to speak. to you and everyone else it just sounds like regular english, but the owl begins to hoot and flap its wings at you immediately.

"hello, jewel, how are we feeling today?" you coo.

amazing, incredible, unbelievable! jewel's hoots become intelligible to your ear as you practically jump up and down with a huge smile on your face. "it worked, it worked!" you announced to harry, instinctively jumping in his arms for a hug as he spins you around excitedly.

"yes! you did it! see, i knew you could." harry exclaims, setting you down and giving you a toothy grin.

you look at jewel again, who is turning her head at you every which way. how nice, you and the boy! how sweet indeed! her loud hoots make the class silent as they watch you interact with her.

"what's she saying?" harry asks curiously. you give him a shy smile, feeling your face turn red. "she likes us." you're not totally lying.

"well, ms. [y/l/n], i must tell you i'm quite impressed. not just at how quickly you two perfected this potion, but of your performance this semester overall." professor rodden compliments you. he turns to harry. "i see mr. potter has been a positive influence on you this year."

harry quickly shuts him down. "actually, sir, if you don't mind me speaking out of turn, [y/n] has helped me way more this semester than i've helped her. she's brilliant."

professor rodden turns to you, a pale face and shocked expression, and gives you a smile. "well, then, hat's off to you, ms. [y/l/n]." he says, bowing to you before continuing with his rounds in the classroom. "thank you, professor rodden."

after class, you're all over harry, resting your head on him, hugging him, touching him randomly, but he's not complaining of course. he feels lucky enough that you're so comfortable around him as to be touchy feely.

"thank you, by the way. for what you said to rodden." you thank him as you two walk into your dorm room. harry takes his usual seat at your computer desk. "of course, i wasn't about to let that wanker give me credit for all of your hard work." harry says, laughing. he's become so much more confident with you, even using your lingo in his own vocabulary.

"no, really, thank you. just, for everything." you smile at him. "you're the best friend i could ever ask for."

harry feels his smile slightly falter. he's always reminded that that's all you are is friends, and while he's insanely grateful for your friendship, probably more than anything else in his life, he just can't help but feel a bit lost at this point. he's insanely attracted to you, ferociously protective over you, and, yet, can't bring himself to tell you any of this.

"you're welcome, [y/n], but if anything i should be thanking you. you don't even know how much you've helped me, not just with school but with everything. you're, like, the only friend i have at this point." harry laughs, but it's true. he's tried to make friends in other classes this year but has been disappointed each time, they're just not you.

you give harry a sad smile. "that's not true, ron and hermione are still your friends. more than that, they're practically your family." you walk over to him and run your hand through his hair, something you know he loves. he looks up at you slightly through his eyelashes.

"hermione's right, they'll come back to you one day. just give it some time, yeah?"

harry melts into your touch. nobody can settle his mind like you do. he didn't exactly look for pity from people, but you were someone he felt so safe with that he could be completely vulnerable in front of you. the reassurance and love that you provided him in these moments healed him in a way he didn't understand.

"right," he sighs, giving you the same sad smile.

you whine and pull his head into your chest, resting your own head on top of his. "awh, i hate seeing you so sad." you say sympathetically, still running your fingers through the back of his hair.

if harry's being completely honest, he's not sad at all anymore. how could he feel anything but pure bliss with his head buried in your sweater and your fingers leaving goosebumps throughout his scalp? he leans into you like a dog being pet, so desperate for your touch.

you stay like that with him for a while, just enjoying each other's company. harry found solace in your heartbeat, feeling truly at peace for the first time in weeks. "i've missed you." harry practically moans, intoxicated by your warm scent, his eyes fluttering closed.

you hum, smiling softly to yourself, feeling harry practically melt into your arms. "missed you too, harry," you coo, enjoying the feeling of being together.

"the semester's almost over, then it's christmas." you remind him, lifting your head as you look down at his closed eyes. he looks so peaceful resting against you.

harry smiles. almost christmas. but more importantly, almost your birthday.

harry very vividly remembers a conversation he had with you towards the beginning of your friendship about birthdays and how neither of you particularly enjoyed them.

your birthday fell close to christmas, so, inevitably, it became synonymous with christmas growing up. never really getting a separate party or separate presents, you learned to not expect much the actual day of, and to rather wait for christmas so you could be celebrated on the side.

harry was having none of this. he thinks you forgot about the conversation with him completely, but he's thought about it constantly since then. he's been planning on giving you a special birthday on your actual birthday this year, and he's practically dying to tell you. but he doesn't, and he won't, because it has to be a complete surprise.

"hm. christmas." is all he says, tilting his head back to look up at you. from every angle he finds you so fascinating, you just get prettier and prettier the more he truly looks at you.

you're gazing at him so gently, so warmly, your hand practically cradling his head against you. harry blinks and you're suddenly leaning forward, planting a soft kiss against his forehead.

harry could've died happy at that moment.

he brings his head away from your chest as you step away, soft smile and blushing cheeks. watching you turn and start folding laundry mindlessly, harry feels the lingering kiss tingling his skin.

for a brief moment, he imagines himself coming up to you from behind, wrapping his arms around you, kissing your neck, feeling you, pushing you to the bed…

harry quickly shakes his head, grinding his teeth at the horny urges he gets at the most simple actions. what other boys in university get an erection so quickly from a forehead kiss? sometimes harry felt like such a loser, not just with you, but with sex in general.

he never thought about it much before you, so it's not something he knows a lot about. he'd masturbated before, but not as often as he does now, or in the same way. usually he thought about making out with someone, maybe touching them, but now…he just felt so dirty, the things that his brain creates about you.

once you finish the laundry, you ask for his help to put stuff away. he's done this for you many times before, so he knows where you like everything to be.

he hangs up a few shirts and puts away some jeans and socks. he turns around to see you handing him a pile of your panties loosely stacked together. "here," you say as you're turned the other way, gathering another pile of clothes with your other arm.

harry is frozen for a second before reluctantly taking the underwear from you, immediately feeling his face flush.

he's instantly reminded of your panties sitting in his room right now. the panties he stole. the panties he masturbated with.

he's since washed them and keeps them out of guilt, partially, but he's not quite sure how to subtly return them to you. not like he wants to anytime soon.

as harry turns around and opens the drawer you put your panties in, he takes his time so he can admire all the different pairs in his hand. pinks, purples, reds, neutrals, blacks, he was practically holding a goldmine. it almost made him chuckle, the irony of you asking him to put these away.

he neatly tucks them into the drawer, admiring them one last time before slowly closing it.

for the first time that month, you and harry actually have the freetime to leave campus and get food together. your favorite diner is open all night and serves the best milkshakes either of you have ever had.

"how are we splitting the checks?" the older waitress asks, eyeing harry up and down. before you can say anything he tells her just one, handing her his card out of nowhere.

as she walks away you give him an evil look. "you don't always have to pay for everything, y'know? i'm perfectly capable of paying for myself or the both of us." you tease him. he smiles. "i know." he states simply.

you finish your milkshakes within minutes, handing your cherry to harry like you do every time. "cherry for harry," you always say. it always gets a smile out of him.

after a few minutes of chatting alone in the diner, the bell at the front door rings. you get a big smile across your face as you stand from the booth. "thomas?" you ask.

harry turns around to see a man in a quidditch uniform, his hair sweaty and book bag full to the brim. he's carrying his broomstick around, like a total tool if you ask harry, and gives you the cheekiest smile possible.

"[y/n]?" he asks.

harry could've killed him just for saying your name the way he did. like a predator hunting its prey again.

harry's anger immediately worsened when you practically jumped on this guy to give him a hug. nothing like the hug you gave harry in class today, he wants to note.

harry stood up, causing the guy to look at him. he had a scar as well, one from quidditch harry would assume. a slash across his left eye, healed but still somewhat recent.

you look back at harry as well, smiling at him. "harry, this is thomas." you introduce them.

yeah, he picked up on that. harry's face was red from anger.

he reluctantly steps forward, offering his hand to the douchebag who still kept a light hand on your shoulder. harry wanted to break his wrist when he went in for the handshake, but instead he offered a polite, "harry. nice to meet you."

the guy, thomas, gives a half smirk. "harry potter." he states matter-of-factly.

harry was sure his anger was visible at this point. it was enough that this guy was touching you and clearly had a past with you, but for him to pull the boy who lived card on him in front of you was enough to make his fists ball up.

"that's me." he says, his tone dripping in sarcasm.

there's an awkward moment of silence as harry continues to stare thomas down.

"so. how do you two know each other?" harry asks you, his tone and gaze softening just looking at you.

"oh! um…" you start nervously.

"we dated back in high school." thomas finishes for you.

of fucking course you did, harry thinks.

"yeah…for, like, 2 months…" you awkwardly laugh off, clearly not the most comfortable discussing this in front of harry.

thomas laughs with you as the waitress hands him a to-go box. "well, i'll see you guys around," he says as he hikes up his bookbag. "it was nice to see you again, [y/n]."

if looks could kill, this guy would've been dead long before he left out the door. harry knew he was visibly upset when you looked over at him.

"you okay harry?" you ask with a laugh.

he breaks, looking at you with a smile as he loosens his tight muscles. "sorry, i'm fine," he says.

as you both put your coats on to walk home, harry can't help but replay the interaction in his head. "dated…in high school…" "yeah…for, like, 2 months…"

harry's mind was swimming as you left the diner with him, walking into a light snow. "wow," you sigh, looking around you. harry looks up. it's beautiful out. the snow gives everything a light, soft look under the street lamps. he looks down at you and smiles at you admiring the scenery.

sometimes it scares harry how jealous he gets when it comes to you, and how quickly it can happen. that guy did nothing but say your name and give you a 2 second hug, and he actually dated you, so what right does harry have to get upset as just your friend? but all he can think about on the walk to your dorm is pummeling this guy's stupid face into the ground.

harry hadn't told you yet, but he had actually been going to the gym lately with all the time he had spent away from you during the busy school weeks. nothing too intense, he actually focused on boxing and lifting specifically because he wanted to be better prepared to protect you in case anything happened to you. and for self defense reasons, of course, but mainly for your benefit. he would do anything for you.

upon arriving at your dorm, you plop onto your mattress with a groan. "too much milkshake," you whine.

harry chuckles at you, shaking the snow out of his hair. "i told you not to get the large." he smirks. you frown at him, making him laugh again. "it's not funny! and you're wrong, i deserved a large after this month." you protest.

he laughs you off again, taking a peek at your alarm clock next to your bed. his eyes widen. "bloody hell, since when was it half past 11?" he asks astounded.

you laugh at his shock. "time flies when you're havin' fun,"

harry rubs his eyes. "if i don't leave now i won't get enough sleep to make it to my 9 a.m." he groans, not wanting his time with you to end yet again.

"nooo," you whine, clearly wanting the same. he gives you a sad look at your tone. "stay?" you ask.

harry's a bit taken aback. he hasn't stayed the night since the halloween party. thinking about that night for even a split second makes him break a sweat. it's his most replayed memory. he could even call it his sexual awakening at the ripe age of 19.

"stay? are you sure?" harry asks. you immediately nod your head, smiling at him. he can't say no to you, and he doesn't want to. he has no reason to leave, anything he needs is already here.

"well, if you insist." he smirks. you roll your eyes, taking off your jacket and hat and setting them in your closet. "i only insist because that snow is turning into a storm." you reply. you're not wrong, harry would've had to walk for 15 minutes through heavier and heavier snowfall, not to mention the windchill.

"well, thank you." he says. you smile back at him before reaching to take your shirt off. harry's seen you in multiple states of undress since the halloween party, so it's not uncommon for you to just change at any point during your conversations.

but that didn't make it any less pleasurable for harry.

sometimes he just sat back and watched like it was a personal show just for him. he would memorize the shape of your back and, shit, the curve of your ass. he watched as you pulled down your jeans, left in nothing but a bra and panties. he tried not to stare but it was impossible to look away for too long, your ass was just perfect to him.

before too long you unclasped the bra hooks behind your back and let the black fabric fall into the laundry. you slipped on a big t-shirt, your favorite thing to wear to bed, and harry caught just the slightest glimpse of your tits from behind you.

as you turned around, harry quickly began taking off his wet, snow covered converse to appear as though he wasn't just observing you like his own personal dirty magazine.

when he looked up, you were handing him some clothes to change into. he thanked you, grabbing them as he took off his jeans and sweatshirt. harry had also learned to be more comfortable changing around you, even if it wasn't as often.

harry put on the sweatpants and fresh pair of socks before realizing you hadn't given him a shirt. he looked over at you and you were already staring at him.

"harry, have you been working out?"

his face flushed, feeling exposed with just a pair of sweatpants on his hips. you were looking at his body with an expression of shock and amusement.

"u-um, yeah, a bit…just between classes, get some stress out." he's not entirely lying, but he could never tell you the real reason.

you smile at him, but a different smile than normal. you're almost…nervous? you've never been nervous around harry, even when you two first met.

"you look…good…" you say with a slight crack in your voice, still looking at him. harry can feel his blood pumping, and he knows that can only lead to an eventual erection, so he turns around casually pretending to fold his jeans. "oh, thanks," he tries to say casually.

he can still feel your eyes on him as he hangs his sweatshirt on your coat rack. "damn, harry. you're like…ripped." you say with genuine shock in your voice.

harry turns towards you, but you're fixated on his exposed torso. he nervously laughs, not sure how to respond. of course he thought getting stronger would mean his body would inevitably look better, but he cared more about his ability to fight off any creeps he needed to in order to keep you safe. however, he hadn't necessarily considered your reaction to his transformation. he had somewhat forgotten you also saw him change his clothes that halloween night. he thought you had forgotten too.

"i don't know about that," he laughs awkwardly.

you just giggle and look away, shaking your head. you climb into bed and invite him next to you. harry accepts and joins you beneath the covers, turning off a lamp beside him.

after a few moments of silence, harry could hear your shallow, even breaths indicating you're asleep. he looked down at you, peaceful, beautiful. he sat up as gently as possible and placed a soft kiss to your forehead. "goodnight, [y/n]."

it was finally your birthday.

harry had been planning this day for weeks. he made sure to ask you way ahead of schedule when you would be seeing family so he could time everything perfectly.

he had completely set up your room to look like a birthday party for a kid. balloons, streamers, a birthday cake and ice cream, presents, even fun plates and napkins.

you should be coming home from going out to eat with your parents for brunch in about 10 minutes. harry made sure to call you before you left early in the morning to be the first to wish you a happy birthday.

as he was waiting for you to arrive, he made sure everything was perfect, down to the last balloon. he had put your favorite cd on and even lit a candle. he's not quite sure why, he just felt like it was right.

soon enough, he could hear your keys on the other side of your door letting yourself in, so harry positioned himself beside your bed and waited eagerly for the reaction he'd been thinking about for months.

when you open the door, you're a bit startled to see him at first. "surprise!" he says with a suppressed smile, trying to contain his excitement.

your eyes slowly examine the room, your jaw dropping as you bring a hand to your heart. "harry…" you choke out in a small voice, still noticing different details around you as the door closes behind you.

"happy birthday." he says lovingly, taking in every second of your realization.

"you…how did you…" you can't even get the words out as you set down your purse and coat on your bed next to your presents from harry.

"i've been planning this for weeks. i wanted to give you the birthday you never had." he tells you.

you look at him with tears in your eyes, quickly looking away and towards your dresser. "you got me a cake…" you say tearfully, walking up to the custom cake he had placed an order for an entire week ago.

"we also have reservations for the diner at 5. if you'd join me, of course." harry smirks. you chuckle at him, jumping in his arms and enveloping him in a hug. "thank you…" you begin to cry into his shoulder.

harry holds you tight, dazed from your scent and enjoying the softness of your hair. he rubs your back softly as you get the tears out, letting you know it's okay.

you pull away, wiping your tears as you laugh at yourself. "sorry, i just…this is so amazing of you harry."

"don't be sorry. i'm glad you love it." he reassures you, making you smile. "let's have some cake, hm?"

after some cake and ice cream as well as messing with the balloons and party favors, it was time for harry's favorite part. the presents.

he sat you both down on your bed and savored each reaction you had to each present. every thank you was followed by, "how did you know i wanted this?" "how much was this?" "how did you get this?"

harry had his ways. and again, he would do anything for you.

his last present for you, though, was the most important. he kept it beside him until the very end, handing it to you with a shy smile. you lifted the lid off the box to reveal a beautiful necklace, one he saw you looking at multiple times while out shopping with you.

you were speechless. you looked at harry with the most genuine expression of shock, gratitude, and confusion. "harry…" you gasp. "you got this for me?" you ask.

harry chuckles. "do you like it?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"harry…you really shouldn't have…" you tell him, staring at the necklace in your lap. he smiles even bigger, the look on your face was already enough to convince him it was worth it. it was all worth it. "here, i'll put it on you."

you hand harry the necklace, turning and scooting towards him as you hold your hair to the side for him. he's immediately reminded of the night he helped you take your bra off.

he clasps the necklace together and you turn towards him, looking down at it with him. "wow, it looks great." he says with a smile.

you look up at him, your faces nearly touching. harry can barely process your beauty before you lean in for a soft kiss against his lips.

harry's completely frozen, not knowing what to do or what's even happening.

when you pull back, harry can barely breathe.

you look up at him, your eyes soft and eager. harry can't hold himself back anymore. you've kissed him first, that's all the permission he needs for now.

he lightly grabs the back of your head and pulls you in for a bigger, deeper kiss. soon enough, you're making out with harry in your bed.

he's a bit rusty when it comes to kissing, but he plays it safe with you and keeps it soft and light. your hands have traveled to harry's neck and hair, pulling him closer to you.

after a minute or so, harry pulls away. "i love you, [y/n]." he admits. he just couldn't keep it in for much longer.

your eyes light up, a shy smile on your lips as you read his expression. "oh, harry. i love you, too." you reply breathlessly.

the kissing becomes more and more heated as you eventually push harry back onto your pillows. he's surprised, and completely aroused, trying to ignore his growing erection from simply kissing you.

you climb on top of him, the visual making harry sweat already. as you lean in to continue the kiss, your legs end up on either side of him, straddling his torso.

harry is at a loss. he never imagined his birthday surprise for you would end like this. did you really mean you loved him? like, loved loved him?

his hands went to your hips, savoring the feeling of your weight on top of him, his pants becoming more and more uncomfortable. eventually, he can feel your hips slowly rock back and forth on his lap.

he pulls away from the kiss, looking at you above him with wonder. it was everything he could've imagined. even better than the constant fantasies he had of you.

"is this okay?" you ask him softly, searching his eyes, grinding your hips into his a bit slower than before.

harry looks at you incredulously. "[y/n], this is all i've wanted for so long. please. use me." the desperation in his voice surprises him, he knew he wanted you this bad but he couldn't believe how quickly you had him begging.

you practically moaned at his desperate request. "fuck," you whisper as you go in for another kiss.

harry guides your hips into his, and he's sure you can feel just how hard he is through his jeans. you're softly moaning into the kiss, stopping to catch your breath every so often as harry slightly thrusts his hips into you, desperate for more.

"oh, harry…" you moan, causing his eyes to roll in ecstasy. for so long he imagined how you'd sound moaning his name just for him, and he's more than happy with the real thing.

"you're so beautiful, darling," harry says, reaching for your flushed cheek.

you whimper at his voice, tangling a hand in his hair. "tell me again." you demand him.

shit. harry could seriously cum just from that. he's doing everything he can to keep this going as long as possible, but he's not sure how much longer he'll last under you.

"beautiful. so, so beautiful." he says between heavy breaths, watching your incredible body grind onto him for pleasure. "you have no idea how badly i've needed you," he looks back into your eyes, half shut with pleasure as you continue to blush.

"touch me." you tell him, putting your hair behind your shoulders. he looks up at you slowly moving up and down on his lap. he could watch you do this for hours. a dream come true.

one hand slowly makes its way towards your tits, massaging one through your clothes. harry's head rolls back in pleasure, hardly believing this was his real life. involuntary moans slip through his lips as you continue to dry hump him.

"fuck, harry…" you whimper, kissing him again. he can feel the necklace he got you against his hand as he continue to feel your tits. everything about this was perfect. as far as he was concerned, right now, in this moment, you were his and only his.

"i-i…i think i'm gonna cum…" you tell him between kissing. his hands grip you tighter, all he wants to do is please you, be the reason for your ecstasy.

"please, [y/n], please cum for me," he begs of you, feeling his own body tipping over the edge. you look him in the eyes, your hand on his cheek as your breathing gets more rapid and uneven.

you're whimpering, desperately grinding for relief on harry's jeans as he feels himself about to cum. "harry, please…" you beg.

harry slightly thrusts into you, meeting your rhythm as he pulls you closer to him. you begin to shake in his grip, your eyes and jaw going lax as your whimpers become breathless. your hand finds one of his and interlocks your fingers together. you squeeze his hand as you ride out your high. he's completely enthralled with your face and body's reaction to him. he could be here forever, letting you use his body for pleasure, and he would hurt anyone who tried to stop him.

as you start to come down from your climax, harry gently pulls you in for a weak kiss. you crawl beside him, hiding your face in his chest as you continue to catch your breath.

"that was…so hot…" you manage to say between breaths. harry laughs softly, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer to him, placing a kiss on your head. "you're amazing." is all he can say.

"so…did you…?" you shyly start to ask. "yes. i came in my pants." harry admits, hiding his face in your hair. you can't help but laugh a bit, looking down at his jeans. he looks down and sees a dark spot near the zipper.

"oh." you say, clearly amused. "how couldn't i? i had the most beautiful woman in the world orgasming on my lap." harry smirks.

you hide your face in his chest again, giggling. you look up at him with dilated eyes, flushed cheeks, and sore lips in a small smile. "i really do love you, harry," you speak softly.

"i love you too, [y/n]."

it's the day after christmas, and you and harry had spent the holiday with your family. he loved your parents, and got on well with your siblings. he had even rented a room at a local inn near the area for you two to stay in. a private place to escape the chaos and have some alone time.

you and harry were practically all over each other all the time at this point. he couldn't help himself, all he ever wanted was to kiss you and now he could, whenever he wanted, and he was going to take advantage of that.

it was your last day at the inn, a cozy cottage type place with the softest beds you've ever slept in, and harry paid for all of it before you even knew about it. "merry christmas," he had told you.

you were eating your complimentary breakfasts together in silence, across from each other at the little table in the corner of the room.

"thank you, again, harry. this was a wonderful idea." you said as you finished your orange juice, admiring the snowfall out of the window. "it's so beautiful here."

"you're beautiful."

you give harry a look, but crack a smile. "and you're cheesy."

harry chuckles, admiring you like he always does. his soft eyes and kind smile give you butterflies.

as you're packing your clothes to get ready to leave, harry comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. you smile, giggling, continuing to pack your suitcase. his lips end up on your neck, but you ignore him as you put your panties inside the bag.

harry laughs to himself. you look over at him. "what?" you ask with a smile. he's blushing, shaking his head. "nothing, nothing." he continues to laugh.

"tell me," you say. he shakes his head again. "no, its…it's weird." he says. you can hear a bit of shame in his voice as he hides his face in your neck again. "harry, tell me. please?"

he can't resist when you ask nicely.

he sighs, taking a step away from you and sitting on the bed next to your suitcase. "well…" he starts, rubbing his face nervously. "um, after the halloween party…" he trails off.

"yes…?" you ask, amused at his shy demeanor.

"u-uh, the morning after, when you took a shower…" harry recalls, shifting his weight. "i may have, um…stolen your underwear you took off in front of me…." he cringes at his words, turning his head away from you.

"i knew it!" you declared, pushing his shoulder.

harry covered his face completely, feeling like he could burst into tears at any moment from the embarrassment.

"god, that's so bloody hot, harry," you practically moan, pushing his arms to the side and sitting in his lap. he's completely red in the face, bewildered by your reaction.

"wh…what?" he asks breathlessly.

you hold his face in your hands, admiring his shy expression as you sink into him. "you don't find that weird? or creepy? or extremely perverted?" harry asks you incredulously.

you giggle at him, your eyes full of love. "yes, harry, stealing my used panties behind my back is very perverted. if you did that to any other girl they may find it really disturbing." harry's heart drops, his eyes focused on you completely. "but, i like you. i've really liked you for a long time. and…i find it so fucking hot just how desperate you were for me…"

harry's heart is immediately pumping at your words. you wrap your arms around his neck as you force a kiss on him, his hands grabbing your waist with a hunger.

after a moment he pulls back, nervously blinking and clearing his throat. "um, that's not all, though," he says regretfully. you give him a curious look. "i might've, um…used the panties to masturbate…" he admits.

you smile at his nervousness, biting your lip and giving him a desperate look. "oh, harry, tell me what it was like…" you moan as you begin kissing his neck.

harry's voice is caught, his head rolling back in pure bliss. sometimes he still can't believe this is real life.

you continue to bite at his neck, leaving marks as harry tries to find the words. "i, um…" his hand travels to your ass. "well, i smelled them first…" you moan against his skin, your legs tightening around him. "go on…" you say with a smile.

harry's trying to focus on the story without getting distracted by your lips. "they smelled so good, and you almost caught me, so i put them in my pocket," harry fights back a moan.

"so naughty," you tease him, pushing him onto his back. "tell me more." you demand.

harry nervously swallows at the sight of you above him. you hadn't done anything since your birthday just a few days previous, but it was all harry could think about. he missed the feeling of you being above him, using him, telling him what to do.

"when i got home, i immediately started jerking off thinking about undressing you, seeing your tits for the first time, smelling your panties, i felt so dirty because you told me i was such a gentleman that night…" harry rambles. something about revealing his perverted obsession with you as you're on his lap makes his erection harden.

he grabs for your thighs, sighing at how heavenly they feel in his hands. "then, i just…wrapped your panties around my dick…and i came on them, almost instantly…" harry reveals, the embarrassment fueling his lust.

you're practically aching for harry listening to his story, watching him become desperate for you once again. he's falling apart in your hands and you just can't get enough of it.

"god, harry, that's so hot…you were so obsessed with me…" you say as you lean into his lips, your bodies entangled on the bed.

harry pulls away, holding your face in his hands gently. "i still am, [y/n]." he says sincerely, admiring your eyes. "so, so obsessed…you have no idea…"

you gaze longingly at him, melting his heart. after a moment you kiss him passionately, savoring his eagerness.

"well…would you like these panties too?" you ask with a smirk, putting his hand on your ass. he looks up at you with begging eyes. "please," he says so softly.

soon you're sat on the edge of the bed, harry pulling down your pants with the fireplace lit behind him. he's looking at you so tenderly, taking in every part of you, constantly reminding you how much he loves you, and how beautiful you are.

you open your legs for him as he kneels in front of you, his eyes fluttering from your face to your panties, which are undoubtedly wet from hearing harry's perverted stories.

his mouth is watering just looking at you.

he gently kisses your thighs, higher and higher until he reaches your panties, taking a moment to look back up at you. you're intently watching him, a blush spreading across your face. you look so pretty from here, a view he's daydreamed about plenty of times.

he buries his face in your smell, moaning, taking you in completely, eyes drooping shut as he feels complete bliss overcome him.

you whimper at his reaction, a hand reaching for his hair as he comes back to earth. he reaches for your panties when he pauses, looking up at you shyly.

"i-i've never done this before." he admits.

you giggle at him lovingly. "i know, harry. it's okay. i haven't either." you reassure him, reaching for his glasses and setting them beside you. he smiles shyly and lays his head on your thigh, letting your hand tangle itself in his hair, memorizing this angle of you.

"just enjoy yourself."

harry blushes at that sentiment. he was enjoying himself no matter what, with you he was always happy, especially in moments like this.

but harry more than enjoyed himself. he had always fantasized what it would be like to eat your pussy, your hand in his hair as you ride his face and cum in his mouth. what he didn't expect was just how intimate it felt with you, the soft whimpers that escaped your mouth, having your legs rest on his shoulders, practically making out with your pussy while you writhe with pleasure beneath his hands.

you were both a bit unsure at first, awkward smiles and laughs and reassuring touches, before harry eventually lost himself in the act. he paid close attention to your reactions, your facial expressions, trying to figure out the best way to pleasure you. he loved feeling you get more and more wet for him by the minute, he couldn't get enough of you.

harry didn't want to stop. cumming once wasn't enough for him. he ignored your begging for him to wait, please, it's too much, holding your hands down with his own as he continued for several more minutes. he had waited so long to finally do this for you, showing you just how badly he wanted you. his dick was aching from how hard it was. this was easily the most turned on he'd been for you so far, watching and hearing you orgasm because of him, on his face, he was convinced there was nothing more enjoyable or desirable than this.

"harry, god damn it…" you sighed. he stayed between your legs in the same position, leaving loving and longing kisses on your thighs and stomach, enjoying the aftershocks your body was having in response to him, looking at you with hunger in his eyes.

"yes?" he asks innocently, still admiring your delicious pussy. "harry, i can barely move…" you whine, your body aching and sore. harry smiles devilishly at your weakness, loving the effect he's come to have on you.

he kisses up your body, leaving a desperate kiss on your lips as you taste yourself on him.

"that was even better than i ever imagined it could be," harry practically growls. you giggle at him, your eyes tired and lips bitten.

you look down at harry and see his throbbing erection through his pants. you look back at him, and offer to return the favor.

"oh, honey, you don't have to, you should rest…" harry insists, stroking your hair out of your face. but you're not backing down, and you at least convince him to let you help him out.

he lays next to you on the bed, shirt and pants off as you start feeling his dick through his briefs. harry's instantly desperate under your touch, realizing just how long he's waited for this moment, no longer having to imagine his own hand as yours.

"[y/n]..." harry moans, his eyes filled with lust as he looks over at you. you. blushing, beautiful, natural you. "i swear i could cum just looking at you."

you giggle at harry again, blushing into his chest as your hand continues to stroke him. you look back up at him innocently, admiring the look of desperation he couldn't hide. reaching for a kiss, harry moans softly into your mouth, his dick twitching in your hand.

"oh god…" harry whines, his head falling back in pleasure. you can tell he's close, just from light touching and barely any kissing. you can't help but giggle at his state, loving the control you have over him.

"go ahead, baby, cum for me," you whisper seductively.

that's all it takes for harry.

trying his best to keep his eyes on you, he comes completely undone under your touch. his breathing becomes completely ragged, breathy whimpers, vaguely trying to say your name the longer you stroked him. similar to how he kept going with you, you didn't back down. he begged you to stop, but you could tell he didn't really want you to stop any time soon. you kiss him to quiet his begging, continuing to overstimulate him until he came for a second time, ruining his briefs for good.

after cleaning yourselves up, harry gives you the longest, warmest, most loving hug you've ever received in your life. you bury your head in his chest, taking in the feeling and smell of his skin. his, now muscular, arms are wrapped tightly around you, holding you like harry had nothing left in this world but you.

"i love you, so much, and i'm so thankful for you." harry says, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

you hug him even tighter. "i love you, harry,"

————————————————————

by the time next semester starts, you and harry are full-blown boyfriend and girlfriend, constantly holding hands wherever you two go and seeing each other off to your classes or study sessions. people talked amongst themselves about the harry potter having a girlfriend, but you both paid no mind.

being with you has really made harry come out of his shell. by the time spring sports roll around, harry feels confident enough to try out for the university's quidditch team. with your support, of course.

it was never a question that he'd make the team, he instantly became their new seeker and brought the school out of their losing streak. through this, harry also made tons of friends, real friends, who wanted to get to know him outside of being harry potter.

not to mention that you had become his number one fan, showing up to every game and most practices to cheer on your best friend and help him strategize for future games.

in every aspect, harry's life completely changed for the better. he loved his classes, he loved his team, and above all else, he loved you, and felt like he owed everything he had to you.

the only thing that bothered harry anymore was that jerk you dated and introduced him to at the diner, thomas.

thomas hadn't made the quidditch team this season, and he made it very clear that he blamed harry for that. he tried spreading a rumor that harry paid his way in, but people didn't buy it after seeing just how well harry played every game.

but that's not what bothered harry. what bothered him was the way thomas used you to get to him.

everyone knew you and harry were dating. it was the topic of conversation on campus for nearly a week when everyone found out. so why is it that every time thomas talked to you when he saw you alone you had to remind him that no, you can't hang out sometime soon, you have a boyfriend now? to harry it felt personal, and he didn't like it.

it was one of the most important quidditch matches of the season, it determined the university's qualification for finals. harry was on top of his game, especially seeing you cheering for him in the stands, and won the match easily, being celebrated by his team on the field.

after taking a few photos and congratulating the rest of the players, harry eagerly runs to meet you at your usual spot just beside the stands to get his usual post-win kiss.

what he finds instead makes him see red.

thomas. he has you completely backed up to the stands, a clearly heated conversation going on between you two. harry can tell you're pissed just by looking at you, speaking with your hands and trying to walk away but being stopped by thomas each time. finally you push him away, and he grabs you.

that's all harry needs to see before he begins sprinting towards him, his mind racing a million miles an hour and yet completely blank at the same time.

you had managed to push thomas off of you, now yelling at him to get the fuck away from you before you rock his shit.

before you can even try, harry tackles thomas to the ground and begins rocking his shit for you.

you gasped. "harry! stop!" you tell him, not wanting him to get caught and punished. but harry doesn't stop. you've never seen this anger from him. it's like he can't stop, not showing any signs of fatigue or resistance.

"harry! stop!" you yell at him, grabbing him from behind and pulling him away. harry stops punching thomas, only to stand above him and kick him in the stomach. "harry." you warn him, giving him a concerned look. "stop. you'll get expelled." you tell him in a hushed tone.

harry looks at you, softening, coming back to earth as you motion for him to just walk away with you. harry looks down at thomas, a bleeding mess in the dirt, crying in the fetal position.

harry kneels next to thomas, making him flinch. harry points his wand at him and mutters quickly, "episkey."

thomas's nose fixes itself, his cuts heal, and his stomach bruise lightens. he looks at harry incredulously, feeling no physical pain, but in fear of the threat harry posed.

"don't ever fucking touch her again. do you understand? next time i won't be so nice." harry growls. thomas quickly nods his head, desperate to leave. harry stands up, sneering at him still in the dirt. "and don't talk to me either while you're at it." you add at the end, your voice just as intimidating as harry's. "got that?" harry asks sarcastically. thomas nods again, standing up and running away from harry.

as he turns to you, you notice his bloody nose, multiple cuts from the game, and bruised knuckles. "oh, harry," you coo sympathetically, grabbing his hands and examining them. "come on. let's go home."

and by home, you meant to your house. the university had upgraded your room and board in exchange for you to work for them as a professor's assistant in potions. it was a small cottage just outside of campus, one bedroom, one bathroom, but it was enough for you and harry.

walking into your living room, you send harry to the bathroom as you lock the door behind you and drop your stuff off on the dining table. you grab a rag from the kitchen and get it wet with warm water.

you enter the bathroom to see a shirtless harry already attempting to clean a wound on his chest. you can see his reflection in the mirror and are completely infatuated with his focused, bloody face concentrated on his reflection as he tends to his injury.

you come up behind him, barely able to rest your chin on his tall, broad shoulders. his reflection instantly softens, his muscles relaxing.

you turn him around, cleaning the wounds on his chest, arms, and hands. his knuckles were bruised, nothing a spell couldn't fix. "you're lucky you didn't break anything." you remind him.

he watches you so intently. your gentle, caring touch bringing him instant relief. even now, all these months later, you still mesmerize him every day. he's not sure he'll ever get used to having you for himself. but that's just what you were, for himself.

"i wanted to kill him. i would've killed him." harry reminds you, rubbing his knuckles. "sit, please," you ask quietly, pulling him over to the closed toilet. harry sits down, letting out a groan as his entire body aches from quidditch and nearly killing someone.

he looks up at you, his eyes dark and angry again just thinking about it before softening at you. you bring the rag to his face, wiping away blood and dirt from his scars. a tense silence falls between you two. harry can't tell if you're angry at him for what he did. he has no idea why, that thomas kid was dead meat as soon as he decided to touch you.

as you carefully finish cleaning the last of the dirt off harry's face, you notice how tenderly he's watching you. you sigh, holding his face in your hands.

"i'm not mad at you." you say. he swears you can read him like a book.

"but, you could've gotten in serious trouble. or hurt yourself. i just don't want to be the reason you're down." you explain, rubbing a thumb along his cheek.

"i would do anything for you." he reminds you, his hand finding yours.

you smile warmly at him. you can't stay upset with him for very long.

"then do this for me: stay out of trouble."

harry smiles. no promises.

as you're getting ready for bed, harry walks in from his shower in just a pair of shorts. you walk up to him, running your hands along his torso to make sure his scars are sufficiently clean. and to just admire your boyfriend in general.

harry revealed to you some time back his real reason for working out. you found it sweet, but a bit silly, as you could handle yourself perfectly well. however, tonight, harry proved you wrong. though you were never in immediate danger or physical harm, as far as you knew, it still felt really nice to know he had your back when things got scary.

while working out definitely helped his strength, quidditch is what really made his body so exceptional.

he was perfectly toned, incredibly strong, and more buff than he ever had been his entire life. you were never someone to have a thing for muscular guys, but something about watching harry's body get better and better with time just drove you crazy.

"you know," you start off, resting your hands on his chest. you could feel his heart racing. all this time later and he's still such a nervous wreck for you.

"i may not approve of it, but…i can't deny how fucking sexy you looked beating thomas up for me,"

harry could feel his blood boil just from you mentioning that douchebag's name, but he was somewhat distracted by your observation.

"oh, really?" he smirks, grabbing your waist possessively. you instantly have goosebumps, leaning into harry's tight grip. "mhm. i haven't stopped thinking about it…you in your quidditch uniform, your muscles, the anger in your voice…" you practically swoon for him.

harry blushes, but takes advantage of the situation. "i was seeing red." he recalls. "i was seriously going to fucking kill that loser for even thinking he could touch my girl."

you're instantly turned on by his fierce protectiveness. normally you find harry's jealousy funny, since he has no reason to ever worry about you, but tonight it made you see a completely different side of him…

harry was always so soft and careful with you, and was a normally mild-tempered person with everyone. the only time he really got upset was if someone was getting too comfortable with you too quickly. to see him completely lose his cool, to watch him unleash onto this guy who thought he could just grab you…

you were just so, so attracted to him right now.

"yes, your girl, all yours," you reassure him as you lean in for a kiss. he quickly takes control and brings you to your bed, laying you down with haste. "mine. mine. mine." he reminds you between sloppy kisses.

the lingering anger within harry needs to be released, immediately.

he quickly undresses you, a complete 180 of the old harry who was afraid to help you take off your bra. he practically rips your panties in half trying to get them off of you.

you're already soaking wet from his aggression. he smirks at you. "guess i should get angry more, yeah?" harry teases.

you blush, but you wouldn't exactly be against it.

as harry slowly begins thrusting into you, he feels that familiar bliss overcome him like it does every time he's inside of you.

you and harry have had sex a couple times before, mostly slow and passionate with lots of kissing, enjoying each other's bodies and intimacy.

but this time, harry was hungry for you.

not to say he never is. he might always be hungry for you, quite literally. but this time, he lets the hunger consume him.

harry's thrusts become less careful and more desperate, he leaves dark, aching bites all over your chest, marking what's his. "mine. mine. mine." he reminds you between each bite.

you're in a state of pure ecstasy. you didn't know harry could be so rough with you. his desperation usually came in the form of shy begging, whimpering, and a desire to please. but this kind of desperation was aggressive, jealous, and aimed to please himself. you didn't mind, you thought it was bloody hot. you also wanted to help harry get his anger out, and you were the perfect way to do that.

as his thrusts become more possessive and sloppy, his arms rest on either side of you, the sight above you enough to make your orgasm accelerate. a sweaty, tired, aching harry, desperate to prove something to you, looking at you like you're the first meal he's had in years. his muscles flexing, veins popping out, and his breathing becomes labored.

he can feel you tightening around him and quickened his pace. "harry, harry, i'm cumming," you warn him, whining, desperate for a release.

"that's right, cum for me, baby." he groans in your ear, wrapping his arms around you as he continues pounding into you relentlessly.

watching you fall apart under him is enough to send him over the edge himself. his head is buried in your neck as he breathes heavily, moaning your name in your own ear.

"fuck, i'm gonna cum inside you, baby. can you let me do that?" harry asks you, his sweaty face desperate for your approval. you nod quickly, eager to be his release in anyway you can.

"can you take it? can you be a good girl for me?" harry loves to dirty talk, and this is the hottest it's been yet.

"please, harry, please give it to me, please, please, i need you," you beg harry, grabbing his shoulders, feeling your body prepare for its second orgasm.

"take it, baby, take it, god, you feel so good," he groans into your ear, his hips stuttering as he cums deep inside you.

your body convulses from the feeling and watching harry melt into you. his face is relieved of all anger, his eyes soft and full of love for you as he leans in to give you a sloppy kiss.

he steps back, watching his cum drip out of you, and could easily get turned on again just by the sight of you right now. but he's too tired, and he knows he has lots of time with you to do it all over again.

after cleaning up and crawling into bed, harry holds you against his chest. you're asleep in no time, steady breaths and slight snores coming from your peaceful expression. harry wraps his arm around you before leaving a kiss on top of your head.

"i love you, [y/n]. goodnight."

————————————————————

[if you actually read through all of this, i salute you. if you actually enjoyed it, pls let me know. i definitely want to post more like this in the future so i always appreciate any feedback <3 thank you!!! happy new year btw lol]

4K notes · View notes

hamilton-here · 20 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.

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