I Want You To Remember:

Oh the fact that she calms him down? This is gonna be goooood 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

Companionship | pt. 2

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

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Summary: You and Michael have some late night phone calls. He struggles to open up.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: wow! Y’all are really so nice omg, I really appreciate all of you who took the time to like, comment or reblog. I also appreciate all you silent readers too! I’m genuinely surprised with how much traffic part 1 got, so thank you all so much! Contemplating adding this to my AO3 account from the perspective of a f!oc, but still undecided (I prefer to keep my reader works strictly for tumblr, idk why). This is definitely going to be multiple parts (my rough outline currently has ten chapters whoops).

I don’t know much about sugar babies aside from what I’ve read, so I took some liberties with my guesstimates.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: age gap, slowburn, foul language, allusion to a panic attack, work stress, Robby trying to avoid his feelings/anxiety, my basic understanding of accounting, angst

not beta read

“You’re lucky. Someone only looking for companionship is a small pool of men. Not as lucrative as a traditional sugar baby, but if that’s more your speed, maybe reach out to some more.”

Your smile twisted, “I’m already uncomfortable with just one. Thinking about adding more makes me feel icky.”

Erin rolled her eyes, “Why? They know what they signed up for. If they wanted fidelity, then they should get a girlfriend.”

“I’m telling you, I could hook you up with a shift or two a week at the bar. I make great tips.” Marsi said, her eyes not flickering from her laptop.

You frowned. “I already gave him my number. My Google Voice number, but yeah.”

“That’s my girl!” Erin praised with a laugh.

You wondered if it was a mistake. He had not reached out since you had sent the number on the app, nearly four days prior. Perhaps he was having second thoughts. Anxiety filled your chest at the thought of having to go through the whole process again.

Or just drop it and take Marsi up on her offer.

—

Your night passed slowly, studying with your friends until dinner time, when they left. You kept your focus on the Excel spreadsheet in front of you, checking over your homework with careful eyes. Numbers were easy, they did not hold the complexities of human beings—

Your phone buzzed on the table, immediately pulling you away from your work.

You have any time to talk?

It was an unknown number. You watched as the three dots appeared immediately after, though it wasn’t hard to guess who it was.

This is Michael by the way.

So formal, you found yourself thinking with a small smile, quickly adding him to your contacts.

I have time.

It only took a few more moments before your phone started ringing. Anxiety thrummed through your system, heart beating like a drum against your ribcage. You took a long breath through your nose before answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” He answered awkwardly.

“How are you?” You asked out of habit.

There were several moments of silence. “I want to say I’m okay.”

“But you’re not?”

“But I’m not.” Came his quiet reply.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Another measured silence. “No. Yes? I don’t know.”

You hummed. “I understand your hesitation, we don’t know each other. But isn’t that the whole point? I’m unconnected to your life and you basically have anonymity. I won’t pry, so we can talk about something else, if you’d like.”

He was silent for a long time. You checked the call to make sure it hadn’t dropped. The seconds ticked away on the call, so he was still there. You waited.

“Just a…rough day.” He said, his tone sounding stressed. “I think I’d rather talk about your day right now.”

“My day?” You questioned, surprised.

He only hummed in response.

“Do you want the play-by-play or the cliff-notes?”

Michael exhaled a ghost of a laugh, “Give me all of it.”

You cleared your throat, “So my alarm went off at 5:20, no! 5:25, and then I got out of bed—”

He laughed, bringing a smile to your lips.

“I have early classes on Thursdays, so I was up earlier than I usually like to be…”

“Night owl?”

“Guilty.” You smiled. “But it was my forensic accounting class, which I’ve been enjoying, so I wasn’t too upset getting out of bed. Add in my morning coffee, and I was a pretty happy camper.” You paused, but he was quiet on the other end. “I had taxation today too, and despite the fact I love the numbers, learning tax law just isn’t my favorite thing.”

“Why do you like it? Accounting?”

“Oh, um,” you paused, deliberating. “I like turning unreadable stuff into a well-crafted report, turn a mess into an easy to read story of a company’s financial history. Plus, numbers are a lot less complicated than human beings.”

There was his quiet laugh again. “Yeah, I can see how that can be true.”

“As a doctor, I can imagine you would.” You were smiling.

“I’ve seen…a lot of complicated people.”

You waited a few moments, but he didn’t elaborate. People were the primary reason you had left the medical field early on in your college career — while you enjoyed being helpful, people could be too overwhelming.

“And my shift today was good, busy and boring, but easy enough.”

As you went on about your day as a payroll clerk (though vague about the company details), Michael was quiet. It was clear he needed the distraction from whatever his day had been. You explained your studying routine with your friends and your love of baking. You got the occasional hum of acknowledgment, but it was clear he just wanted to listen to you talk. You moved from topic-to-topic without complaint, pausing occasionally to make sure he did not want to comment, or change the subject.

It was late when you realized the time: 11:08.

“Michael? I’m sure I could keep going, but I’m not sure you want to hear my opinions on office politics.” Your tone was jesting.

Still no response. Furrowing your brows, you listened silently to the other end.

Small puffs of air, slow and steady, in and out. In. Out. He had fallen asleep.

Your first instinct was to be offended — no telling how long since he had drifted off or how long you had rambled to no one. But then you relaxed. He had clearly needed the distraction from what was going through his head when he first called, enough to quiet his brain. Or perhaps he was just that exhausted. Either way, you did not take it personally, you would have likely been up this late anyways.

You ended the call at two hours and seventeen minutes.

—

Are you available at 9?

You checked your phone when you moved into the living room, dinner cooking in the oven, finding a text from Michael. Per your agreement, you usually talked about once a week. He usually gave late notice, though it usually reflected how bad his day had gotten. Your last talk, however, had only been three days prior.

In addition to the one only days ago, you had talked two additional times since your first, typically at night, where you did most of the talking. You almost found your talks therapeutic; plus you were getting paid to just talk. Though, you wished he talked more — part of you felt like you were taking advantage of the situation and he was barely getting anything out of it.

He had already put money on the prepaid Visa card you had picked up after your first phone conversation. Michael thought the card would be more discreet and confidential than Venmo. The $400 dollars you had agreed on for the month had done wonders with relieving the pressure on making your rent payment.

Erin had encouraged you to set up an online wishlist as well, adding things periodically in case he wanted to buy something extra for you. “As a tip,” Erin had told you, a wide smirk on her face. That same day, Erin had coincidentally brought her new Valentino canvas bag that you were sure cost more than your rent payment. You held off on the wishlist, but you kept a few things in your notes app. Just in case.

You sent him a confirmation that you were fine with nine. He must work late hours. He had said he was a doctor, but you wondered in what specialty or where, but you had never broached the topic. You both valued your privacy when it came to your arrangement, not wanting to muddy the waters.

Surprisingly, he did not call at nine. He was usually pretty punctual when it came to a time he asked for. You waited patiently for several minutes before moving to start some hot water for tea, looking out the window at the rain. You figured to give him a bit of extra time before turning in.

At 9:24, your phone rang. Part of you nearly picked it up on the first ring, but you gave it a few moments before picking up. When you answered, he spoke first.

“Please just talk. About anything.” He sounded out of breath, talking quickly. His tone sounded more stressed than you had heard before.

“Are you alright?” Was your first instinct instead of doing as he asked, standing from your chair at the dining table, mug of tea forgotten.

“Fuck. No, I’m not. Please just talk to me. Your day. Your job. The fucking traffic this morning. Anything,” Your name was so quiet on his tongue, you nearly missed it.

It sounded like a plea.

You swallowed, pulse quickening, before running with it, “This asshole actually cut me off this morning, which considering his bumper stickers, wasn’t all that surprising. No blinker, nothing. I swear, sometimes the subway is less stressful, though I hate the morning crowds.”

Suddenly realizing talking about stressful things might not be the best way to calm him down, you pivoted, pacing across your apartment. Deciding quickly on something boring to most, you began to explain your most recent accounting assignment. How you came up with the financial analysis from the numbers your professor had given, to the tax implications of several of the (fake) business’s decisions. You explained it as best you could in layman's terms, trying not to make the math too complicated, before walking him through your report and your thoughts about how to help the business improve.

You paused long enough to hear his breathing, not quite as ragged but still loud and quick. “I don’t need you to respond, but think of five things you can see.”

Oh this was cliche, but you did not dwell on it.

After a few moments, “Okay, four things you can touch.” You paused, finding four things of your own to ensure he had time. “Now three things you can hear.”

“You.” He croaked, much quieter than he had been. “I can hear you.”

“That’s good. Now two more things.”

“…the rain. The cars outside.”

“Good,” you breathed out. “Two things you can smell?”

He didn’t answer, though his breathing had slowed tremendously from when you had first answered his call. It felt relieving, and you finally made your way to sit on the couch.

“Last is one thing you can taste.”

He let out a long deep breath, but kept whatever it had been to himself.

“Are you okay?” You asked again after a few moments.

“No.” He said. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

You nearly huffed, but the annoyance was fleeting. You smiled, “I can tell you more about accounting, but most people find it incredibly boring.”

“You seem to really enjoy accounting. Though, I can’t imagine being cooped up in an office all day.”

“Well I wasn’t quite cut out for psychiatry, and I’ve always enjoyed a good spreadsheet.”

“Psychiatry?” He sounded surprised. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“What does that mean?”

“You would’ve been good at it.”

Oh?

“Thank you.” You whispered. “Um, can I interest you in what my professor assigned today or how my manager nearly fucked up payroll this week?”

He cleared his throat, “I’ll take ‘how my manager nearly fucked up today’ for $200, Alex.”

Your lips quirked back up at the Jeopardy reference, trying to shake off the feeling his praise had given you. With a long sigh, you rubbed your fingers along your hairline.

“He messed up the new employee’s tax deductions by misclassifying his title. When he backtracked to fix it, he cleared out the entire category — thankfully I caught it when I was putting my own numbers in for the small team I oversee.” You told him, looking at your nails. “Led to quite a frustrating day.”

Despite the fact that it had led to quite a hectic start to your workday, adding several tasks that interrupted you workflow, you felt mildly pathetic knowing his day had clearly been so much worse. You tried not to compare, your days had just as much value as his, but it was still a creeping feeling in your gut.

You continued on after a beat of silence on his end. Fixing the problem hadn’t necessarily been the issue — it was redoing every employee's numbers that led to your annoyance. That, and the lack of accountability from your manager.

Time ticked on, Michael only adding in his thoughts here and there, mostly staying quiet.

He coughed awkwardly during a lull in your conversation, “Uh, thank you for tonight.”

Beginning to feel your exhaustion, you smiled tiredly. “No thanks necessary.”

“Goodnight,” there was your name again.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

[ Next ]

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fallin' (3)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 7.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry woke up before her.

Of course he did.

He always woke up early. Even on the rare nights he didn’t drink too much, even on days off. But this morning—it was different.

This time, he didn’t wake up to check the markets or answer a string of emails from London.

This time, he woke up to her.

And for once in his goddamn life, he didn’t want to move.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet. Pale gold light filtered through the huge windows, casting the entire penthouse in a soft, honey colored haze. The city outside was quiet, unusually so. A stillness blanketed everything, like even Manhattan understood something sacred was happening here.

She was asleep beside him.

Naked.

And stunning.

One leg tangled with his. The edge of the comforter barely covering the curve of her hip. Her cheek pressed against his bicep, hair fanned across his chest like silk threads spun by a dream. She was breathing slowly, evenly—completely lost to the world.

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

He just stared.

Her lips were parted slightly, lashes fluttering against her cheek. He could still see the faint marks he’d left on her neck, her chest, the insides of her thighs. Gentle. Worshipful. Proof that he had memorized her the night before with lips, tongue, hands. Proof that he hadn’t been able to stop touching her even after she fell asleep.

She looked…at peace.

Like she belonged here. Like this was her bed too.

Harry’s throat tightened.

Last night had been slow and quiet and aching. All softness and tension and the kind of closeness that scared him more than boardroom deals or billion dollar collapses ever could.

And now—this morning—it was just as terrifying.

Because he didn’t want her to leave.

He shifted slightly, just enough to press a kiss to her forehead. Then to her cheek. Then to her shoulder. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his lips, and he lingered there, breathing her in.

She stirred.

A small, sleepy hum escaped her throat as she pressed in closer, her hand sliding across his bare chest, curling there like it belonged.

He froze.

Then, cautiously, let himself exhale.

He didn’t know how to do this.

He didn’t know how to wake up next to someone and not immediately put his walls back up.

But with her—it felt different.

He tilted his head and kissed the tip of her nose.

She wrinkled it and groaned. “Harry.”

His lips twitched. “Good morning.”

Her eyes stayed shut. “Why are you awake?”

“Because I wanted to look at you.”

A beat.

Her brows furrowed. “Creep.”

He smirked, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Romantic creep.”

She groaned again, burying her face in his chest. “It’s too early.”

“It’s not. The sun is literally up.”

“Barely,” she muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

But Harry didn’t want to go back to sleep.

He wanted to stay awake and memorize every inch of her like he hadn’t already done that last night.

He kissed her shoulder again.

Then lower.

To her collarbone.

Then down the slope of her chest, right to the curve of her breast.

She squirmed slightly, breath catching. “Harry…”

He didn’t say anything.

Just kept kissing her.

Soft. Lazy. Reverent.

Her skin glowed in the morning light, warm and flushed as he licked a slow stripe across the peak of her breast before taking it gently into his mouth. Just for a second. Just to feel her react. Her fingers threaded into his hair, not pulling—just there.

“You’re trying to distract me,” she mumbled.

He hummed against her skin. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He shifted again, moving across her chest with light, open mouthed kisses, stopping to trace a few lingering marks from the night before with the flat of his tongue.

She shivered.

“It’s cold,” she whispered.

Harry pulled back slightly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was busy being kissed awake, creep.”

He smirked, brushing her hair off her forehead. “You want to go back to sleep?”

She shook her head.

“You hungry?”

“Too comfortable to move.”

He nodded, more to himself than to her, then suddenly slipped out from beneath the comforter.

She frowned, half sitting up. “Where are you going?”

“I have to make some calls,” he said, already walking—naked—across the room like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And turn on the heater before you freeze to death.”

She watched him press a button on the wall panel, heard the low hum of the heat system kicking in. Then, still completely naked, he crossed the room, opened a drawer, and returned with a pair of thick socks.

Her brow lifted. “Seriously?”

Harry knelt on the edge of the bed, lifting one of her feet into his lap with gentle fingers. “Your toes are cold.”

“I’m fine.”

He looked at her. “You’re not.”

She huffed, letting him pull a sock onto her foot. Then the other.

“I feel like I’m being dressed by a butler.”

“I’m naked,” he reminded her. “So, no.”

She laughed quietly as he kissed her ankle through the sock. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe,” he said, already reaching for a folded pair of sweats and a soft shirt from the drawer. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

“You’re dressing me?”

“Until you get warm, yes.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

He grinned.

She lifted her arms anyway.

He tugged the shirt over her head, smoothing it down her sides, then helped her sit up and step into the sweatpants, pulling the waistband gently low on her hips before kissing her bare stomach once—soft and slow.

Then again.

And again.

“Harry,” she murmured, breath shaky now.

He met her eyes. “You’re calling out of work today.”

Fuck it was a Friday. Which meant rush hours.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I can’t afford to—”

“You need rest,” he said, pressing a kiss to the center of her chest, right between her breasts. “And you’re staying here.”

“I—Harry—”

He looked up at her, mouth still brushing her skin. “Call.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Call.”

He kissed the slope of her breast.

“No.”

He kissed her hip.

“Harry—”

He kissed her collarbone.

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “You don’t.”

She groaned, grabbing her phone from the nightstand.

He watched her type the number in, still half laughing as she pressed the phone to her ear.

“Yes, hi—it’s me. I’m… sick,” she said flatly, shooting him a murderous look. “Yes, I can’t come in today. Sorry. Yes. Thanks. Bye.”

She hung up and threw the phone onto the comforter. “Happy?”

Harry nodded. “Ecstatic.”

She flopped back against the pillows, hair spilling everywhere. “You’re ridiculous.”

He climbed into bed beside her, pulling the comforter over both of them, kissing her shoulder again.

“You love it.”

She muttered something unintelligible.

And then she curled back into his chest.

Warm now.

Safe.

Content.

Harry waited until she was dozing again before grabbing his own phone off the nightstand.

James was first.

He texted simply:

Day off. Don’t come by. Will call later.

Then, reluctantly, he opened the other thread.

Danny.

Which already had eight unread messages.

Danny: You alive?

Danny: Blink twice if she’s still there.

Danny: Did she spend the night? Did you confess your feelings? Did you cry?

Danny: I bet you cried.

Danny: You definitely cried.

Danny: Why aren’t you answering?

Danny: Are you dead?

Danny: If you’re dead I’m stealing your office.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Harry: Rearrange all my meetings. I’m not coming in today.

Danny: ARE YOU SERIOUS.

Harry: Very.

Danny: You spent the night with her didn’t you.

Danny: YOU DID.

Danny: DID YOU CRY.

Harry: Stop texting me.

Danny: That’s not a no.

Harry turned his phone off and dropped it to the floor beside the bed.

Then he turned back to her.

Still asleep.

Still tangled up in his clothes.

Still curled into him like she’d never done anything else.

He pulled her closer, kissed her temple.

Then let himself drift.

Into something softer.

Something warmer.

Something terrifyingly close to peace.

That’s where Harry had been when he finally drifted into the kind of sleep he didn’t get often. Deep. Dreamless. Unbothered. The kind of sleep you only find when your body knows, on some primal level, that it’s safe. Held.

But she woke first.

It was nearly dark outside—somewhere between late afternoon and early evening. The kind of Manhattan glow that washed the skyline in a dusky lavender and gold. The penthouse had taken on a stillness that felt sacred, like the city had slowed for them. For this.

She laid beside him.

Still warm, still curled up in his t-shirt, one sock covered foot brushing against his shin beneath the sheets.

Harry Castillo—this intimidating, brooding man who carried the weight of billion dollar deals and decades of grief in his shoulders—was fast asleep, mouth slightly parted, one hand curled around the edge of the blanket like he was holding on to something soft. Or someone.

She stared at him.

Took her time.

Traced every crease and wrinkle of his face with her eyes, memorizing the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint furrow in his brow that remained even in rest. His jaw she itched to touch. His hair was rumpled. He looked younger like this, somehow—but also softer. Human. Undone.

She reached out and gently touched one of the small age spots on his shoulder. Then kissed it.

Then another.

Her lips skimmed the surface of his chest, lazy and reverent.

A breath caught in his throat.

He stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—warm, brown, still hazy with sleep—and landed on her.

“You’re staring,” he rasped, voice low and gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

She smiled. “You snore.”

His brow lifted slightly. “I do not.”

“You do.”

Harry exhaled, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not supposed to be awake yet.”

“I didn’t want to waste the light.”

He blinked at her, amused. “It’s dinner time.”

“Still light.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

“You're wearing my socks,” he murmured.

She grinned. “You put them on me.”

“I was being a gentleman.”

“You were being a pain in the ass.”

Harry huffed a small laugh and leaned forward to kiss her. Slow. Soft. Lips brushing hers like he was still deciding whether this was a dream.

She let him.

Let him deepen the kiss until it turned languid, heat curling between them like it never left. His hand moved down to her waist, tugging her closer, bare legs tangling together under the covers.

They could’ve stayed like that all night.

But then—

“I want a bath,” she whispered against his mouth.

Harry leaned back slightly, one brow raised. “You could’ve just said that instead of seducing me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Seduction implies you resisted.”

He smirked, then sat up, stretching his arms above his head, back cracking slightly with the movement. “Fine. Come on.”

They padded through the penthouse quietly. The floor cold against their bare feet, the room lit only by the fading city light.

The bathroom, when Harry turned on the lights, glowed warm and soft. Marble countertops, gold fixtures, and the enormous tub that looked like it had never been used for anything but aesthetic.

She sat on the edge while Harry filled it, testing the water with his hand. When steam began to rise, he turned and reached for her, peeling off his shirt from her frame and tugging the sweats down her hips slowly.

His eyes never left hers.

“Get in,” he murmured.

She did.

The heat enveloped her instantly—muscles melting, breath catching.

Harry stepped in behind her, water sloshing gently as he settled down and pulled her back into his chest. She fit perfectly against him, back to his front, his arms wrapping around her waist beneath the surface.

They sat like that for a long moment.

The water kissed her skin. His breath kissed her neck.

And then—

His hand moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Sliding along her thigh beneath the water, fingers gliding between them until he found her heat.

She gasped softly.

“Relax,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“I am.”

“You will.”

His fingers pressed, slow and teasing, circling her clit beneath the water while his other hand smoothed across her stomach, grounding her against him.

She tilted her head back against his shoulder, lips parting as her breath grew heavier. The sound of the water, the flicker of candlelight he must’ve lit when she wasn’t paying attention, the quiet intimacy of it—it was all too much and not enough.

Harry kissed her neck as his fingers worked her slowly, lovingly.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he murmured, pressing his thumb tighter.

She whimpered.

“Let me take care of you.”

She nodded, too breathless to speak.

His fingers dipped inside her, two thick digits curling expertly, sliding in and out with slow, delicious rhythm. She clutched his arm, hips twitching slightly as he moved faster, thumb circling in tandem.

It was overwhelming.

The water. His breath. His hands.

The way he held her like something precious, even while he was making her fall apart.

“You’re beautiful when you let go,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and reverent. “You’re mine when you fall apart.”

That did it.

She shattered in his arms, body going tight, then loose, heat rushing up her spine as she moaned, head falling back against his chest.

He held her through it.

Whispered praise against her skin.

Didn’t stop touching her until she squirmed from the overstimulation.

Even then—he kept his hands on her.

Gently stroking her thighs.

His lips pressing kisses to her temple.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

He turned her gently in the tub, facing him now, her legs wrapped around his waist. The water sloshed but neither of them cared.

She traced his chest, fingers gliding over the soft curve of his stomach, the line of dark hair leading beneath the surface.

Then—her fingers wrapped around him.

Harry’s breath caught.

He was hard.

Thick. Heavy in her hand.

She stroked him slowly, teasingly.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, jaw clenching.

“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered.

She leaned in, kissing the hollow of his throat. “Let me.”

And then—she sank down onto him.

The water made it slow, slick, endless.

She gasped.

So did he.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, his hands grasping her waist as she moved—rising and falling, the water rippling around them.

Every thrust was deep. Intimate.

His eyes never left hers.

“You feel…” he groaned, “Christ, you feel perfect.”

She moaned, hands sliding into his hair, pulling him in for a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperate need.

They rocked together in the water, soft splashes echoing off marble, steam rising around them like a fog. The room felt suspended in time. The entire city didn’t exist outside these walls.

Only this.

Only him.

Only her.

Their age didn’t matter.

The years between them, the decades of difference—they melted away with each thrust, each groan, each whispered name and bitten lip.

But still—it came up.

“You like fucking older men?” Harry growled against her throat, one hand gripping her ass to help her ride him harder.

She moaned. “I like fucking you.”

He grinned darkly. “I’m fifty four.”

She rocked harder. “I’m twenty six.”

He thrust up into her, making her gasp.

“Still want me?” he asked.

She kissed him fiercely. “More than anyone.”

That undid him.

He gripped her hips tight, buried his face in her neck, and fucked her through it—slow, hard thrusts that built and built until the pressure was unbearable.

“Harry—” she cried out, nails digging into his back.

“Let go for me again,” he begged, voice wrecked.

And she did.

She came around him, pulsing and shaking, body spasming in his arms.

He followed seconds later, groaning her name into her mouth, warmth flooding her in thick waves as he held her, trembling slightly from the force of it.

They clung to each other in the water, breathless, wrecked.

And when the tremors faded, when the air settled around them again, Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “Come here.”

She curled against him.

They stayed in the bath until the water went lukewarm.

Until the outside world started knocking again.

But neither of them answered.

Because in that moment—there was nowhere else to be.

And for the first time in his entire adult life, Harry Castillo didn’t feel alone.

He didn’t say it aloud.

Didn’t have to.

It lived in his breath as it slowed. In the way he still held her, even after their bodies had stilled, his arms curled tight around her waist beneath the water, as if afraid she might dissolve.

They stayed like that in the cooling bath. The only sound was the occasional slosh of water against marble, the soft shift of her limbs tangled with his.

Harry finally exhaled against her damp shoulder.

His nose brushed along the curve of her neck. “We should get out before we start to prune.”

She hummed sleepily, arms still looped around his neck. “Maybe I like being pruny.”

He chuckled. A soft, breath warmed sound she didn’t know she’d been craving until she heard it.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “If we stay in here any longer, you’re going to turn into a raisin.”

She tilted her head back, smirking. “And what if I do?”

“Then I’ll have to keep you in a jewelry box.” He kissed her collarbone. “With the other precious things.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. She grinned.

Harry shifted slightly beneath her, lifting her by the waist with a strength that felt effortless. His hands cradled her as he slowly slid out of her. The sensation made her hiss quietly—she was sensitive now, raw and swollen, and the loss of him felt like a small ache.

Harry noticed.

His gaze flicked up, warm and apologetic. “Sorry.”

She shook her head. “Not sorry. Just…tender.”

That made something flicker in his chest.

He nodded once, kissed her shoulder again, and then gently guided her forward so she sat between his legs, her back to his chest.

She expected him to move. To get out and offer her a towel. Maybe hand her something to dry off with.

But he didn’t.

Instead—

He reached for a bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub. His shampoo.

Something expensive, of course—subtle and masculine, faint notes of bergamot and amber.

He poured a dollop into his palm and began working it into her hair without a word.

His fingers were gentle.

He took his time, massaging her scalp like she was made of glass. She sighed, leaning into it.

“You ever done this before?” she asked quietly.

“Done what?”

“Washed someone else’s hair.”

Harry paused, thoughtful. “Not since I was a kid. My little sister. Before she left for college.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “You have a sister?”

“I did.” He hesitated. “We don’t talk much anymore.”

She didn’t push.

Just reached for his hand and laced their fingers together briefly before letting go.

He kissed the side of her head, and then rinsed the soap from her hair, his hand cupping the water. He shielded her eyes with his empty hand as he brings the water over her scalp, careful, focused.

Then came the soap.

Body wash from a matte black bottle.

He lathered it between his hands and touched her with more reverence than she’d ever been touched with before. Like every inch of her deserved its own moment of devotion.

His palms smoothed over her shoulders.

Her arms.

Her chest—lingering there for a moment longer, fingers gliding over her breasts with a kind of worship that had her biting her lip.

Then down to her ribs, her hips.

He turned her slightly to face him, hand bracing her back, and ran the soap down her thighs.

“You’re spoiling me,” she whispered.

Harry gave her a look that was almost a smile. “I plan on making it a habit.”

By the time he rinsed the last of the suds from her skin, the water had gone warm again, but they both knew it was time to get out.

He stood first.

Taller than she expected, broader when wet—his hair curling, water running down the planes of his chest, dripping from the soft patch of hair beneath his navel.

She stared.

He noticed.

But didn’t say anything.

He just grabbed a towel and wrapped her in it the moment she stepped out, like she was something to protect. Something to keep warm. He dried her slowly, carefully patting her down, not rubbing. Like touching her too roughly would wake him from a dream.

He even knelt to dry her legs.

Pressed a kiss to her shin when he reached it.

And then—

He dried her hair.

Used a second towel for it.

Ran his fingers through the tangled strands, gentle and quiet, humming low in his throat as he worked through a knot.

Once she was dry, he dressed her again.

A new shirt from his drawer. Soft cotton, worn in, probably older than her.

Then another pair of his sweats, these ones even looser than the last, tied with a ribboned knot at the front.

She laughed when he stepped into his own pair of briefs, then a fresh pair of joggers and a long sleeved shirt that still looked vaguely custom made.

“You look like a dad,” she teased.

He smirked. “You’re lucky I didn’t wear the robe.”

“You mean my robe.”

“Touché.”

He didn’t stop there.

He brushed her hair.

Actually brushed it.

Sat her down on the edge of the bed and carefully, slowly, began detangling the strands with his wide toothed comb before switching to a brush. Then—almost shyly—he began braiding.

It wasn’t perfect.

A little messy.

But it was so absurdly, painfully tender she nearly cried.

“I’m not used to this,” she admitted quietly.

Harry paused behind her. “Used to what?”

“Being… looked after.”

His hands stilled.

Then resumed the braid.

“You deserve it,” he said softly. “Whether you’re used to it or not.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

He tied off the end of the braid with a twist tie and kissed the back of her head.

They climbed into bed again, the sheets warm from earlier.

Harry pressed a button on the wall.

With a low mechanical hum, a flat screen TV descended slowly from the ceiling, positioning itself at the perfect angle for lazy watching in bed.

Her eyes widened. “Okay, that’s ridiculous.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s convenient.”

She snorted. “It’s dystopian.”

He handed her the remote. “Pick something.”

“You’re not gonna pick?”

“I don’t watch much TV.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re one of those people.”

He smirked. “I prefer books.”

“But not art,” she teased, climbing under the comforter beside him.

“Let it go.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she spent the next twenty minutes scrolling through every streaming service he had—which was all of them—looking at show after show, movie after movie, never landing on one.

Harry just watched her.

Watched the way her eyes lit up when she saw a trailer for a horror movie, or the way her nose scrunched when a rom-com looked too cheesy.

Watched the way she pulled the blanket higher up her body, cold toes pressing into his calves like she’d been doing it for years.

Eventually—

Her stomach growled.

Audibly.

Harry lifted a brow.

“I heard that.”

She groaned. “Shut up.”

“No. Let’s feed the creature.”

She laughed, sitting up as he grabbed his laptop from the bedside table.

“Okay,” he said, booting it up. “Tell me what you’re craving.”

“Something warm. Cheesy. But not pizza.”

“Pasta?”

“...Don’t say it like that.”

“You want pasta,” he grinned.

“No, I—”

He turned the screen toward her, scrolling through a restaurant’s online menu. Sleek. Minimalist.

Then they saw it.

A photo of handmade tagliatelle with truffle cream sauce, cracked pepper, and parmesan.

Her stomach growled again.

Harry didn’t even blink.

He clicked Add to cart.

“Wait—what if I wanted something else?”

He scrolled down. “You hesitated.”

She scowled. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re hungry.”

He added garlic bread, a side of grilled broccolini, and a second pasta—this one with short rib ragu.

Then glanced up at her.

“What?”

He smirked. “I like seeing you full.”

“Jesus.”

“What? You ate nothing last night after a ten-hour shift.”

She didn’t argue.

Just watched him complete the order and close the laptop.

Then she leaned into him, curling up beneath his arm, cheek pressed to his chest.

And for a long, perfect moment, neither of them spoke.

The TV glowed.

The heater hummed.

And Harry held her like he was holding onto something he hadn’t even known he needed.

Not until now.

Not until her.

That thought—quiet but thunderous—was still echoing through Harry’s chest when his phone vibrated sharply on the nightstand.

He groaned, shifting slightly so as not to wake her completely. Her cheek was still pressed to his chest, lips parted, breath steady. Her braid had unraveled slightly, a few strands curled against her temple.

Harry wanted to ignore the phone.

Wanted to stay in bed with her, wanted this ridiculous little bubble they’d built between the sheets to last just a little longer.

But the vibration didn’t stop.

Persistent.

Insistent.

He sighed, grabbed the phone, and answered in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

The voice on the other end belonged to Greg, the front desk concierge. Greg never called unless it was serious.

“Mr. Castillo, I’m really sorry to bother you, sir, but…there’s a bit of confusion in the lobby.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “What kind of confusion?”

“Well, a delivery driver is here with food—says it’s for you—but security wouldn’t let him up. You, um…don’t usually order things yourself.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Sir, you’ve never ordered food before. We weren’t sure if it was a prank or some kind of breach of privacy, especially with everything that happened with Ms. Lucy—”

He closed his eyes, jaw tensing. “Greg.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I ordered the food.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then—

“You…did?”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Yes.”

Another pause. “Should I allow it up then?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down at her—still curled up against him, starting to stir now. Her lashes fluttered, brows twitching at the edge of sleep.

“No,” he said, slipping out from beneath her slowly. “Tell him I’ll be down.”

“You’re coming downstairs?”

“Yes. I’m coming downstairs.”

“Sir, are you—feeling well?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Goodbye, Greg.”

He ended the call and reached for a hoodie, pulling it over his head. Then he turned to the bed where she was blinking up at him, sleep laced and adorably confused.

“What’s happening?”

Harry leaned down and kissed her nose. “Apparently I shocked the entire building by ordering pasta.”

She frowned. “What?”

“They think it’s a trap.”

She blinked. “Is it?”

He grinned. “Only if they’re trying to poison us with truffle cream.”

She snorted, sitting up and stretching her arms above her head. “You’re going downstairs to get it?”

He nodded. “Want to come with me?”

She squinted. “Into society?”

“You can stay here.”

She yawned, slipping out of bed and reaching for her coat. “No, if you’re dragging yourself into public, I want to see it.”

The elevator ride was silent.

Harry stood beside her in his hoodie and joggers, hair still slightly damp from the bath. She looked equally undone—barefaced, his clothes swallowing her whole, socks mismatched. Together they looked like two people who'd spent the entire day in bed.

Which they had.

When the doors slid open, the entire lobby paused.

The desk concierge, the doorman, a security guard, and the delivery driver all turned to look at them.

It was the doorman, though—Lance—who looked the most shell shocked.

“Mr. Castillo,” he said slowly, as if confirming Harry was real. “You…came down.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what happens when you don’t let the driver up.”

Lance’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Harry. There was something hesitant in his expression. A flicker of confusion. Disbelief.

And then—

Recognition.

The wrong kind.

Harry saw it before it could settle on Lance’s face.

The comparison.

Lucy.

She wasn’t Lucy.

The girl beside him wasn’t perfectly polished. She wasn’t in heels. She wasn’t the kind of arm candy expected on a man like Harry Castillo.

She was real.

And Harry stood closer to her.

Not the way he used to stand next to Lucy—half turned away, distracted, scanning the room for exit strategies.

No.

He was grounded.

Present.

Protective.

Her shoulder brushed his hoodie.

The delivery driver fumbled to hand over the bag. “Uh—two pastas and a broccolini side?”

Harry took it with one hand, nodding. “Thank you.”

He handed the man a tip in cash, despite the man’s hands shaking slightly. “Appreciate it.”

And just when they were turning to leave—

Click.

Harry’s head snapped up.

A camera flash.

A woman in the corner of the lobby had her phone out. Her body was angled perfectly for a stealth shot. She wasn’t staff. Wasn’t a resident either. A visitor, maybe.

Harry’s hand was still holding the bag—but her hand was now clenching his.

Tight.

He looked down.

She was frozen.

Eyes wide.

Breath caught in her chest.

Fuck.

She was panicking—but silently. Internally. He could see it in the way her fingers trembled around his, how she didn’t say a word, didn’t even blink.

His jaw locked.

“Stay here,” he said, already stepping away.

She blinked. “Harry—”

But he was already moving.

The woman had turned, phone raised to her ear.

“I just got a shot of Harry Castillo with a woman who is not Lucy. Yes. At his building. No, she’s not famous. She’s wearing his clothes—yes, I swear—”

Harry stopped in front of her, voice low and lethal.

“Delete it.”

She jumped.

Spun around.

Eyes wide.

“Mr. Castillo, I—”

“Now.”

She hesitated. “I’m with the New York Times, and this is—”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re with God himself.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened like a blade. “You don’t get to blindside someone in their home.”

“It’s a public lobby—”

“She didn’t consent to a photo.”

The reporter’s mouth opened, ready with another rebuttal.

But Harry took a step forward.

And that was enough.

She swallowed.

Flinched slightly.

And unlocked her phone.

“Deleted,” she said. “Happy?”

Harry stared at her for a beat too long.

Then, with a voice that could’ve frozen fire, he added, “If I see that image anywhere, you’ll be dealing with more than just my legal team.”

He turned.

Walked back.

She was still standing near the front desk, arms crossed, her face blank—but her body was tense.

Harry reached her and slid a hand behind her back, guiding her gently toward the elevator.

“Hey,” he said softly, once the doors closed. “You okay?”

She nodded once. Then again. “Yeah. I just—I don’t like that.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s over. She won’t use it.”

She let out a shaky breath. “It just... caught me off guard.”

“I know.”

He reached down and laced their fingers again.

And this time, she squeezed back.

But it wasn’t just a squeeze.

Not really.

It was a silent plea.

A question.

A trembling whisper beneath the surface that she wasn’t sure how to say aloud. Not yet.

Harry felt it.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t speak again until they were back in the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind them like the city hadn’t just clawed a piece of her peace away.

She looked down at her hands—still curled inside the sleeves of his hoodie, fingers stiff from tension.

Harry reached out.

Softly.

Gently.

His knuckles brushed hers, then slid up until he could curl his entire hand around hers again. He squeezed once. Then again.

She stayed quiet.

“Darlin',” he said softly, voice a low hum. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head.

Not in a “no”—but in a not yet.

He gave her that.

The elevator rose in silence.

When they reached the penthouse and stepped inside, she walked ahead of him for the first time all night. Straight toward the bedroom. Not angry. Not retreating. Just… needing a moment.

Harry set the food down on the kitchen counter, then followed. Not too close. Just enough to be there if she needed him.

When he reached the doorframe, she was sitting at the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.

“People are going to know who I am now,” she murmured.

Harry stepped in. Slow. “No one knows anything yet. That photo’s gone.”

She looked up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted slightly in frustration—or maybe something deeper.

“You can’t control everything, Harry.”

“I can try,” he said, and meant it.

That made her smile. Barely.

But it didn’t last.

Her eyes flicked away.

Then back.

And finally—

“Am I a rebound?”

His chest went still.

It was a whisper. So quiet he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been standing close enough to hear her heartbeat.

But he heard it.

And it hit him harder than any camera flash ever could.

He moved, then.

Sat down beside her.

Not touching her yet. Just there.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

Because she felt his presence in every inch of the room. His heat. His attention. His silence.

“I’m not going to insult you by pretending Lucy doesn’t exist,” he said, after a long beat.

She closed her eyes.

“I loved her. I thought I was going to marry her.”

Her jaw tightened, just slightly.

“But,” Harry continued, turning now—really turning—to face her, “Lucy never saw me.”

She blinked.

He went on, voice softer now.

“She saw what I represented. A future. Money. Control. She saw the suit, not the man wearing it.”

“You’re saying I see you?” she said quietly.

Harry leaned forward.

Rested his elbows on his knees. Hands clasped between them.

“You talked back to me on the steps of the Met. You rolled your eyes at me in front of a crowd. You wear my clothes and steal my socks and talk with your mouth full and look at me like I’m not this...billionaire asshole people tiptoe around.”

He turned his head, eyes locking with hers.

“You see me.”

She stared at him.

And Harry did something she wasn’t expecting.

He got up.

Walked out of the room.

She frowned.

Then—

He returned with the food bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Two glasses balanced between his fingers.

Without a word, he kicked off his shoes, set everything on the nightstand, and began unpacking the food.

He didn’t ask if she was hungry.

He didn’t make her talk again.

He just uncorked the wine, poured two glasses, handed her one, and slid the tray of pasta between them as he crawled up onto the bed.

“I’m gonna feed you now,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m annoying like that,” he smirked, twirling a forkful of pasta and holding it out.

She hesitated.

Then took the bite.

Exactly what she needed.

She moaned—again—and Harry closed his eyes.

“Every time,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “What?”

“Every time you make that noise, I forget how to breathe.”

She flushed, biting her lip as he twirled another forkful and offered it to her.

“I can feed myself,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he said. “But let me.”

So she let him.

They sat cross legged on the bed, plates balanced between them, their bodies pressed close. He fed her bites of tagliatelle and broccolini, offering sips of wine in between.

She fed him too.

Not as neatly.

At one point, a strand of pasta landed on his chest.

“Oops,” she said, completely unbothered.

Harry looked down, then grinned. “You did that on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said sweetly.

He leaned in.

Nose brushing hers.

Voice soft.

“I’d let you ruin every shirt I own.”

She stilled.

Harry reached for her hand again, thumb brushing the back of it slowly.

“Everything about this is new,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t know what we are yet. But I know how I feel when I look at you. I know what it meant when you walked downstairs with me. When you reached for my hand.”

She didn’t answer.

So he kept going.

“I’m not looking for a rebound,” he said. “I’m looking at the first person in years who makes me feel like I might want to start over.”

A pause.

“Not to get over Lucy. But to get to you.”

Her heart cracked open.

Just a little.

Just enough.

She leaned forward.

Kissed him.

Not rushed.

Not passionate.

Just…present.

Like she was finally meeting him at the edge of something real.

While across state lines...

Lucy wanted peonies.

Specifically, pale pink ones with feathered petals, soft enough to match the shade of the bridesmaids’ dresses she had not yet chosen and delicate enough to photograph well against the backdrop of a Cape Cod marina wedding.

She did not want roses.

“I think the peonies say soft luxury,” she said, flipping her hair behind her ear with just the right amount of dismissiveness, “and the roses feel…desperate.”

“Babe, roses are literally the symbol of love,” John offered, dragging a finger across a glossy floral mood board.

Lucy shot him a look like he’d just offered to serve frozen shrimp cocktail at their rehearsal dinner.

“They’re pedestrian, John.”

John blinked. “I—I like shrimp cocktail.”

The florist, a woman named Erika with a clipboard made of anxiety, smiled nervously and cleared her throat. “We can source the peonies, but they’re out of season, so it would be—uh—an elevated price point.”

Lucy raised a brow. “Elevated how?”

“Per stem?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty-three.”

Lucy smiled tightly. “That’s fine.”

John coughed. “Per stem?” He turned to the florist, switching into what Lucy privately called his humble bartering voice, which made her want to evaporate into a vase. “Hey, is there like… a bundle option or—”

Erika blinked. “A bundle…?”

“Yeah, like if we get a bunch of peonies, can we do, I don’t know, like...a florist’s dozen?”

Lucy closed her eyes.

Jesus Christ.

She could feel the blood drain from her face.

Erika glanced toward Lucy like you invited this man into your life. 

Lucy inhaled sharply. “Excuse me. I need to take this.”

Her phone was vibrating in her lap.

CARRIE ROTH flashing across the screen in smug little letters.

Carrie had always been one of those women who smelled like Diptyque and journalistic chaos. They met during a Vogue hosted gala in Manhattan seven years ago and bonded over a shared hatred for mutual acquaintances. Since then, Carrie had moved to The New York Times , Lucy had moved to Boston, and the friendship had dulled into one of those semi-occasional connections fueled by gossip, envy, and transactional curiosity.

She stepped out into the hallway of the floral studio, smoothing down her coat.

“Carrie,” Lucy answered, voice clipped. “Kind of in the middle of something.”

“Well,” Carrie said, tone syrupy, “then this won’t take long.”

Lucy sighed. “What?”

There was a pause.

And then—

“I saw him.”

Lucy froze.

“…Him?”

“Don’t make me say his name, it’ll make you twitch.”

Lucy’s jaw tightened. “Harry.”

“Harry fucking Castillo,” Carrie confirmed, practically purring. “I saw him in the flesh, at his building, and babe he wasn’t alone.”

Lucy’s stomach turned.

She stayed quiet.

Carrie went on, delighted.

“He was with a woman. ”

Another pause.

And then—

“She was wearing his clothes.”

Lucy felt something sharp twist in her chest.

She exhaled through her nose. “So? He’s allowed to date.”

Carrie hummed. “Sure, yeah. Absolutely. But don’t you think it’s a little soon?”

“He’s not mine anymore.”

“Oh please, don’t be noble. You were supposed to marry him. This is fascinating.”

Lucy’s throat felt tight.

She hated the way her skin prickled. Hated the flicker of something ugly curling in her chest. Not jealousy. Not really. Just…the unfamiliar discomfort of knowing Harry wasn’t still pining. Of realizing he might be okay.

And she wasn’t ready for that.

“Did you take a photo?” she asked, already regretting the question.

“I did,” Carrie chirped. “He made me delete it.”

Lucy blinked. “He what? ”

“Marched across the lobby and threatened me with a lawsuit unless I wiped it. It was hot, honestly. He had his hand around her back like she was something worth protecting.”

Lucy’s stomach flipped.

She swallowed. “So…you don’t have it?”

“Oh honey,” Carrie laughed. “Please. This is me. I AirDropped it to my editor before he even reached me.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“I’m writing a piece.”

Lucy’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

Carrie was already rolling.

“It’s about Harry. About how the most untouchable man in New York is suddenly—poof—off the market again. The mystery girl, the penthouse delivery  incident, the whole ‘is this a real relationship or a well timed distraction’ angle. I’m thinking Castillo’s Comeback! A Billionaire’s Return to Romance. What do we think?”

“I think it’s tacky.”

Carrie laughed. “That’s why I called. I want a quote.”

Lucy blinked. “You want me to give you a quote? For an article about my ex and his replacement?”

“Well when you put it like that…”

“Jesus, Carrie.”

“Come on. Just one line. It’ll make the piece.”

Lucy opened her mouth. Then shut it.

Carrie waited.

“Well?” she pressed.

Lucy stared out the window of the hallway. At the crisp Boston afternoon sun spilling through the panes. At the rows of orchids dying in a glass case nearby. At the reflection of herself—still elegant, still perfectly poised, but not untouched.

And for the first time, she realized she might’ve miscalculated.

She thought Harry would wait.

She thought he’d hurt longer.

Lucy swallowed.

Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke.

“I’ll give you a quote.”

Carrie perked up. “Go on.”

“But it has to be anonymous.”

A beat.

Then—

Carrie practically purred, “Off the record attribution, got it.”

Lucy exhaled slowly.

“She won’t last.”

Carrie chuckled. “Ooh.”

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it.”

“Mm.”

“She’ll realize eventually,” Lucy said, mouth flat, voice sharper now. “It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Carrie’s smile was audible. “So…source close to the ex?”

“Make it sound smarter.”

Carrie grinned. “Done.”

Then the line clicked off.

Lucy stood frozen in the hallway, phone still pressed to her cheek.

Behind her, John called out from the showroom.

“Babe? Do you think if I offer to DJ the wedding myself we can get the deposit waived?”

Lucy didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

She just stood there—

Still.

Silent.

And suddenly not so sure that leaving Harry Castillo had been the power move she once believed it to be.

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---

hi 🥺🫶 i’m so glad someone’s doing p! links for the pitt bc i’ve held onto this robby link for so long:

https://x.com/rpr_media/status/1914741207751864672?s=46&t=7aQuMvdaUtQt4ngy65b9dw

tell me why it looks exactly like him 😭

(LINK) oooh my god. wtf IT DOESSS

"keep takin' it for me, sweetheart" he grunts just below your ear, tongue slinking out to taste your skin. "doin' so good–fuck. doin' so good for me."

you can only suck in a few gasps as robby drives into you. your hands touch again his stomach and that's all you let them do. the last time you're body tried to push him away, the weight of his cock filling you endlessly, all robby did was pin your wrists and fuck you harder.

"f-fu..."

your mouth can't even finish the curse that spills out, throat tightening with a silent scream when robby deepens his thrust. you jolt as his body smacks into yours, mind numbing with a fuzz that melts you into the mattress.

"love you like this," robby coos, accidentally drooling onto your shoulder. "letting me cream you nice and deep. you want me to fill you up, angel? yeah? gonna let me fill you to the fuckin' brim since you being so good for me?"

the only thing your body allows is a whimpering nod, and robby accepts it with a sputtering of his hips. thrusts growing sloppy, the man sounds off with a tumble of groans that almost sound like your name.

you pulse around robby, the hot of his load spilling inside you tugging across another peak of your own. your hole floods with a mixture of the two of you, and you know there's no need to worry about how much of a mess it's causing you to leak–robby'll just lick you clean once you find the mind to release him from your fervid grip.

© whoregana

bette davis eyes (2)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 9.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry Castillo still didn’t know her name.

And it was driving him insane.

It had been three days.

Three days since he sat on the steps of The Met, seething over Lucy’s engagement only to stumble into a conversation with the most aggravating woman he had ever met.

Three days since she stepped out of his car.

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

He had taken it as a challenge.

Of course he did.

He had spent years making impossible things happen. He had turned himself into one of the richest hedge fund managers in the country. He dictated the movement of money on Wall Street with a flick of his wrist. People waited months to get a meeting with him.

When he wanted something, he got it.

But he still didn’t know her goddamn name.

He had spent hours.

Hours, going through his friends’ Instagram followings, convinced that she had to be in there somewhere. She had been outside that party on those steps. That meant she knew someone.

Right?

Wrong.

Instead, all he got was accidentally following half a dozen people he didn’t even like and no clue how to unfollow them.

"You could just Google it," Danny had suggested, watching as Harry scrolled through Instagram with the confusion of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I shouldn’t have to Google basic fucking technology," Harry snapped.

Danny had just laughed. "This is why Lucy did everything for you."

Lucy.

Right.

Harry shut his phone off and tossed it onto the table like it had personally offended him.

He needed to let this go.

She was just a stranger.

A nobody.

But...

She wasn’t.

She was somebody, at least to him. Someone who had looked at him like he wasn’t some billionaire hedge fund manager but just a man sitting on the steps of The Met, sulking about his ex.

And that was risky.

Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know more.

She was balancing a tray when she spotted him.

Harry Castillo.

Sitting at the corner of the high end Manhattan restaurant she was currently serving at, looking like he would rather die than be here.

Her grip on the tray tightened. No fucking way.

She had spent the last three days assuming she would never see him again.

Rich men didn’t go looking for strangers they met outside of parties. Not unless they had some weird obsession or a savior complex. And he didn’t seem like the type.

Yet, here he was.

Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Brooding like the miserable, wealthy asshole she suspected he was.

And worst of all—he didn’t see her.

Not yet.

She had to get out of here before he did.

Her name tag was visible.

If he saw it, if he recognized her—

"Table six, go," her manager barked, pointing toward the very table Harry was sitting at.

Fuck.

She briefly considered quitting her job on the spot. Just throwing her apron at the nearest wall and storming out.

But unfortunately, she had rent to pay.

So with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the tray tighter, and walked straight toward him.

Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the menu. Not to his surroundings.

His mind was still back in his office, replaying every attempt he had made to find her.

And failing.

His phone buzzed. Another news notification. Probably some article about the market or a New York Times op-ed about billionaires ruining the economy. He didn’t care.

Then—

A shadow passed over him.

Someone setting a drink down.

And before he even looked up—before his brain even processed it—he heard her voice.

“Whiskey neat.”

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And there she was.

Standing right in front of him.

His breath hitched.

Her.

Her.

His eyes flicked to her name tag, sharp and laser focused.

Finally.

She saw where he was looking and immediately reached for it, ripping the tag off with a sharp tug before shoving it into her pocket.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head.

His lips twitched.

“Afraid?”

“Of you?” She snorted, shifting the tray in her hands. “Not even a little.”

He exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“You work here.”

She raised a brow. “Clearly.”

“You were at the Met party.”

“I was working the Met party.”

Realization dawned.

She wasn’t a guest. She wasn’t friends with anyone there.

She was a server.

A server.

Harry’s fingers tapped against the edge of his glass.

He didn’t know why that made something settle inside him. Maybe because it explained why she hadn’t given a shit about who he was. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t part of his world, wasn’t another socialite or heiress looking for an investment banker to marry.

Maybe because it meant that night was real.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes lifted to hers.

She was smirking.

She was amused.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Well. Now you found me.”

He studied her.

The restaurant bustled around them. The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the scent of expensive wine and seared steak filling the air.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, watching him like he was the one on display.

He reached for his drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip.

Then—

“Have dinner with me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed.

Again.

Like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

Again.

“You really don’t like being told no, huh?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not an answer.”

She tilted her head. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Take off my apron and sit down at your table? I’m working, Castillo.”

The way she said his name made something tighten in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then when do you get off?”

Her lips twitched.

“You gonna wait here all night?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the restaurant wall before settling back on him.

“I’m off in an hour.” She turned, already walking away. “Let’s see if you’re still here by then.”

He watched her go.

Watched as she weaved through tables, balancing drinks, chatting with customers, completely at ease.

And for the first time in three days—

He felt at ease.

Because this time, she wasn’t getting away.

Harry wasn’t a patient man.

He had built an empire on control, on precision, on the ability to anticipate movements before they happened. That was how he stayed ahead, how he won.

Yet here he was, sitting at a table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant waiting for a woman who barely spared him a second glance.

A woman whose name he still didn’t know.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching as she moved effortlessly through the restaurant.

She was good at her job.

Efficient, quick on her feet, balancing trays with ease.

And she smiled at customers.

Not the way she had smirked at him earlier. Not with that sharp edged amusement that made something itch beneath his skin.

No, these smiles were polite. Professional. A little forced, maybe, but nothing that suggested she was even remotely bothered by his presence.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

Because he was bothered.

She had been stuck in his head for three days.

And here she was, acting like their encounter meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

It was infuriating.

And intriguing.

And maybe—just maybe—exactly what he needed.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass.

An hour.

He could wait an hour.

Hell, he had waited longer for board meetings that didn’t even matter.

So he settled in.

And watched.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze followed her everywhere.

She ignored it.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Because if she acknowledged it, if she met his gaze, if she let herself wonder why he was still sitting there—then she would have to admit that she cared.

And she didn’t.

Not really.

Not about Harry Castillo.

Not about his perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark eyes followed her every movement like she was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

Not about the way her heart had kicked up just a little when she realized he had actually been looking for her.

Nope.

Didn’t care.

Not at all.

She refilled a wine glass at table twelve, smiled at a group of finance bros who didn’t deserve it, dodged her coworker carrying a tray of desserts, and did not look at the man still sitting at table six.

But she could feel him.

And it was driving her crazy.

Harry was losing his mind.

Every time she passed his table without sparing him a glance, something inside him tightened.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t wait for people.

People waited for him.

He could leave right now. Get up, walk out, and be done with this whole thing.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she had said one hour.

And he was going to make sure she kept her word.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Danny.

Danny: Why are you ignoring my texts?

Danny: Did you figure out how to unfollow people yet or are you still stuck?

Danny: Are you seriously still looking for that girl?

Danny: …You are, aren’t you?

Danny: I hate you.

Danny: Text me when you’re done being pathetic.

Harry rolled his eyes and slid his phone facedown on the table.

The hour crawled by.

And then—

Finally—

She walked back toward his table.

Apron off. Jacket on. Bag slung over one shoulder.

Her shift was over.

And Harry sat up a little straighter.

“You actually waited.”

She didn’t sound surprised.

More amused.

Like she had expected him to wait but still found it funny.

He lifted a brow. “You said an hour.”

“And you’re a man who listens?”

“I can be.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Dangerous skill.”

Harry smirked. “You have no idea.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a no.

Wasn’t a go home, Castillo.

It was something else.

Something better.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So?”

“So.”

“What now?”

Harry exhaled, watching her carefully.

She was testing him.

Waiting to see if he was serious.

If he was worth the trouble.

And Harry Castillo never backed down from a challenge.

“Dinner,” he said simply.

She arched a brow. “You just ate.”

“You were working. I don’t eat alone.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s a dumb rule.”

He shrugged. “It’s my rule.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then—

“Fine.”

A single word.

But it sent something sharp and victorious rushing through his chest.

He stood, pulling a few crisp hundreds from his wallet and tossing them onto the table without a second glance.

She eyed the money but didn’t say anything.

Just turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Harry followed.

The wind cut sharp against his skin as they stepped out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the world around them alive with the hum of the city at night. A taxi honked a block away, a couple laughed as they passed, and the crisp scent of winter curled into the air.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

Harry didn’t shiver.

He barely felt the cold.

His eyes flicked toward her, noting the way she huddled into herself slightly, as if suddenly self conscious. She had been confident inside the restaurant sharp, unbothered, teasing—but now, beneath the glow of the streetlights, something in her had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna tell you that?”

His jaw twitched.

She was impossible.

And yet, somehow, he found himself waiting for her answer anyway.

She sighed, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just…I just got off a shift. I’m not exactly dressed for whatever expensive place you’re about to drag me to.”

Harry blinked.

Then looked her over.

Dark jeans. A fitted black sweater. Scuffed up ballet flats.

She looked fine.

Better than fine.

She looked real.

She looked like her.

And that, he realized, was the problem.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Didn’t fit into the mold of women he was usually seen with.

She wasn’t draped in designer. She didn’t have a last name people recognized. She didn’t float through life with the quiet, effortless privilege of someone born into money.

But she was still the most interesting person he had met in years.

And that was dangerous.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t care.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes searched his, looking for—what? Lies? Pity? Some hidden agenda?

She wouldn’t find any of those.

He had none to give.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Are you hungry or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just worked a ten hour shift. What do you think?”

His lips twitched.

Without another word, he turned and started walking.

And after a beat—she followed.

To her surprise, Harry didn’t take her somewhere suffocatingly high end.

No pretentious Michelin starred establishment. No reservations only steakhouse with white tablecloths and chandeliers worth more than her apartment.

God, her roommate was in for a treat when she gets home.

Instead, they ended up at a cozy, tucked away bistro on a quiet side street. The kind of place that didn’t have a dress code. The kind of place where people actually talked instead of posing for Instagram photos.

She narrowed her eyes as she followed him inside. “How do you even know about a place like this?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for her like some old fashioned gentleman and waited for her to sit.

She hesitated, lips twitching in amusement. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He ignored that too.

She sat.

He took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost instantly.

Harry ordered whiskey.

She ordered a glass of wine.

She knew her wine, he'll give her that.

And then—for the first time since they met—there was silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

But silence nonetheless.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Harry was hard to read.

Brooding. Intense. Reserved.

The kind of man who looked like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head but no intention of saying any of them out loud.

The kind of man who could crush someone with a single, well calculated decision in his office during the day and then sit across from her in a dimly lit restaurant at night like none of it mattered.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “So, are you gonna ask me anything? Or are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other?”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t care about the answers to.”

She blinked.

Then huffed out a small laugh. “Jesus. You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass, studying the way she moved.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

She started talking first.

Not because he asked.

But because she wanted to.

“So, what do you think I do?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

Harry took a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re a server.”

She smirked. “Wow. Good job, detective.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not a real question.”

“Fine. How long have I been doing it?”

He studied her.

Noticed the way she held herself, the way she had moved through the restaurant earlier, the way she hadn’t hesitated when her manager snapped at her.

“Years,” he said simply.

Her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Since I was nineteen.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Something he didn’t understand.

Didn’t push.

But still—he noticed.

She exhaled, rolling her wine glass between her fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Harry’s fingers drummed against the table. “It never is.”

She lifted a brow. “You say that like you know.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

But he didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the nights he spent as a kid listening to his mother cry in the next room because she didn’t have the money for rent.

Didn’t talk about how she had worked three jobs just to keep food on the table.

Didn’t talk about how she got sick.

How the bills stacked up.

How money would have saved her.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He never did.

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure him out.

Then she leaned back in her chair, lips curling slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Harry exhaled. “Not if I can help it.”

She grinned. “Well, lucky for you, I talk enough for the both of us.”

And she did.

She told him about the worst customers she’d ever had. The ridiculous things people asked for at restaurants. The way rich men treated servers like they were invisible.

She didn’t include him in that category.

And for some reason, that mattered.

She laughed at her own stories.

Harry didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

More than he should have.

More than he ever did.

She didn’t push him to share.

Didn’t ask him about his life, his money, his past.

She just talked.

And it was the first time in a long time that Harry didn’t mind someone filling the silence.

When their food came, she didn’t pick at it like the women he usually dined with.

She ate.

Finished her entire burger.

Made a satisfied noise as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry’s lips twitched. He wanted to smile. But he didn't.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was late.

The air was even colder now, the city quieter.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Alright, big shot. Where’s your driver?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the street.

James was waiting, parked at the curb.

But for some reason—

For some stupid reason—

He didn’t want the night to end yet.

So instead of answering, he met her gaze.

And said, “Let’s walk.”

She blinked.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

And just like that—

Harry Castillo found himself walking through the city with a woman he barely knew.

And, for once, he didn’t hate it.

The streets of Manhattan were quieter at this hour.

The usual chaos—the honking taxis, the chatter of impatient pedestrians, the ever present hum of a city that never slept had settled into something softer. The streetlights cast golden pools of light on the pavement and every now and then, a stray gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

She walked beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her unhurried.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

She was talking again, the words flowing effortlessly, her voice filling the quiet space between them like it belonged there.

“I don’t know how people live alone in this city,” she mused, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, sure if you’re a billionaire hedge fund guy, then yeah, easy. But for the rest of us mortals? Forget it.”

Harry glanced at her. “So you have a roommate.”

She huffed out a small laugh. “More like a personal angel disguised as a roommate.”

His brow lifted slightly.

She kicked a small pebble across the pavement as they walked. “Her name’s Maya and she’s the only reason I can even afford to be in New York. She’s an artist—one of those ridiculously talented people who’s always sketching on napkins or leaving paint stains on everything.”

Harry hummed, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “And she sells her work?”

“Oh, yeah. To people like you,” she teased, smirking up at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Like me?”

She shrugged. “Rich. Intimidating. Definitely the type to spend five grand on a painting because some gallery curator convinced you it was ‘evocative of the human condition.’”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something just short of a laugh. “I don’t buy art.”

She gave him a pointed look. “So you just have blank walls in your penthouse?”

He hesitated.

She gasped, dramatic. “Oh my God, you do!”

His jaw twitched. “I don’t see the point.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “That is actually the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Maya sounds lucky to have you as her publicist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not her publicist. Just her number one fan. And her unpaid assistant, apparently, because every time she has a gallery showing, I end up playing bartender.”

“You work events for her?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, I mean... I don’t want to be useless.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “You’re not useless.”

She blinked up at him, something flickering behind her expression like maybe she wasn’t used to hearing that.

She recovered quickly, exhaling through her nose. “Try telling that to the people who snap their fingers at me when they want a refill.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that, about the idea of her being treated like she was nothing, about people looking past her like she didn’t matter.

That irritated him more than it should have.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he glanced over at her, taking her in.

Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind, strands curling around her face. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, casting a warm hue against her skin. She looked…

Gorgeous.

Pretty.

She caught him staring and arched a brow. “What?”

Harry looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”

She huffed a small laugh, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “You’re weird.”

“Good to know.”

She grinned but didn’t push it.

They kept walking.

They hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere, but when she spotted a small, hole in the wall coffee shop still open, she made a beeline for it.

Harry watched as she pressed her hands against the glass, peering inside like a kid outside a toy store.

She turned back to him, eyes bright. “I need something warm.”

Harry exhaled. “You could’ve just said that.”

She grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He sighed but followed her inside anyway.

The shop was small, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and fresh pastries. A tired looking barista was wiping down the counter, clearly ready to close up for the night but she bounced up to the register without hesitation.

“One hot chocolate, please.”

Harry stared. “Hot chocolate?”

She flashed him a look. “What?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Wow, ageism?” she gasped. “How very hedge fund of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hot chocolate is for children.”

She smirked. “And yet, I bet I’m gonna enjoy my drink way more than whatever depressing black coffee you’re about to order.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then turned to the barista.

“…Make it two.”

She lit up.

Not a smirk, not a teasing quip...just a genuine, unfiltered grin. “See? You’re not completely soulless after all.”

Harry huffed but said nothing.

They sat by the window, watching the street outside as their drinks cooled.

She took the first sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God."

Harry lifted a brow but took a sip of his own.

It was…warm. Smooth. A little too sweet.

Not terrible.

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup. “You love it.”

He set his cup down. “I tolerate it.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head.

He was lying.

But he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

By the time they finally made it to her place, it was late.

The entrance to her building was old but well kept, tucked into a quieter side street. The kind of place that probably had thin walls and a temperamental landlord.

She stopped at the door, turning to face him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You gonna be weird about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Weird about what?”

She smirked. “You look like the kind of guy who doesn’t walk a woman home unless he’s expecting to come up.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t—”

She grinned, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hilarious.”

She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “But hey…thanks. For dinner. And the hot chocolate.”

Harry held her gaze.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.

Like she hadn’t quite figured him out.

And that, somehow, made him want to see her again.

Before he could say anything, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

“You gonna try to find me again?”

His jaw tightened.

But his lips twitched.

“I already did once.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Then maybe next time, I’ll let you find out something about me.”

Harry exhaled.

He should have left.

Should have walked away.

But instead, he lingered just long enough to watch her disappear into the building, just long enough to hear her footsteps fade.

And then, finally—

He turned.

And walked away.

He still didn't get her name.

But he knew where to find her.

Harry had gone back to the restaurant.

But she wasn’t there.

Two days.

Two entire days of walking into that overpriced Manhattan restaurant, sitting at the same damn table, ordering the same damn whiskey neat, only for some random server—not her—to take his order.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t have her number.

Didn’t know anything except where she lived.

And that made something settle in his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.

Danny noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re sulking,” he said, lazily swirling his cocktail at their usual bar.

Harry scowled. “I don’t sulk.”

Danny smirked. “Right. You just glare at your drink like it owes you money.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then exhaled sharply. “She’s not at work.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Oh my God, you are sulking.”

Harry resisted the urge to throw his whiskey at him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and stared at her building’s address for the fiftieth time.

Danny sighed, tilting his head. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could—”

“I’m not hiring a private investigator,” Harry muttered.

Danny huffed. “I was gonna say Google it. Jesus, man.”

Harry scowled.

But he did Google it.

Or rather, he, Danny, and James—his driver, the only person in his life with more patience than a saint—spent two hours tracking down any lead they could.

It was a long, painful process.

But finally—Maya.

Maya Klein.

Her roommate.

Her best friend.

Her very online best friend.

It wasn’t hard to find her art portfolio.

Okay, maybe it was a little hard.

But after squinting through three different Instagram accounts, a Tumblr page, and a very outdated LinkedIn profile, they found it.

And in bold, clean font on her website—

GALLERY SHOWING TOMORROW.

TRIBECA

8PM-11PM

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his desk.

“She bartends for her friend’s events,” he murmured.

Danny’s brows lifted. “And you’re planning on showing up.”

Harry exhaled. “I want to see her again.”

Danny smirked. “Wow. You’re down bad.”

Harry ignored him.

He stuck out like a sore thumb the moment he stepped inside.

Danny, of course, fit right in. Already drifting off into the crowd, chatting up a woman in a fringed leather jacket holding a glass of something overpriced.

James had stayed outside, leaning against the Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers, avoiding any part of this ridiculous endeavor.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by people who clearly hated him.

The walls were filled with abstract pieces. Raw depictions of capitalism and greed, of money and power and the corruption that came with it.

A statement.

A big fuck you to billionaires.

A big fuck you to him.

And here he was—one of the richest men in the country—standing in the middle of it.

He definitely stuck out.

Eyes flickered toward him.

Some curious. Some amused.

But most?

Judgmental.

Harry sighed.

Danny was gonna love this.

He scanned the room.

And then—

He saw her.

Behind the bar.

Her hair pulled back in a clip, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly balancing bottles and glasses, moving like she had done this a million times.

His jaw unclenched.

Something settled inside him.

Something he didn’t have the time—or patience—to name.

He walked over.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until he was standing right in front of her.

Then—

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

Her fingers stilled over the cocktail shaker, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Then, slow and deliberate...

She smirked.

“You again.”

Harry exhaled. “Me again.”

She hummed, setting the shaker down. “Didn’t peg you for an art guy.”

“I’m not.”

Her smirk widened. “So you’re here for the free drinks?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

Her lips pressed together, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Then why are you here?”

Harry held her gaze.

And then—

She sighed, shaking her head.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?”

He exhaled. “You weren’t at work.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his hands against the bar. “I noticed.”

Her expression softened just for a second.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. “My legs gave out.”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It happens. I overworked myself too much. I needed a break.”

His fingers curled against the bar.

Harry didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the idea of her pushing herself until she physically collapsed.

Didn’t like the fact that she was still working tonight.

Didn’t like any of it.

She noticed.

“You’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

Harry exhaled sharply.

She smirked.

Then casually, she grabbed a napkin, scribbled something on it, and slid it across the bar.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

She smiled.

“My name.”

His fingers brushed the paper.

His jaw flexed.

Finally.

Finally.

Then—

Across the room, a conversation caught his ear.

Loud. Purposeful. Like it was meant for him to hear.

It definitely was meant for him to hear.

“I don’t understand how these people live with themselves.”

Harry’s fingers stilled.

He turned slightly, gaze narrowing at a group gathered near one of the paintings.

“They show up, throw their money around, act like they’re saving the industry when they’re the ones who ruined it in the first place.”

Another voice chimed in. “It’s capitalism at its finest.”

Harry exhaled through his nose.

Same conversation. Different setting.

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

He should have ignored it.

But then—

Then, he heard her.

Her voice.

Sharp. Defiant.

“You do realize the only reason these paintings are selling at all is because of the people you hate, right?”

Silence.

Harry blinked.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was facing them, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

The guy—some twenty-something in a turtleneck—sputtered. “That’s not the—”

“No, go ahead,” she said, tilting her head. “Explain to me how you think art survives without the rich. Who do you think is buying these paintings? Who do you think is keeping galleries open? I’ll wait.”

The group shifted uncomfortably.

Harry smirked.

The guy scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point?”

More silence.

She exhaled. “Look, I get it. The system’s fucked. But if you really hate capitalism so much then maybe don’t take a paycheck from a company that thrives on it.”

The guy’s face turned red.

Then, huffing, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Harry exhaled through his nose.

And when she turned back to him—

He was looking at her.

Really looking at her.

She raised a brow. “What?”

Harry’s jaw ticked.

Then, slow—steady—

He reached for the napkin with her name.

Folded it.

Slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

And, for the first time in months—

Harry Castillo smiled.

Actually let out a smile.

It was a rare thing. Unpracticed. A little uneven.

And it caught her off guard so much she forgot to breathe for a second.

That smile.

The real kind, not the smirk, not the polite billionaire press photo kind. It was all quiet softness and amusement, like a secret between the two of them. It was the kind of smile you could fall into if you weren’t careful.

“Wow,” she murmured, recovering. “You do know how to do that.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but he said nothing.

Typical.

The gallery began to thin out as the night wore on. Coats were retrieved from racks, the sound of shoes echoed across the polished concrete floor, and people began floating toward the exit in clumps, cheeks flushed from wine and conversations.

Harry stayed.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

He could’ve left after thirty minutes like most of the other well dressed nuts in the room. But something about the way she moved behind the bar—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, laughing quietly when Maya came over to whisper something in her ear—held him in place.

She kept sneaking glances at him too.

Never long. Never obvious.

But enough.

He stayed perched in a corner, away from the art critics and the performative intellectuals with their wine sick grins and disdain for everything they secretly wanted. He watched her wipe down glasses and stack them methodically, her body moving slower than usual now, more deliberate. Her energy was dwindling down.

She was tired.

Exhausted, actually.

He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was watching.

Around midnight, the final few stragglers filtered out. Maya was surrounded by compliments, champagne, and laughter as she waved people goodbye. She was magnetic.

But Harry’s focus was only on one person.

Her.

She was drying a wine glass with a rag that had seen better days when he approached the bar again.

“You’re still here?” she asked without looking up.

“I tend to see things through.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t sound exhausting at all.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the bar. A lemon ginger lozenge.

She stared at it. “What is this?”

“You’ve been clearing your throat for the last hour. Thought you might be getting sick.”

She blinked.

And then quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “You ready to go?”

She furrowed her brows. “Go?”

“You were going to walk home, weren’t you?”

“I—” She hesitated. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry—”

“Maya said she’s having people over.”

Her mouth opened. “She what?”

As if on cue, Maya bounced over, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “There you are! Just wanted to let you know we’re having a tiny get together back at the apartment. You’re coming, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah…totally.”

Maya beamed. “Perfect! I’ll see you there!” And just like that, she twirled away in her silk pants and heeled boots like a whirlwind of chaos and charm.

Harry looked at her, quiet.

“You don’t want to go,” he said plainly.

She paused. “No, I mean—I don’t mind—”

“You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It was. You’ve been on your feet all night and still managed to argue with an entire table of art anarchists without flinching.”

She blinked. “You were listening?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m observant.”

Something warm crept up her neck. “That’s actually…kind of sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Still is.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the door. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”

She looked at him carefully. "Okay." She nodded.

Harry smiled. “Come on.”

As they walked toward the exit, a low whistle echoed across the room.

“Ooooh, look who’s leaving together,” Danny called out, arm slung lazily around a girl wearing metallic eyeshadow and an alarming amount of lip gloss.

Harry cringed visibly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I planned on it,” she muttered, quickening her step.

Outside, James was leaning against the Maybach, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He straightened when he saw them. “Evening,” he said coolly, holding the door open without a single question.

Once inside the car, she leaned her head against the window, legs tucked beneath her. The car purred beneath them as it slid through the streets like a shadow.

“You always have a driver?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re just, like…getting groceries?”

Harry looked at her. “Do I look like I get groceries?”

She snorted. “Fair.”

He glanced at her again. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She paused. Her apartment would be loud. Crowded. Too many people, too much laughter, and she was tired.

Bone tired.

“I…wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t reply. Just gave James a nod. And James didn’t need to be told twice.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights flickered through the windows as they sped through Manhattan, the hum of the engine steady beneath them.

She was curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the cool glass, eyes flickering between exhaustion and quiet thought.

Harry didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He liked the silence with her.

When they finally pulled up to his building, James barely looked surprised. He simply put the car in park, gave Harry a knowing look and muttered, “Have a good night, sir.”

Harry ignored him.

She hesitated when the elevator doors opened, glancing up at him.

“You sure about this?” she murmured.

Harry met her gaze. “You need rest.”

She exhaled. “You’re really committed to this whole taking care of me thing, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just stepped into the elevator.

After a beat—she followed.

The penthouse was quiet when they entered.

It was huge.

Dimly lit, the skyline of Manhattan stretching out before them through the floor to ceiling windows. She looked around, taking in the sleek design, the impossibly neat kitchen, the pristine furniture.

Then—

“You really don’t have anything on the walls.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ve been over this.”

She smirked. “Still depressing.”

Harry ignored her, shrugging off his coat before turning to her.

“Go take a bath.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffed. “You need to relax.”

She scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been on your feet for how many hours straight. Worked so long your legs gave out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, pointedly, he turned and started walking toward the bathroom.

“What are you—”

“Follow me.”

Against her better judgment—she did.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious.

A massive tub sat beneath a soft glowing light, marble countertops lining the space. The air smelled faintly of something expensive, probably whatever soap billionaires used.

Harry turned on the water, letting the tub fill, steam curling into the air.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really think I’m about to take a bath?”

Harry gave her a look. “Yes.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

“Because you deserve to rest.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Soft. Unreadable.

Harry stepped back, nodding toward the tub. “Take your time.”

She hesitated.

Then—finally—sighed. “Fine.”

Harry nodded once before leaving the room.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the tub, at the ridiculous luxury of it all.

Then—she caught sight of the robe hanging by the sink.

A man’s robe.

His.

She swallowed.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the warm water letting the heat soak into her muscles, melting the exhaustion from her bones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

And then—

She caught the scent of something in the air.

His shampoo.

His body wash.

Without thinking, she reached for the bottle, pouring a small amount into her palm before lathering it into her hair.

She didn’t know why she did it.

Didn’t know why the idea of smelling like him made something tighten in her chest.

But she didn’t stop.

Not until the scent of Harry Castillo was wrapped around her.

The warmth from the bath had seeped into her bones, leaving her skin flushed, her limbs loose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt good.

Not just better—good.

Rested.

Weightless.

And wrapped in the scent of him.

She exhaled slowly, fingers dragging through her damp hair as she stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from her skin, soaking into the thick, plush bath mat beneath her feet.

She reached for the robe hanging by the door.

His robe.

It was heavy, rich, expensive fabric, meant for a man built like Harry.

She pulled it on anyway, wrapping herself in it, feeling swallowed whole by the warmth of something that belonged to him.

Something about that made her stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a way she could name.

She let her fingers toy with the fabric as she padded quietly out of the bathroom, stepping into the dim glow of his penthouse.

Harry was waiting.

Not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that was distinctly him.

His posture was casual, leaning against the back of his couch, one hand resting lightly on the armrest. He had changed, too—no longer in his suit jacket, just his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms, the carefully restrained tension in his body.

His gaze flickered over her, slow like he was taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

She knew what he saw.

Bare legs peeking out from beneath his robe. Damp hair curling against her collarbone. The softened edges of her normally sharp expression.

And for once—

For once, she let him look.

She watched his throat bob slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Come here.”

Her lips twitched. “Bossy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just waited.

She crossed the room, bare feet pressing against the smooth floor, stopping when she was just a few inches away.

Harry’s hands curled into fists against the couch for a second, like he was fighting the urge to touch her.

Then without a word he turned, disappearing into his bedroom.

She blinked, startled.

Then—

He came back.

With clothes.

A pair of sweatpants.

A plain black T-shirt.

Things that were clearly his, judging by the size of them.

He handed them to her, jaw tight. “Put these on.”

She took them, amused. “You actually own sweatpants?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in a tux.”

She grinned. “Shocking.”

He said nothing.

Just watched as she took the bundle of clothing and walked back toward the bathroom to change.

His sweatpants hung low on her hips, the waistband tied in a loose knot to keep them from slipping. The shirt was too big, drowning her frame, the fabric worn in and soft against her skin.

It felt like being wrapped in him.

Warmth lingered in the cotton, in the faint scent of his cologne. Something expensive.

She padded barefoot through the penthouse, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. The city glittered outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Everything about this place was so immaculate. So clean. So structured. It screamed of control—of a man who ruled his world with precision.

But the moment she entered it some of that control seemed to slip.

She could feel it in the way Harry watched her, the way his fingers twitched when she walked past him, as if resisting the urge to reach out and keep her close.

She stopped in front of the window, arms crossing over her chest, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “You can see everything from here.”

Harry was behind her, watching her quietly. “You like it?”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the skyline. “Yeah. But…”

His brow lifted slightly. “But?”

She hesitated. Then with a small teasing smirk, she turned to face him. “It’s kinda depressing that you live up here all alone.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

She huffed. “That’s what all lonely people say.”

His lips curved just slightly, something almost amused flickering behind his sharp gaze. “And you’re an expert on loneliness?”

She shrugged, moving closer, the fabric of his shirt swaying against her thighs. “I know what it looks like.”

Harry watched her approach, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And what do I look like?”

She tilted her head, scanning him playfully. “Like a very, very rich man who doesn’t know what to do with himself outside of work.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Accurate.”

She grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

For a moment they just stood there.

Him watching her.

Her watching him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was heavy. Charged.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her legs, to the way his sweatpants hung off her frame, the fabric pooling at her ankles. Then to the curve of her hip, the way his T-shirt stretched over her body, swallowing her whole.

Something deep and dangerous stirred in his chest.

She looked good like this.

Too good.

Her chin tilted up, eyes meeting his. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

His hand lifted, brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. His touch was light, barely there, but it made her breath catch.

His fingers trailed lower, down her jaw, grazing the edge of her throat.

She swallowed.

His voice was deep when he finally spoke. “I say what matters.”

Her lips parted slightly, something unspoken hanging between them.

She felt it before she realized what she was doing.

The way her body leaned into his.

The way his fingers skimmed over the fabric of his shirt against her skin, so close, yet still too far.

His touch was careful.

Like he was memorizing her.

She exhaled shakily. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over her hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

“I am.”

She blinked. “What?”

Harry’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing along the edge of his sweatpants on her frame. His voice was softer this time, almost dangerous.

“If I can control myself.”

Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her.

But suddenly—

They weren’t talking anymore.

His lips crashed against hers, urgent and deep, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of his dress shirt as he devoured her.

The world blurred.

She barely registered the way he picked her up, his hands firm around her thighs as he hoisted her up, murmuring quietly against her ear, “Jump.”

And she did.

Wrapped her legs around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He carried her through the penthouse with effortless strength, like she weighed nothing, like holding her close was something he’d done a thousand times before.

And then—

He walked her backward towards his bed, his mouth never leaving her skin, breath warm against her jaw.

The mattress hit the backs of her knees, sending her falling onto it in a slow, melting sprawl of limbs and want.

The soft silk duvet caught her, cool against the fever of her skin, her hair spilling across his impossibly expensive sheets. The room was dim but warm, the city humming just beyond the glass windows, the skyline glittering like a thousand secrets no one else would ever know.

Harry stood above her, his breathing deeper now, his eyes locked onto her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like she was a painting he hadn’t expected to fall in love with.

She propped herself up on her elbows, staring back. Waiting. Wanting.

Harry’s fingers moved to his collar first. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of warm, lived in skin beneath it. He wasn’t carved like marble—wasn’t the chiseled fantasy that Hollywood sold in glossy posters.

He was real.

His chest was broad, his arms strong but not perfect. Age spots dotted his skin like constellations, a faint scar ran along the side of his ribs, and when his shirt slipped off his shoulders, she saw the slight softness of his belly.

A pouch.

Honest. Natural. Human.

And when her eyes lingered there—he froze.

She could tell.

The way his breath caught. The flicker of hesitation in his brow.

He was used to being looked at like a power figure. A man in suits. Behind desks. Holding titles and leverage.

But being seen like this?

Like a man—just a man—baring everything? That was different.

She sat up slowly, still watching him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t fill the space with false comfort.

She just reached for him.

Her fingers skimmed across the skin of his abdomen, soft and warm beneath her touch, and she whispered, “Come here.”

Something in him shifted.

Like maybe he believed her.

That she wanted all of him.

He slid out of his slacks, slow and deliberate, leaving him in nothing but his briefs for a moment before they, too, joined the pile of fabric on the floor.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hands were careful when they peeled off her borrowed T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it aside. Then her body lifted instinctively as he slid the sweatpants down her hips, revealing soft skin, flushed and ready beneath him.

Now they were skin to skin.

Warm and real.

Harry hovered over her, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he held himself above her, his gaze moving slowly down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just like that.

No flourish. No performance.

Just a truth that had been sitting in his chest since the moment he first saw her.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath his lip. “So are you.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not greedy.

Deep.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that says I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

His hands roamed her body like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first—her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm.

And then—

He began to slide lower.

Kissing down her neck.

Dragging his lips across her collarbone.

Sinking further and further until he was kneeling between her thighs, the backs of his hands brushing gently along the insides of her legs, coaxing them apart like he was opening something sacred.

She was already breathing heavy, already undone just from the look in his eyes.

He settled between her legs like he belonged there.

And maybe—he did.

He didn’t dive in like a man with something to prove. He took his time.

Let her feel his breath first.

The heat of his mouth pressing gentle, almost shy kisses to her thighs.

Then—

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, groaning low when he tasted her.

Like she was the answer to a hunger he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Her hips jerked. Her fingers scrambled for the sheets.

He pressed his palms to her hips, grounding her, murmuring something too quiet to make out.

Then his mouth opened on her again.

Tongue.

Lips.

Heat.

Every part of him focused on unraveling her.

She moaned, soft and choked, as his tongue circled her clit, slow at first, then faster with just the right amount of pressure.

He adjusted when she squirmed.

Groaned when she whimpered.

Moved with her, not against her.

Like this was a language only he spoke.

She looked down once—just once—and saw him watching her.

Eyes locked to hers.

Dark. Hungry. But more than that...captivated.

Like he could spend the rest of his life right here, on his knees tasting her like he needed her to survive.

His mustache scraped lightly against the tender skin of her thighs, a delicious burn. His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth worked in steady rhythm, not relenting even when she gasped, Harry, please—

Especially then.

He moaned against her like her begging was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And then—

She broke.

She came with a soft, shattered gasp, her body buckling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her hands found his hair, her legs trembled, her hips rolled up into his mouth.

He held her through all of it.

Licked her through it.

Didn’t stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation, her fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

Only then—only then—did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick, his jaw tense, his chest heaving.

He crawled back up the bed, lips brushing her cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her slowly.

Didn’t try to speak.

He just laid beside her, naked and warm and quiet.

Letting her curl into him.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting himself feel.

And when she finally caught her breath, when she looked up at him and whispered, “You okay?”

Harry gave her a look so full of tenderness it nearly undid her all over again.

“I am now,” he said.

And she believed him.

They laid there, skin to skin, her fingers tracing slow, thoughtless shapes against his chest while his hand rested on the curve of her hip not wanting to let go, grounding them both in something quiet and real.

For the first time in months, Harry hadn’t thought about Lucy.

Not once.

Not her laugh, not the space she left behind.

He only thought about the girl breathing softly in his arms, asleep against his chest like she belonged there.

And when his eyes finally closed, he felt safe.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

cathectic and couchbound

jack abbot x reader

word count ~3k

content warnings/description: explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, power imbalance/dominant jack, spit kink, age gap, sickeningly sweet, single mention of jack wanting to knock reader up

author's note: i feel like this is overdue considering my whole blog is dedicated to this man, lol

jack abbot fucks you on his couch.

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Jack walks through the door of his apartment and hits the lights. He tosses his pack over the arm of the living room couch before dropping himself onto the cushion. It sinks under his weight, fluff spilling out of the sides. It’s ratty, has a slight sour odor, but he’s kept it all this time—moving it from place to place during his time in the military. 

His police scanner lies on the coffee table, still humming, left on from when he left in a rush for day shift this morning—subbing for Robby during his vacation. Robby let you switch shifts to be with Jack as a thank you. You both prefer nights.

He slowly reaches over to turn it off. Tired doesn’t begin to explain how he feels. He’s exhausted. Worn out. On his last leg. 

Jack made that last joke to Robby too many times to count, trying—and failing—to get a chuckle out of him. Maybe one day.

He considers taking off his prosthetic to get more comfortable and ease some of the ache but decides against it. Leaving it on will motivate him to make the trek to bed later. He’s slept on this couch more times than he’d like to admit, and it’s been with him through it all—but it wasn’t made to last.

It’s convenient, sure, but he prefers to sleep in bed with you. And it’s easier on his back.

Jack unlocks his phone and is faced with the last website he was on while taking his millisecond break earlier tonight. Dana suggested the place, and he could see why. The jewels are bright, sharply cut—dangerous—yet mesmerizing. Hypnotic, even. Jack eyes one in particular, hovering over the purchase button. He imagines the center stone of the engagement ring glinting from the sunrise as you hold onto the railing of his patio while he eats you out from behind. 

He’s pulled from his reverie when his phone pings, signaling a text from you. Your message says that you'll be a little late. 

He feels awful about leaving you in the Pitt, but after a string of deaths—one after another after another—he didn't want to stay even a minute past the end of his shift. He replies to your text with a simple thumbs-up. You understand. You always do.

Not twenty minutes later, he hears the rattling of the doorknob, the jangle of his spare key, and the click of the lock turning. 

Most times, once Jack gets home, he leaves his door unlocked for you, considerate of your occasional forgetfulness. But, now and then, he locks the door on purpose, somehow knowing you’d forget your key that day. He doesn’t know how he knows—he just does. 

He always gives the excuse that he forgot to leave it unlocked—old age, he dryly jokes—but he can’t help secretly looking forward to opening the door for you every time. Seeing your sheepish face waiting patiently on the other side when he greets you. 

Jack lingers at the door, his thick frame blocking the entrance to the apartment. He takes his time staring at you, soaking you in, wondering how he managed to make such a pretty young thing like you his. On a good day, you’ll indulge him in his silent staring contest, admiring his corded arms crossed against his chest, but on most days, you push past him, rushing in to use the restroom.

Tonight, though, he must really be tired, because not only did he—for real this time—forget to leave the door unlocked, but he's also slightly relieved you brought your key. Jack was not moving from the couch anytime soon. He couldn’t help but feel bad for it—the old thing rocking with each sudden movement, thanks to one of the uneven legs.

You drag yourself into the living room and your purse lands at an angle atop Jack’s pack, then slides to the floor, now scrunched from the impact. 

A granola bar, your lip balm, and your R3 badge escape from the unzipped lip of the purse, but you don’t care. You lie across Jack on the other end of the couch, throwing your feet over his lap. He helps you remove your shoes while gently rubbing your feet. 

Silence cozily stretches over the both of you like a heated blanket, despite the appearance of the muted, almost sterile living room. Jack’s entire apartment is nearly stripped to bare bones. 

What little he does own is old, tattered, or otherwise near defunct. His walls are empty, save for a few photos of the two of you together that you forced him to put up. The food in his fridge is nearly gone, with the exception of eggs, sourdough bread, and his chocolate protein shakes—an essential, apparently. The only other things to eat are snacks he keeps stocked in the cabinets for you. And this damn couch. The smell used to make you wrinkle your nose, but you’ve gotten used to it.

It makes sense, considering his military past and the time demands being an attending requires, but you can’t help wanting to liven the place up a little. For the both of you. You always joke that the three most important things to him are you, his couch, and his police scanner—not necessarily in that same order.

You casually wonder if Jack would let you take his card to go shopping for the place, knowing all his money is just collecting dust in the bank. You might as well—you practically live here. You’re not sure when you last saw the inside of your own apartment. He only ever spends money on necessities and spoiling you, anyway. You’ll convince him to take you both when your schedules line up. 

He asked you to move in not too long ago, but your lease isn't up for another few months. He offered to pay the fee to break it, but you humbly declined. You aren’t quite aware how much of a dopamine rush Jack gets when he takes care of things for you. When he takes care of you.

Jack gives you a few minutes to decompress, now rubbing your sore ankles.

Finally, you start, “Today was a shit day.”

Jack grunts in agreement. “No argument there—but you were amazing today. You’re so strong, you know that?” He gives you an intense look.

He’s not joking, not throwing words at the wall to see what sticks. He’s being utterly sincere, and another pinprick of sand falls into the hourglass of love you have for him, joining the millions already there.

You smile warmly at him. “You tell me after every difficult shift. How could I not know? And… you’re amazing too.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

A second passes before you respond. “Can you hold me?”

“Sure can, sweetheart.”

Jack pulls you from under your arms like a child, setting you atop his lap. You can’t help how your face heats up at the way he so easily throws you around, bending you to his will. The act makes you dizzy—his casual display of strength and the way he takes care of your needs makes you putty in his strong hands. 

He rubs mindless shapes into your back, applying slight pressure, and you're comforted by his touch.

Jack moves his hands to your shoulders and continues to rub with even more pressure. 

“Let me know if it hurts at all, baby.” 

The massage starts to feel good. Almost too good. Who taught him to give massages like this? 

You rack your brain, recalling if Myrna’s asked for one lately. Or worse yet, imagine her using her one uncuffed hand to grope Jack under the guise of a “massage.” 

You shiver at the uncomfortable thought, then at the pleasure running through you from Jack’s working of your shoulders. You let a low moan escape from deep within your chest. Under normal circumstances, you’d be a bit embarrassed by the sultry sound, but both you and Jack are too tired and too caught up in the haze of each other’s presence to care.

At the sound of your pleased groan, Jack feels a new life springing within him, taking root and reaching his extremities, tension churning just under his skin with its movement. 

Taking care of you like this—touching you, being in your presence—is more than he could have ever hoped to imagine for himself. Jack knows more than most to take wins as they come. Sink them in and hold on to them, because you never know what tomorrow might bring. 

Despite the losses in the Pitt tonight, he still has you. As long as you’re with him at the end of every day, falling apart under his touch, going shy at his quiet confessions and severe (but loving) stares, he can make it another day in the Pitt. 

Jack’s touch becomes more persistent, roaming south again—and even further south—to grope the round of your ass. 

“Jack,” you rasp, tugging at his soft curls. You begin to grind down on him, both of your scrubs thin enough to feel the heat emanating from each other’s bodies. 

Jack grunts, but ultimately ignores your whining. He’s taking his time with you. Whether you’re patient enough for him or not. He’s not against taking you over his knee if you flail too much for his liking. You’re so, so good to him though, letting him set the pace, and you settle against him again. He kisses down the column of your neck, grazing his teeth at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. 

Muffled against his shoulder, you manage, “Jack, p-please? I want to be closer to you. Let me?” Jack gives your neck one last deep, almost shaky, inhale, then a tender kiss on your cheek, and nods. 

You’re just too damn sweet—and Jack wants to eat you alive. And what’s worse? You’d let him. 

The naked trust you have in him makes him reconsider every mistake, every bad decision, every failure in his life. He can’t be so bad if someone like you trusts him, right? Pre-therapy Jack? Oh, honey, you wouldn’t even be in those pictures on the wall. There’d be no pictures on the wall. 

He wouldn't allow that. He wouldn’t allow himself to hurt anyone but himself—no one but Jack. He’s let too many people down already. People he couldn’t save during his time in the service years ago. People he can’t save now—patients like those lost tonight in the hell that is the Pitt. 

Jack still feels the occasional pang of guilt, but now it washes over him, like a spring rain washing away the lingering, tacky pollen, and he feels all the lighter for it. He still lets himself feel sorrow, and pain for the people whose lives couldn’t be saved—who he couldn’t save. But now he doesn’t find it in himself to self-blame. And with you in his corner, his other half, he’s too fixated on your needs to wallow in sorrow.

Post-therapy Jack? The Jack that forgives himself for his mistakes and lets people in? He couldn’t imagine pushing you away. 

You're it—and there’s no escaping him. He’s tagged and bagged you, and you’re his. 

Jack has always told Robby that he lives in the darkness. It used to rear its ugly head in the form of bar fights, drunken nights, and emotionless one-night stands. It's controlled now, taking a backseat only for those really ugly, bad days, but sometimes it comes out of hiding in the form of a disgusting possession that curls around you both. 

Jack allows himself this one vice. He doesn’t care about having physical things in his apartment. About the money he makes, about the notoriety that comes from being Jack Abbot. Just having you is enough. 

And you never shy away from it—from him. From his past, from his darkness, from his deep, intense love for you. 

Jack, for a brief second, thinks about impregnating you. Tonight. Right here. Right now. As long as it takes. Until you take. But he drags in a deep inhale. Stop, he thinks to himself. Everything in due time.

He pushes the thought away as you step back to take off your scrubs and step out of your underwear.

It’s not lost on you that you're now nude while he’s fully clothed—the slight humiliation and power imbalance scratching an itch you’re too delirious with need to unpack at the moment. Jack lifts from the couch to pull down his bottoms and boxers just enough to free his hard cock and balls, flushed and leaking for you.

Jack pulls you to him, gripping your hips so you’re sitting just above his cock, letting you sink down on him at your own pace. While you moan, getting adjusted to his size, Jack has his own agenda, and he starts tweaking your nipples, pebbled and peaked under his rough touch. 

He takes your left nipple into his mouth, groaning against the soft flesh of your breast, while his palm squeezes the other. Meanwhile, you’re whining on his cock, frustrated by Jack’s lack of movement.

He can’t help but get riled up when teasing you, knowing how much you want him.

When Jack’s had enough of torturing your tits, he kisses you—rough, sloppy, a mash of tongue and teeth—while unashamedly spreading the fat of your ass, his wrists pinning your hips so you can’t ride him. 

“J-Jack. Please… just—just fuck me already.” You try to sound as confident as possible, but you know better than to disrupt Jack while he’s far away somewhere, lost in the feel of your body. It frustrates you how patient he is sometimes. You want to be fucked. Now. 

You bring your fingers down to your swollen clit, wanting some friction. He stops you with his words.

“Okay, baby.” A kiss to the tip of your nose. “Thank you for saying please.” He smiles down at you in his devilish, gremlin-ly way. And you can’t help but want to both slap him and kiss him breathless for it.

Jack lifts you again, slowly, so only the tip of his cock is slightly pushing against your pillowy cunt, hole clenching around nothing while you hold onto his shoulders, shaking slightly. 

“Ready?” Jack asks. You give him a firm nod, and Jack slams you back down to his pelvis, the back of your thighs scratching against his scrubs. He begins a rough, but measured pace, cock hitting at just the right angle to make you go dumb. 

You’re fucking wet. Juices stain the black of Jack’s scrubs, and he wears it like a badge of honor.

He forces your mouth open with the press of his thumb.

“Open wide, sweetheart.” Jack spits into your mouth, and you swallow his saliva down, moaning at his possessive display of affection. Jack groans at your obedience, cock twitching inside you, pride swelling in his chest at the act.

“There you go, sweet girl, doing so damn good for me, hm?” When you don’t respond, he gives a quick slap on your ass, and you yelp at the unexpected contact, clenching tight around his cock. He groans at the feel of your soft pussy wrapped around him.

“Yes, yes, yes. S’good, s-so good,” you babble, clearly out of it with how fast Jack is thrusting into you now.

Jack takes his hand from your hip and presses the pad of his thumb to your clit, wanting nothing more than for you to come on his cock. He’s desperate for it—what was less than a second ago an intentional, controlled stroke of your clit, is now frantic and sloppy.

He’s been patient enough. 

Jack looks between your lips, wanting to kiss you, and where you’re connected, pretty cunt wrapping around him like cling wrap on a dish. Warm, dripping, and ready to eat. He’ll make you cry on his tongue another time.

“I love you. I love you—I love you—I love you,” you chant and come on Jack’s cock with a cry, tearing up at the overstimulation as he ruts into you, chasing his own end. The guilt, despair, and exhaustion from the losses you faced today are pressed, compacted, and tucked away into the far corners of your mind. 

There’s only Jack. You and Jack. At this very moment.

Jack finishes inside you with a rumbling groan, plugging you up with his thick come. He gives you a deep, bruising kiss and he whispers, “I love you too, baby.”

You take a second to catch your breath, and he’s in no hurry to pull you off of him to clean both of you up. Instead, you and Jack remain there, on the couch, your liquids mixing and spilling onto the cushion from where your bodies connect. Jack concedes to himself that it’s probably about time to replace the thing.

He’ll do it for you.

Now, Jack is the first to speak. 

“Are you okay, sweet girl?” You nod into his shoulder, too spent to give him a verbal response. Jack takes that for an answer and holds you tighter to his chest. He knows he should move you to bed, the cold seeping into your naked and weary body, but for now, you both stay holding each other like this. Just for a few more minutes. 

You doze off in his arms, and Jack takes that as his cue to head to bed. He gently pulls you off of his now softened cock, jaw tightening when he sees his come leaking from your sore pussy. He pushes as much of it back inside you as gently as he can, then easily carries you, bridal style, to his bedroom. 

Jack brings you to your side of the bed and tucks you in. 

Prosthetic finally off, he sidles up next to you and wraps his arms around you, reaching for your hand.

He’s made a habit of reaching for your left hand at night, once you’re asleep and he’s awake with his thoughts, delicately pressing your ring finger between his thumb and forefinger.

He kisses the top of your head and makes a mental note to bite the bullet and buy the ring tomorrow. Hopefully Dana doesn’t come collecting her finder’s fee.

Sharon Tate photographed during an interview in her Belgravia apartment, 1965

PEDRO PASCAL as GENERAL ACACIUS Gladiator II (2024) dir. Ridley Scott